Archive of Our Own

The exchange starts when Zhao finds out that Joongi Han likes pineapple in sweet and sour pork.

From that point on, Zhao always puts it in, every time he makes it for them. Usually it's just him, Joongi and Seonhee, sometimes discussing business, sometimes not (Zhao likes to think Seonhee enjoys having him around for more than just Liumang insight and the odd favour that he owes)– but Seonhee doesn't even eat sweet and sour pork (she prefers the shumai, like most people with good taste), so Joongi figures out what Zhao is doing, and why, pretty quickly.

“Are there pineapples in this?” He asks, innocently enough. This is the third time he's noticed, now.

“Yeah.” Zhao doesn't even look up from serving. “Why?” He then flashes a smile at Joongi, glasses starting to steam up from leaning over and dishing out the food fresh off the stove. “I thought you liked it with pineapple?”

“I do.” Seonhee observes them silently from behind her phone as Joongi answers. “But I thought you hated pineapple.”

“It makes my mouth itch.” Zhao clarifies - he doesn't hate pineapple, pineapple just hates him. He might also think it overpowers literally everything else in a dish because it's too sweet– but that’s neither here nor there. He lowers his shades to peer over the top of them, lenses now completely foggy. “Just means more for you, then, doesn't it, Han-chan?” He winks.

Joongi decides right there in that moment, somewhere between flustered and flattered, that he has to make it up to him.

It really kicks off when Zhao is sat alone, perfectly content, at Survive, and within less than thirty seconds of Joongi Han entering, a Bonsai is shoved in his direction across the bar.

“Wh–...” Zhao blinks at the plant, befuddled. “...For me?” He looks back to Joongi, who's standing next to–not sitting on– the empty bar stool nearest to Zhao. Joongi's face is marble, unreadable.

“Yes.”

There's an awkward pause. Zhao isn't quite sure how he's supposed to respond. Was this a test? Some kind of Geomijul hazing ritual? Joongi’s just standing there, as if he's expecting a response. It's kinda cute how he stands to attention when he's so intently focused on the person he’s speaking to. Even when there’s moments like this. Zhao supposes that it's the price Joongi had to pay when he was classical art incarnate. Sometimes it takes a while for the people around you to catch up.

Oh, right. He was the one who was meant to catch up.

“Thank you…?”

“You're welcome.”

Zhao's attention returns to the bonsai. It's small, but exquisite. Clearly had been well cultivated, cared for. It sits in a beautifully made clay pot, varnished a deep, glossy green. Zhao already knows exactly where it’ll be best positioned in his home. Given its not got any Geomijul cameras in it, or anything.

“It's not got any hidden cameras in it, right?” He's only half-teasing, but Joongi chuckles anyway. Almost as if the joke was permission, he finally takes up the seat next to him at the bar.

“No.”

“Good. Because if you wanted to see me wandering around my apartment half naked, Han-chan, all you’d have to do is ask. No hidden cameras required.”

The tinge of pink that creeps up the back of Joongi’s neck and on the tips of his ears does not go unnoticed.

Zhao lives for moments like this, when he can catch Joongi off-guard, just slip in between the cracks a little to get a peek at what's hiding underneath the flawless beauty of it all. He always likes what he sees. He's not been able to put much of a picture together, yet, but it's a man who's selfless – perhaps dangerously so. A little shy. A bit of a nerd, really. Cares, deeply. Perhaps even more than Zhao himself does– Joongi just hides it better, orchestrates it in a way that it's an undercurrent, a subtle score rather than a bombastic opera such as the likes of their mutual friend Ichiban Kasuga.

Kasuga was better at getting to both of them, cracking open their guards like walnut shells, but Zhao preferred a more sensitive approach. He didn't want anything to shatter from his touch, especially not anything connected to Joongi. He knew how important those walls could be sometimes, how much safety and comfort they provided. So he settled for pressing his ear up against them and listening, instead, rather than crashing down on them with a sledgehammer. Stealing glances when he can.

It was a patient man’s game, though, and Zhao had never been blessed with that particular virtue.

“It’s just a thank-you.” Zhao's snapped out of his staring, grateful that Joongi hadn't caught him first. “For everything you’ve done for Seonhee and I recently. Mostly from me. Selfishly.” Joongi smiles, a hint of bashfulness in the corners. “I think Seonhee would have opted for something different, were the gift up to her.”

Joongi is looking over the bonsai– half stuck in the worry that it was showing too much of his hand, that it wasn’t a good enough gift, that he knows Zhao already has a number of his own plants so why would he need or want any more, that maybe he should have asked Seonhee for advice. The other half is calm next to Zhao, soothed by the idea that Zhao no doubt will take care of it, regardless, and that he does seem genuinely, pleasantly surprised. Zhao had that kind of effect on him - working him up with constant teasing and playful jabs and flirtatious little comments in one hand, calming him down with the other, with that lilting voice and relaxed smile, a steady body supporting his shoulder when he's knocked back in combat, a friendly face amongst the chaos of his day-to-day life. A warm meal after getting out of a thrilling storm.

“It’s lovely.” Zhao says, and Joongi almost lets himself forget that he’s talking about the bonsai. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

They can't go for more than a minute without trying to outdo each other, it seems.

The next time they meet, Zhao triumphantly stacks three boxes full of various snacks and packed lunches in front of Joongi’s face, towering on top of each other.

“I need a taste tester.” He announces, not so much as a “hello” or “how are you”. Straight to business. “And you seem to hardly ever eat anything when you're out running around being The Dark Knight of the Geomijul, so.”

Zhao's sudden appearance and the even more sudden appearance of the boxes full of food has left Joongi a little startled. Only well deserved, he supposes, considering he did ambush Zhao with a tree last time they met. A tiny tree, but a tree nonetheless.

“Zhao…”

“I made sure there was extra, in case Seonhee wants any–"

“Zhao.”

“And I know you wouldn't be able to turn her down if she asked—”

“Zhao.”

“What?”

Zhao hardly seems to have noticed he was rambling. It wasn't something he did often, only when particularly drunk, or excited, or introspective– just a little less self-conscious, a little less put together. Joongi considered it a privilege, witnessing those moments. It was confirmation that Zhao felt comfortable enough around him to go on about whatever he did go on about – games, food, fashion. They once had a particularly heated conversation about certain hairstyles and what would be the most practical, yet attractive solution for various jobs. There was another one that was less energetic and far, far less sober, about the weight of responsibility– how they both led their respective men to Seonhee because they knew it would have been the best thing for them, but it hurt nonetheless. There was a part of Zhao that didn't want to let go of the Liumang (no matter how small)- a part that mirrored Joongi’s own selfish realisation that if Joongi Han’s name, and face, was successful in bringing in the stray Jingweon remnants, it signalled the end of something. Something Joongi Han– or Yeonsu Kim– also didn't want to let go of.

But they had a duty to fulfil, and as much as it hurt, it would have hurt more to ignore it.

Zhao had trusted him with that hurt, and in turn, Joongi had wanted– needed– to trust Zhao with his own pain, too.

And just like the bonsai Zhao didn't ask for, Joongi knew he’d be gentle with it anyway, as always.

“I can't accept this.” Though the half-smile, half-bewildered look on Joongi's face was enough to declare otherwise. Zhao pouts.

“What, my cooking no longer good enough for you?”

“No– no.” Never that. “It's just…” Joongi peeks inside the plastic bag packed full with containers. “There's so much…”

“Like I said, I packed extras. Dish it out to your guys, if you want.”

“But you said you wanted a taste tester.” Joongi knew that it was a lie but he couldn't just call Zhao out on it outright. Where would be the fun in that?

“And?”

“And how would you be able to consolidate any feedback if I just give it out to people you may not ever meet?”

“Well I guess I’ll just have to consolidate with you, then.” Zhao smirks, cheek coming to rest atop his palm as his elbow props up on the table. “Frequently.” Suddenly, the word consolidate sounds like it means something very different. “I take my cooking very seriously.”

“I know you do.”

Whilst Zhao could practically hear Seonhee roll her eyes at them from across the room, he doesn't care. He loves this. The two of them verbally sparring, just about balancing on that fine line between playful and flirtatious, never quite knowing which way the scale is going to tip. Joongi was positively radiant and that was even before he opened his mouth. Now that they had gotten to know each other better, talked a lot more, Zhao couldn't help himself from wondering if there was anything more miraculous that this Knight could do.

He was already funny, and handsome. In any other situation, with any other person, in any other place, Zhao would have snatched the opportunity up so hard it may have come across as a little greedy. But here, he wanted to take his time. Really play it safe.

Joongi had always been so careful and considerate with him, after all.

And if this was only destined for friendship, then sure. Zhao would much prefer that than ruin it by coming on so fast and so hard he winds up scaring the poor man away and then everything would fall apart and then where would they be? Right back at the start. With walls back up, so high and so strong it would take a bulldozer like Kasuga to go and get them to talk to each other again. And Zhao didn't want to put any of them through that.

If only Joongi wasn’t so damn oblivious.

Seonhee can hardly blame Joongi for not seeing the signs. He’d spent so much of his life only looking at things through someone else's eyes, only looking out for things that would affect them, benefit them, harm them– that when it came to Yeonsu Kim, not Joongi Han, he didn't even know where to start.

He was observant in all the ways that could have mattered, back when he was a body double– someone's shadow, a literal extra pair of eyes. But if the focus ever turned inward, it was like looking into a shattered mirror, reflections upon reflections upon reflections, to the point where it was hard to tell what was real and what was just light bouncing off of glass.

It was painful. Some days had been more so than others. Some still are.

She tries her best to be there for him whenever those days come.

Today, however, is not one of those days. It's not painful - it's just frustrating, watching Joongi try to puzzle out exactly why Zhao keeps saddling him with more and more food every time they meet up. It's even more frustrating when Joongi is cluelessly going along with it, insisting he does something to pay Zhao back every single time, even when it’s obvious the ex-Liumang leader is doing this as a gift. At the very most, it's because Zhao’s obsessing over him (Seonhee's seen Zhao focus in on one thing and doggedly pursue it until he's satisfied multiple times before, and he's never, ever hid it around her) - but there's no obligation, no expectation. Zhao has always cooked for the people he cares about. It was how he processed those big, sappy feelings of his and put them out into the world, rather than having to face them head on. Or worse yet, talk about them. He didn't need, nor want, to be paid back for it. Just feeding people was enough. It's what he did, and he was damn good at it. He just wanted to cook.

But that wasn't enough for Joongi– or maybe it was, but it certainly wasn't enough for Yeonsu Kim.

Seonhee could ignore it, easily, at the beginning. A bonsai. Inoffensive. Simple. Fine. Then five bonsai.

Seonhee had to confront Kasuga, after this one, telling him to stop giving gift ideas to Joongi, lest Zhao wind up with 10, 20, 50 more of the tiny trees and have his apartment turn into a miniature forest. He had other interests. Let the poor man do something other than cook and garden.

It cycles on for, what feels like to Seonhee, forever. Zhao sends Joongi home with food. Joongi agonises over what to get him in return. Seonhee, patiently, waits until Joongi finally breaks and asks her for advice. She's been giving some good suggestions recently, too. Nail polish. New pepper mill. A gua sha. A case for his stupid sunglasses. No more bonsai.

It's only when Seonee suggests new jewellery does the ball seem to finally drop.

“None of it matches, anyway. And some of it is so tacky, I’m sure he’d be grateful for something to switch some of it out with.”

They're both laid out in Seonhee's lounge, on the couch, waiting for their hair dye to take – one of the very few precious moments of free time she has and she chooses to spend it giving relationship advice to a man who doesn't even realise it's relationship advice yet.

They’re lucky that she absolutely lives for getting her eyes and ears and hands on other people's business, otherwise she'd be miserable.

“I’m not getting him jewellery. We're not dating.” She sips from a warm mug of coffee, Joongi is flipping through a fashion magazine, diligently combing it for gift ideas.

“Could have fooled me.” Seonhee mutters into the mug, not particularly caring if she’s heard or not.

“Excuse me?” Joongi looks up from the magazine, eyes wider, by just a fraction.

“You meet up regularly outside of business–”

“I meet up with all–” A pinkish red starts spreading on Joongi's ears, peeking out from under the hair dye.

“You're constantly giving each other things.” The blush is creeping along his cheeks, now.

“Well, Kasuga does that all the ti–” 

“Not to mention the looks you give each other over dinner.” Seonhee concludes. Joongi looks like she's just slapped him. “I cannot imagine what it's like when I’m not there. You two must be insufferable.”

Joongi's mouth is left hanging open from when Seonhee had cut him off. Seonhee kindly leans over and closes it for him, two fingers gently tapping under his chin.

“I’m just saying. You're both adults, I don't know why you're dancing around each other like highschoolers.”

“I don't…” Joongi frowns, the expression crumpling his normally smooth, flawless features. “We’re not. Dancing around each other.”

“You mean this isn't… you two trying to flirt?” She finds it hard to believe, but she respects Joongi enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he really was just doing this platonically, she’ll let it go. Easy.

“Is… that what you think it looks like?”

It’s not a no.

“Joongi.” Sweetie. “It's what everyone thinks it looks like.”

Joongi's eyes are full of confusion. She can see the gears turning in his head as he closes the magazine and sits back a little, lilac-toned dye hilariously framing the concerned expression.

It's not like he didn't think about Zhao that way. He very much thought about Zhao that way, showering him with gifts, sneaking looks at him when he could– at the low opening in his shirt when he’s breathing in deep, his calves whenever he stretches before a fight, his fingers as he swirls ice around a drink, how he sometimes bites his lip when he's focusing hard on his food.

He definitely thought about Zhao that way.

“But… Zhao…”

But Zhao was his friend. One of the very few he had managed to cultivate in this whirlwind of a life he could barely even call his own. And friends gave each other things all the time, right? That was a thing that normal friends did!

“It's just gifts…” Gifts that meant the world to him. He would get unnecessarily giddy every time Zhao made him sweet and sour pork– not even necessarily because it was his favourite, but because Zhao made it the way he liked it. Not the way Zhao liked it, or the way other people liked it, or even the way Joongi Han would have probably liked it– the way he liked it. Because Zhao listened, and Zhao cared. Zhao cared in a way not like a superior, or a friend, but with such a tenderness he didn't even really know what it was.

It had become such a rarity that he had forgotten what it felt like. How to recognise it. At least, when it was pointed in his direction. (Not Joongi Han’s.)

“Mmhmm.” Seonhee hums from her corner of the couch, mouth curling behind the lipstick-stained mug. “Just gifts.”

And it's not like he had been giving Zhao just anything, either. He considered his options carefully, making sure that the little tokens were small enough to feel like thank yous, not like Zhao would then owe him something. Well, apart from the bundle of five bonsai, but that was worth the risk for seeing Zhao outright laugh at the display, before he named each one of them, right in front him, gingerly patting the tops of their tiny branches and beaming up at him like a child on their birthday.

(He remembers them both previously talking about their fathers never getting them presents for their birthdays, for one reason or another. Perhaps they were simply making up for lost time.)

Yeonsu had made sure to get Zhao five different types of bonsai, too. If he was getting anyone anything (and Seonhee could attest to this), he was going to put in all the effort. And Zhao had reciprocated, named them all accordingly, and spent the rest of the evening rambling on about all of his plants’ different personalities as if that was even a thing Yeonsu was aware was possible.

He loved it when Zhao rambled.

“Just gifts.” Yeonsu echoes, softly. Seonhee’s instantly aware of the shift, the distant look on Joongi's face setting off alarm bells. But she doesn't sound the siren, yet. Her voice remains aloof, amused.

“Just gifts that you spend hours considering.”

She knows that this is how Yeonsu loves. She isn't sure when he started, whether it was picked up after they met, as he practically swooned when she sung his praises over the first coffee blend he bought her. Whether it started back in Kamurocho, if Joongi Han had taught him how to give and take, just enough to leave them wanting more, that sometimes, a single rose was worth more than a whole bouquet. Or whether it was before all of that, when he was nothing more than a starving boy, cherishing every scrap that was tossed his way, poverty portraying the act of giving as something only saints did. Perhaps it was all three, a patchwork of people and places that had culminated into something different, someone who thoroughly thought through every gesture, every gift, every “souvenir” he brings her, every cup of coffee.

She tilts the mug back, savouring the last bittersweet dregs before setting it down on a coaster atop the low table in front of them.

Joongi looks over the coffee table, where the sweets ( sweets! ) Zhao had made them were laid out: pretty, delicate, probably insanely addictive if past experiences were anything to go by. He hadn't dared try one until it was time for him to leave because, if he timed it right, he then wouldn't be able to stay and sit around and eat the whole box. Because he could. And he would. But he shouldn’t.

Seonhee was aware of how he stared at them.

“Joongi.” Seonhee's voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “Yeonsu.” She moves her legs off of the couch, letting her feet hit the soft rug on the floor beneath them. She shifts a little closer. Her hand comes to rest on his wrist.

“Don't ignore what you want now, just because you’ve been denied it your whole life.”

She could see right through him. Shattered mirrors be damned.

All Yeonsu can do is nod.

“I’m going to go rinse.” Seonhee stands, her work done, announcing the action like she hadn't just emotionally eviscerated her partner in crime, before, very gently, patting his cheek. “Don't miss me too much.”

“I’ll try.” He smiles back and up at her, though he's not making any promises. “Don't use all the hot water!” He coolly calls out after her, unbothered (or appearing so).

He eats three of the sweets before Seonhee even gets back.

Either they're getting overeager, or all the fistfights are giving them memory loss. When Zhao and Joongi next meet, they both have gifts to give.

“What's this?” Zhao is already grinning like the Cheshire cat when he sees the bag Joongi’s carrying as he walks through the door at You Tian. The restaurant’s empty, closed up for the night, other cook sent home. It's just the two of them. Almost romantic. Maybe they really were dating. “Not another bonsai, is it?”

Do Zhao and Seonhee gossip about him behind his back? Sometimes it certainly feels like it.

Joongi shakes his head with a smile he's not quite yet able to conceal, putting the bag atop the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the seating area.

“Come back here, I want you to try this.” Zhao beckons, before gesturing to the small pan he’s standing over.

“Smells good.” Joongi hums, stepping behind the counter.

“Doesn't mean anything if it don't taste as good as it smells.” Zhao half-retorts. “Here.” Zhao gives Joongi a spoon with a silly, absent-minded flourish, easily spinning it between his fingers before handing it over. Joongi notices. Show-off.

“Chilli shrimp?” Joongi frowns as he peers at the pan. “Why would you need me to try this? You know it's good.”

“Well, I thought I’d try something a little different tonight. ‘Specially as it's you.” Zhao winks over his shoulder. “You're my favourite guinea pig.”

“Gee, thanks.” Joongi sarcastically mutters, as he leans in, one hand on Zhao's shoulder, the other dipping the spoon into the dish. He blows on it to cool, then lifts it to his lips. He’s too close and too focused on not spilling anything to notice Zhao’s cheeks tinting pink, ever so slightly, ever so briefly, before Joongi steps away. 

It’s amazing. It’s always amazing. How does he do it?

“So? Notice anything different?”

“Not…really…” Joongi feels like this is a trick. Zhao's looking at him with too much expectation for this to just be the way things play out. “Did you–oh.” Suddenly the spice kicks in, so out of nowhere and sucker punching him in the sinuses with such strength that his eyes immediately begin to water. “It's–good.” It’s hot. There's not much else. Zhao squints.

Joongi coughs. Just once.

“Aha! I knew it.” Zhao throws his hands up. Not too high or too dramatically, but enough for them to swing when he drops them, back to scowling at the pan.

“No– no, it's good–” Joongi now sputters, completely betraying the opposite. Zhao chuckles, blissfully unaware.

“Don't feel like you have to lie to me, Joongi, just because we're friends.” There's no response. Zhao glances back. Joongi’s face is red. Like, red-red. “Oh.”

He removes the pan from the heat and quickly disappears into the back, before returning with a bottle of lemonade and a bottle of water clasped in one hand. The other has a stack of napkins.

“Sorry– I didn't realise it was–”

“It'sfine.” Joongi is just grateful for the drinks. He takes everything Zhao offers, opts for the lemonade first, having learnt enough from their idle chats that citrus can help counter spice. Zhao bites his lip and decidedly watches the pan. He's trying really hard not to laugh.

Joongi spends the next chunk of time silently chugging both drinks.

He glares at Zhao, who is desperately avoiding him, staring at the shrimp.

It sizzles.

There's a rhythm to the way Zhao works over the pan. It’s a countdown.

They both erupt into an uproar– boisterous laughter.

“I’m sorry!” Zhao wheezes. “I mean I tried some earlier– I just didn't– I didn't think–!”

“It's fine! It’s fine!” Joongi’s eyes are watering, from the spice or the laughter, he's not quite sure. He doesn't really care. “Just warn me, next time!”

“You should've– seen– your face!” Zhao tries to calm down but can't after he makes eye contact with Joongi again, the memory of his face turning the same shade as a tomato too fresh to not find it hilarious. “Why didn't you say something??”

“I didn't know I was going to have Hell open up inside my throat, Zhao!”

“It's not that bad!” Zhao protests, still wracked with laughter. He’s struggling, and failing, to keep his focus on the pan.

“It absolutely was.” He’s definitely exaggerating. But Zhao doesn't seem to mind, still giggling into his chest. He brings up a hand to remove his shades, using the back of that same hand to wipe tears from his eyes. Joongi tries to catch his breath, covering his face with his hands and some napkins. Muffled, he asks, “What did you do to it?”

“Honestly?” Zhao breathes, a small “hoo” shuddering out of him as he tries to regain composure. “No-fuckin-clue. Well, actually, that's a lie, I know it's the chillies, obviously, but I don’t know what went wrong with them.”

“Did you get them from a different supplier?”

“That's the thing!” Zhao’s smile is incredulous, bright. “I grow them! My own plants, Han-chan, and even they're turning on me.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I mixed up the seeds when I planted them or something, I dunno.” Zhao removes the pan from the heat again. “I should ask Adachi-san. He’s the one who convinced me to grow the damn things myself.” He peers into the shelves overhead, rooting around until he produces a jar of honey.

“Maybe the bonsai are starting a rebellion.” Joongi suggests, barely containing the mirth bubbling up again. Zhao snickers.

Joongi watches Zhao cook, mesmerised. He's so precise with his movements, not needing measurements but Joongi recognises a level of detail that he has used in the past when it came to work. Zhao has everything down to the finite details. For all the flourishes and theatrics Zhao employs in his martial art, he's stripped back when it comes to the culinary art. Refined. Simple. Earnest.

“I still have some mixed rice left over from the dinner rush.” Zhao mentions as he starts improvising, trying to salvage the dish in front of him. He squeezes a slice of lemon into the pan. “Do you mind fetching it? I left it out for us.”

Us.

Joongi tries to ignore the word bouncing around his ribcage as he heads into the back. The second kitchen-slash-storage is immaculate. Hard to picture, considering how everything looks out front, which, to Zhao’s credit, worked in its favour - a tiny, rough-and-ready, hole-in-the-wall with the best food you've ever tasted? Seems fun. Seems exciting. But back here, there is no room for error. It's exceptionally clean. Cramped, but still enough space for two cooks to move around without getting on top of each other too much. Everything is labelled, clearly, pristinely printed and laminated. What’s probably most surprising is the ticket system– fully digital, just as clean and sleek as everything else. Joongi wonders if this addition of modern technology is Zhao’s way of making everything smoother, easier for those around him. Many of the Liumang were illiterate. It wouldn't surprise him if some of his regular customers were, too. Who needed to read– or translate– a menu, when most people had a supercomputer in their pocket?

“Do you do things digitally here?” Joongi asks as he returns to the front, pot of rice in his arms.

“What, you mean like the ordering? Yeah, it's an option.” Zhao takes the pot from Joongi and sets it atop the counter, shovelling spoonfuls of rice into a fresh wok, just to get some heat back into it. “We get all sorts in here, and when it gets really busy I’m not even able to get out front to take orders. Easier for people to just— do it through the system, sometimes. Of course a lot of the older folk don't like it. But I can make an exception for people who don't get on with the tech.”

“Like Kasuga?” Joongi quips. Zhao snorts.

“Like Kasuga. Though he's a saint, compared to some of the people you get through here.”

“I believe you.”

“There's this one guy…”

Joongi watches and listens to Zhao go on and on as he prepares their food. It's like he hardly has to concentrate at points, going through the motions as naturally as pretty much everything else Zhao seems to effortlessly succeed at.

That's almost the kind of person Zhao was, Joongi realises. Just like You Tian itself. A bit rough-and-ready. Carefree and slightly wild, effortlessly cool, a gangster and a provider, a nuisance and a friend. But just like the spotless kitchen, there was a rigidity underneath it, discipline, a strong desire to keep things clean, collected, trained. Firm rules that had been carved into him since he was a child. Martial skills sharpened to a point of a saber. Boundaries so strict that they had become borders, canyons, oceans.

Not unlike himself, in a way. Just, perhaps, the other way around. 

Underneath, Yeonsu Kim was a mess of broken glass and shattered personalities. He was a weird amalgamation of all the people he both loved and hated. The last time he was truly himself was when he was a teenager, all anger and fiery youth, and an immense, dreadful fear. He had been lost long before he had been found. And he was still searching, even now, underneath the silicone and the dye and the eyeliner and the muscle and the oversized raincoat, for who he really was. Underneath the ice-cold exterior, it was a hell of a messy kitchen. But his walls were just as high, just as wide, as Zhao’s.

It was a miracle they’d found each other, really. That they were able, just every so often, to take a peak over the wall to give the other a smile and a wave. To hand-deliver whatever silly little presents they had the strength to give that day. Small victories.

There would never be enough thank-you gifts to truly show how grateful he was for it.

“So.” Zhao sits at the counter besides Joongi, after finishing the meal, having carefully picked his way around the chillies in his bowl. He's not happy with it, but it was edible, and neither of their mouths were on fire, so it could have been a lot worse. “What's in the bag?”

“Ah.” Joongi nods, also having set his chopsticks down for the evening. He'd finished long before Zhao – something about the honey giving the shrimp a sweetness that surprisingly worked, and he loved it. He was always a sucker for anything that mixed sweet and spicy flavours. Felt forbidden, somehow.

He turns and reaches behind himself, retrieving the gift bag, before setting it on the counter between them.

“A thank you.” Zhao’s eyes peer up at Joongi from over his shades and hold his gaze for a moment too long. Were the seats at the counter always this close together?

“You know, you’ve been giving me a lotta thank-yous lately.” Mercifully, Zhao looks away, pulling the bag over to sit in front of him. Joongi feels warm under his coat. Maybe some extra chillies had snuck into the mouthfuls he carefully chose. “You sure I deserve ‘em?”

“Of course you do.” Joongi's answer is honest. So honest, in fact, Zhao feels guilty for even asking in the first place. Almost as guilty as he felt for having received yet another thoughtful gift when all he really did was make Joongi a couple of meals. Well. Maybe more than a couple. And some desserts. And snacks. And that box of wine. But that didn't count, that was surplus stock and he didn't have space for it anyway—

“Oh.”

Zhao’s peering into the bag, side profile unreadable. Joongi panics. Maybe this was too much.

“The packaging is nicer than it actually is.” Stop talking. Why did you say that? “Don't overthink it.” Don't tell him to not overthink it when you were the one who spent hours agonising about what to get him, idiot. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him. He does everything in his willpower not to retreat into his coat like some kind of turtle in its shell. It's so warm. Too warm.

“...okay?” Zhao throws him a cautious smile, and Joongi wants to die. “‘Don't overthink it’, huh…” Why did he say that. Why does he ever say anything at all.

Zhao feels nervous. He never feels nervous. Especially around Joongi. So why does he feel nervous? Why did Joongi have to get all weird about it? He was looking forward to this! But then he had to say something like don't overthink it ? Was this something that warranted overthinking? Was it a threat ??

Zhao pulls out the little scarlet box that sat at the bottom of the bag and his thoughts settle a bit. It's not heavy, not too fancy, probably just card. But it’s nice. Sweet. He chances a look back at Joongi, who is very gradually turning a similar shade of red, staring intensely at the box as if it has personally wronged him. Zhao can't help himself.

“Do you want to open it?”

“What?” Joongi blinks out of his stare down with the box.

“Do you want to open it?”

“Wh— I.” Joongi frowns. He looks back at the box in Zhao's hands. Back to Zhao. Box. Zhao. Did he want to open it? Should he open it? No. No, that’s incorrect– not this time. This time?! “It's your gift. You should open it.”

“Okay…” Zhao barely hides the smirk. “Just looked like the box hurt you in some way, or something…”

“I didn't choose the colour. Of the box, I mean.”

“I like red.” Zhao tries to reassure him. Clearly this meant a lot to him. Joongi always stressed himself out over gifts– the poor man nearly gave himself an aneurysm that time they went to Sotenbori, trying to pick out a souvenir for Seonhee. “It's a lucky colour.” Joongi sighs. This close, Zhao can feel the hot air he breathes out. Heat prickles the back of his neck. He wants to reach out and touch him, pull him to rest his head against his shoulder. Zhao opts to put him out of his misery and open the box, instead.

Inside is a ring – a thick, solid band of silver and black etchings – Joongi clearly noticed that he liked his jewellery with heft – with a smaller, thin ring of yellow-gold wrapped around the middle. It's nothing extravagant, not compared to the gaudy, practically costume jewellery he’s currently wearing. Despite its size, it's somewhat elegant. Tasteful. It's pretty.

Zhao can feel himself blushing. It's going to look god-awful with most of the other rings he wears, but that made it better. Made it different, and the same.

It would look nice by itself, too.

“I thought the colours…” Joongi trails off. Zhao can hear the hesitation in his voice. Zhao almost doesn't want to touch it. Not with his hands sticky with lemon and honey, greased with oil and kitchen grime.

“You thought the colours, what?” Zhao asks, softly, looking back to Joongi, who's also looking at the ring.

Does he hate it? He probably hates it.

“They’re the same… as what you have already.” Joongi shifts his gaze to Zhao’s fingers, the black paint on his nails just starting to chip, rings in need of polish. “So they would coordinate. Tie them together.”

“Han-san.” Joongi’s stomach drops at the chastising tone. Bracing himself, he looks Zhao in the eye. Of course. He hates it. “Are you suggesting that my rings clash ?”

“No.” Yes, Zhao, have you seen them? “No, I mean that they–”

“I’m teasing. I know they clash.” Zhao smiles, less of a mischievous grin now and more of an inoffensive smirk. He gets to his feet, setting the ring box carefully on the countertop. “One sec.”

“Do you like it?” Joongi asks, too anxious to feel any shame about the question. Zhao pauses. He makes a point of looking Joongi Han– Yeonsu Kim– all of him– right in the eye. He hovers, standing between the stools, faces closer than they've ever been before.

“I fuckin’ love it.” Then he’s off, practically skittering around the counter and to the sink that sits amongst the rest of the kitchen amenities. “Let me just wash my hands, then you can put it on me like a real gentleman would, yeah?”

Joongi's head is reeling. The rush of water crashing into earshot does a bit to ground him but not much. They were so close. Did he imagine that? Did he imagine being so close to Zhao that he could almost taste him?

“Make a real honest man outta me, what do you say?”

“What? Sorry?” He shakes himself– physically shakes himself– out of the stupor. “You really like it?” He can hardly believe it. He spent so long looking in jewellery shops, markets, pawn shops, trying to find a ring that would one: fit (god he hopes it fits) and two: actually seemed like something Zhao would wear. So many of the gold or silver rings were too dainty, small, clearly meant for women, whilst the ones that were for men were clunky, clumsy, superficial. All big flashes of wealth without any actual integrity, actual design or care put into the composition.

He had nearly lost his mind when he saw it in Benten Pawn when he was with Zhao, Kasuga and Saeko. It was a miracle that he was able to sneakily hold back long enough before they noticed he had stayed to purchase it then and there.

“Joongi.” Zhao was staring at him over the counter now, drying his hands with the unused napkins he’d brought out earlier. He matches the name with the same intense energy as before, though they are not nearly as close. Zhao almost wants to praise Joongi, rather than the ring.

“It’s…” The ring was almost secondary. The real gift was here, at his restaurant, eating his food even though it had gone horribly wrong, tolerating his teasing and his jokes and his never-ending rambles and looking at him like he's the only other person in the world. Joongi Han. Yeonsu Kim. You’re… “Perfect. Thank you.”

Perfect.

Zhao then begins to remove his rings as he walks back to his stool. Joongi watches, captivated. It feels weird–intimate, seeing Zhao do this. Like this was something he was only supposed to see late, late at night, in the dark, behind closed doors and drawn curtains. Zhao’s hands are dextrous, somehow looking more slender without all the metal sitting in between his knuckles. Skilful hands. Capable of giving and taking in equal measure. He almost wants to look away out of respect when all the rings are gone, fingers bare, exposed. There's faint lines on some of them, where the jewellery has been too crowded, pushed up against one another, into skin.

“ Now ,” Zhao’s voice should be studied, Joongi thinks. It's silk and it's leather, engines and purring. Demanding yet–oh no. Oh, no. Zhao's voice is sexy.

This was so going to give him a complex.

“Where do you want it?”

What.

“Hm?” Joongi’s eyes flash open, looking back up at Zhao from his hands as if he's been caught staring. Zhao's smirk is downright evil.

“The ring, Han-chan. Which finger do you want me to put it on?”

He’s not built for this. Give him a role to play and a drink or three and Joongi Han can play things as cool or as hot as they need to be. But he’s not playing a role. He’s not three drinks in. He’s not even Joongi Han.

But with the way Zhao’s looking at him, he almost doesn't want to be.

Wordlessly, Yeonsu picks up the box and carefully removes the ring. He's gentle when he takes Zhao’s right hand, touches timid and feather-light, as he holds the ring up against each finger, considering it. Always considerate.

Zhao can hardly stand it. He's so thoughtful, so beautifully and wonderfully generous and sweet that it kills him. He doesn't want to ruin this. Though, some part of Zhao knows he already has. He crossed that threshold the minute he decided to have the ring put on him, not putting it on himself.

‘Make an honest man out of him', what was he even thinking?

Their hands stop moving.

“Here.” Yeonsu’s voice is low, barely audible, and it goes right through Zhao. Right now he could tell him anything and Zhao’d agree, he’d do it. He has an inkling that the feelings’ mutual.

He tests the theory.

“Put it on me, then.”

He's somewhat grateful that they've both been staring at their hands this whole time, leaning closer together, because if Zhao had to do all this, sober, whilst looking at his face? His handsome face? Or his eyes ?? He simply would have passed away. No questions asked.

Amongst the unbearable heat and Zhao’s relentless tormenting, Yeonsu finds a shard of confidence, just a fragment of humour amongst the mirror pieces.

“Hope it fits.” He almost growls at Zhao, lacing each word with a seductive hunger that's been rumbling inside his body for a good couple of minutes, at the very least. His eyes flicker up to Zhao’s face– and he’s so glad he’s looking at him now– his cheeks are blushing deeply, the kind he’d only ever seen when they got royally drunk, eyes still downcast. He's beautiful.

“Fuck,” Zhao breathes, grin nervous, something very unhealthy kicking up within him. “Don’t say shit like that, man, I’ll faint.” He can feel Joongi’s eyes on him. “Then we’ll both be really fuckin’ embarrassed.”

“Zhao.” Finally, Zhao looks up. He looks as if he can't help it as his eyes wander, gaze a little distracted as he looks over Joongi’s face, his cheeks, his lips. Like he's trying to take it all in, but can't quite manage it. Who would have thought that in any outcome of this scenario, Zhao would be the one to get flustered first? There's a bit of Joongi Han within Yeonsu Kim that swells with pride. “If I cared about being embarrassed in front of you, I wouldn't have gotten you any presents in the first place.”

He slips the ring onto Zhao’s middle finger. It fits, perfect. He gauges the situation, then, with just as much tenderness as he can muster, he brings Zhao’s hand to his lips.

“But please don’t faint.”

Zhao feels like he's dreaming. The Knight of the Geomijul, putting a ring on his finger and kissing the back of his hand like he’s some goddamn fairytale fucking princess. He must have died. He must have actually died and gone to heaven.

Joongi’s breath is hot against his hand, eyes unfaltering, passionate. It's all very, very warm, and it ignites a spark in Zhao that nearly sends him up in flames. Faint?

“And miss out on this?” His newly decorated right hand unfurls, fingertips tracing back and along Joongi’s jaw, his cheek. It's hot, flushed pink underneath his touch. “Nah, I’ve been waiting too long for this.”

And Zhao was never really very patient.

His lips are on Joongi’s without so much as a second thought. The kiss is all spice, in every sense of the word. It’s chilli pepper, it’s honey, and Yeonsu is so enthralled in it that when his hands find Zhao’s waist he is overcome with the need to devour him. Zhao’s hand is steady at his cheek, trapping all the heat along his jaw, the other on his thigh, more warmth pressing down on him. It's overwhelming, and the heat becomes too much for a moment, and he pulls back, panting just a little. Zhao’s teeth catch his bottom lip as they part and it burns just enough to leave him ruined.

“Fuck– What…” Zhao’s clearly just as lost as he is, the hand that was on Yeonsu’s thigh coming up to join the first at the border between his head and his throat, as if focusing on his face, cradling his jaw like this, is going to anchor him. His eyes are hungry, dark behind his shades, looking for the answer to a question he hasn't even asked yet. “What do you want me to call you…?”

Everything goes still.

Yeonsu– yes, Yeonsu– wasn't expecting the question. But that was Zhao. The gangster with a heart of gold. Always there to surprise you with how soft he was.

He’d trusted Zhao with his old name a little while ago, now. During one of their many drinking sessions that went on for far too long, into the early hours of the morning, one that ended with them not even bothering to leave Survive, crashing the room upstairs, with them both staring, teary-eyed but refusing to acknowledge it, never acknowledging it, at the sunrise through that second-story window. He thinks he can remember Zhao’s arm around him, but it's all a drunken haze, and it was long gone by the next morning.

Perhaps any other day, he would have been turned off by the question– not that anyone had ever bothered to even ask before. But not today. Not with Zhao. Not when he already felt so raw, stripped back beyond both of their past lives. It was just the two of them, just now. Just the moment they made. The crack in their walls pried open just enough to make an archway, one they could take shelter in, together.

But old habits are hard to kick, and something of him snags on a sharp point of glass.

“Whatever you want.” He tries to lean back in, needing to drown himself in Zhao, but Zhao holds fast despite it all.

“No.” Yeonsu could whine. He settles for greedily pulling at Zhao's sides, heading south until they come to rest on his hips. “No, we’re not doing that.” Zhao’s eyes are intense–and for once, Yeonsu's glad Zhao’s shades are somewhat obstructing them. He's not sure if he could handle them otherwise. “What do you want?”

He wants Zhao. It doesn't matter what he calls him. It never mattered what people called him– when he was a son, a shadow, a host, an assassin, a double, a body, any of it. So long as he served a purpose. And he served it well. He doesn't care.

“ Please ?”

But Zhao asks so sweetly. His hands are hot on his pulse. He doesn't hold him back, this time, when Yeonsu goes to kiss him again. His mouth is soft, and eager, and Yeonsu slides off the stool, chest pressing flush against Zhao’s. He can feel Zhao as he breathes, his lips on his own, hands grasping, kneading, needing. The heat is sticky sweet. Yeonsu craves more of it, more skin, more sweat. He pulls back, finally sick of his coat, tugging at the zip by his neck as Zhao is in his ear, beautiful hands around his wrists as he all but whispers:

“ I can't beg for you if I don't know what you want me to say.”

Fuck.

Zhao could read the phonebook to him and he’d be in pieces. Let alone beg for him.

Why would Zhao ever want to beg for him? Why would anyone ever want to beg for him?

“ Zhao.” He’s desperate.

“Mm-mm. Come on.” Zhao gives in just a little, one arm draping over Yeonsu's shoulders, knees spreading and one ankle hooking around the back of Yeonsu’s leg. Yeonsu's more than happy to oblige, unable to resist taking Zhao’s hips in his hands again, shifting forward. “If you don't know, that's fine, I can work with that.” Zhao would work with anything Yeonsu was willing to give him. “But you have to use your words, let me know.” One of Zhao’s hands has migrated to Yeonsu’s coat, taking over the work of freeing Yeonsu from the suffocating warmth. Yeonsu repays him by snaking his hands under Zhao's shirt, back along his waist. Keening under the grip Yeonsu has on him, Zhao closes the distance between them, a third kiss, getting impatient. Yeonsu trails his lips downward, along Zhao’s chin, the column of his throat, settling just at the base of his neck. Zhao loses his hand in silver-ash hair, other hand resting over Yeonsu’s chest, the absurd raincoat now open. Yeonsu’s tongue drags over Zhao’s pulse, stopping just underneath his jaw. “Fuck… Just talk to me. Tell me what you want.”

He smells of spices, of smoke. Yeonsu kisses at Zhao’s neck, savouring, dying of thirst and Zhao, and the noises he’s making, the only oasis in an entire desert. He should have known that Zhao would be vocal–breathy and dangerous and just enough to keep him from going mad. He wants to hear more.

He knows what he wants, and he knows what he wants to hear Zhao say, he just doesn’t know if he's man enough to ask for it.

“Zhao, please.”

“Just tell me what you want.” He’s exquisite in his demands, all gentle fingers combing though his hair, shaking breath. Yeonsu wants to make him plead.

“It's you.”

His past clings onto him stubbornly. A dark silhouette that has followed him in and out of every single bed.

“And what do I say if I want you back?”

But Zhao's potentially the most stubborn man he's ever met.

“...Yeonsu.” It falls out of him like shrapnel, impossibly quiet, but still too loud– selfish.

“Yeonsu.” Zhao says his name like it’s holy. His knees go weak. He hangs on every syllable.

“Yeah.”

He could hear nothing else for the rest of his life and still die happy.

“Yeah, that work?” There's pride, in Zhao’s voice, as one hand lifts between them and tilts Yeonsu’s jaw up, testing the name on his tongue with a smirk. “Yeonsu.”

It goes right down his spine, trailing flame all over and he needs Zhao.

Their lips collide again, hungrier than before– Zhao has to move one hand away just to brace himself against the counter. Despite the neediness, the smothering heat that's burning up in the both of them, the kiss is deliberate, passionate. Somehow, amongst the want, and the hunger, and everything, they're still careful.

That makes it even better.

They could destroy one another, in every possible way, but they make sure not to.

Starving for Zhao to keep speaking to him in that voice, Yeonsu’s grip tightens and drags Zhao forward until he’s right at the edge of his seat, fingers digging into flesh just above Zhao’s hips. Zhao melts, gasping into the kiss, grinding–just a little– against Yeonsu as he’s pulled against him. Emboldened, Yeonsu tugs again, as if they could get any closer, tongue and teeth ensnaring Zhao’s ear as he unravels, hot breath against his cheek.

“ Fuck, Yeonsu...” His name is honey on Zhao’s lips. “So good…” The praise only feeds the fire in his stomach, rolling his hips back against Zhao, another feverish kiss, open-mouthed, pressing against his throat. Zhao outright shivers as his hands drift down Yeonsu’s chest, pushing up against the white tee that hangs loose against his torso, shoving it further back until it’s stretched taut, tight along the lines of his chest, his stomach. Yeonsu can feel Zhao grin next to him as he stares down at the display.

Perhaps his vain boasting about his body hadn't gone unnoticed.

“Do you…” Zhao's legs are around his own, too. He's tangled up in his limbs and it's the safest he’s ever felt. “Do you wanna get out of here?” Zhao’s heel drags up the back of Yeonsu’s calf. “Back to mine?” His ringless–well, bar one– fingers still clenched in the fabric of his shirt. “You can say no.” He doesn't want to. “We can stay here, or we could stop–”

“No.”

Yeonsu manages to pull back just enough to look Zhao in the eyes.

“I want this.”

Zhao nods, the lust in Yeonsu's normally composed expression causing him to go, for just a second, uncharacteristically speechless.

“...Yeah.” He's practically drunk off of it. “Yeah, me too.”

“Let's go back to yours.”

It's torture, the idea of having to leave You Tian and having to step outside. Having to keep their hands to themselves.

“Do you have to put it back on?” Zhao's regained some kind of calm after some deep breaths and some (more) chaste kisses to Yeonsu’s jaw. Almost as if Yeonsu wasn't the one who had him panting and undone at the counter mere moments ago. His smirk is playful as he blatantly, shamelessly, stares at Yeonsu's torso as he pulls the raincoat back around him.

“I could ask the same thing of you.” Yeonsu arches a well-groomed brow at Zhao, who, up until this point, had been absent-mindedly replacing his rings– almost all muscle memory, hardly having to look down as he knows exactly which one he's holding and where it was meant to go. “It could rain. What's your excuse?”

“Well, as I see it,” Zhao smiles, admiring the new addition amongst the old, shining just a little bit brighter than the others. “We both have reputations to maintain.” Zhao looks up, then beckons with both hands. “Speaking of, come here.” Not knowing why, not even wanting to ask, Yeonsu obediently steps forward.

Zhao's hands come up to fix his hair. It's practically domestic.

“I’ll mess it up again later.” Zhao says.

“Is that a promise?”

Zhao's hands rest on either side of his face again, gaze now a lot less intense, but the memory still causes Yeonsu to pause. He expects Zhao to speak, to tease, say more in that voice that could turn him to jelly if Zhao wanted. But he doesn't, not for a while, anyway. Not before he gently swipes his thumbs under Yeonsu's eyes–probably the only thing left that even still vaguely resembles Yeonsu– carefully wiping away and fixing any traces of smudged makeup, left out of place from laughter, and lust, and rogue chilli pepper.

“Perfect.” Zhao says, voice the same as it was when he spoke about the ring. As if the word was always meant for him.

Oh, if only he knew.

It takes all of their combined self restraint to not fall back into each other when they get into a taxi. They didn't have to wait for one for long– there always seemed to be one at the edge of Restaurant Row– but it's still far too much time apart. They hardly talk, almost afraid as if they do, it’ll be just a matter of seconds before they're flirting again, and look where that got them last time.

“Oh, it spins.” Zhao's voice is surprised, contemplative from his seat as he grins down at his new ring, turning the thin gold band around the outside of it. He might as well be miles away.

“I thought you might like that.” Yeonsu tries to keep it quiet, leaning across the middle seat, keeping an eye on the driver in the rear-view mirror. “Something else to ground you.” It's not like Zhao ever spoke about his habits– he probably didn't even realise he was doing them half the time– the deep breaths (always with his right hand on his chest), the counting of exits, measuring of distances, how he couldn't stand still for more than a couple seconds without stretching, having to fill the space he occupied lest the walls go caving in on him. Yeonsu only recognised it because he did it too– he just hoped he was more subtle. Zhao was everything but subtle.

At least, that's what he thought until Zhao’s hand rests on the empty seat between them, just millimetres away from his. Like everything Zhao does, it feels intentional.

They don't move for the rest of the journey.

The first things Yeonsu notices when he's led through the front door of Zhao’s apartment are the scents. It's still like Zhao– smoky, spicy– and just the tiniest hint of something sweeter, like vanilla incense or maybe some other kind of lighter spice, like cinnamon. It's all the meals he's cooked, then the measures he’s taken not to have his whole apartment smell like a kitchen– candles, oils, whatever Zhao has claimed and collected since he had left the Liumang. The space was undoubtedly his, dark, rich tones and an awful mismatch of patterns and textures. At least they were similar colours– deep browns and claret, golds and bottle greens. On every window sill, there’s various plants– and at least one bonsai each.

It's cosier than he expected. He's not sure why.

All this he notices as he sets about taking off his stupid, ridiculously high boots (they're not stupid, or ridiculous, or even that high, and are actually very practical when he's not looking to get into someone’s pants). A little remnant of heat– embarrassment– spikes up in him when he notices Zhao’s already made himself comfortable, sneakers and jacket gone, crouching in front him and watching Yeonsu get more and more frustrated with his own shoelaces, like he's some sort of child.

“Need a hand?”

“Shut up.” Yeonsu smiles in spite of it and makes a note to tease Zhao just as ruthlessly about whatever is going on with his wardrobe further down the line. Why did that man have to wear so many layers. That was going to be such a pain.

“Here.” Zhao shuffles a bit, getting on his knees. Ringed fingers carefully bat away his own, before tapping the outside of his leg. “Stand up.” Before he realises what's happening, Yeonsu does as he's asked. “And take that enormous fuckin’ coat off.” Then he notices.

“Zhao–” He feels himself start to blush again, acutely aware of the exact position they're in.

“Ah-ah-ah. Let me help you out, here.” Deft hands have already undone the laces on one boot. Damn, he was quick. And so impatient. He’s certain Zhao’s doing this on purpose. He probably would have done this even if his boots had been fucking velcro.

Yeonsu tries not to get caught up with the movements Zhao’s hands make, dextrous fingers curling and pulling away string when necessary, undoing each twist or cross with elegant efficiency.

He briefly wonders if Zhao's as good as tying knots as he is undoing them.

“Coat.” The reminder’s firm, but playful. “Please.”

Yanked out of his thoughts, Yeonsu starts and concedes, brain short-circuiting for a split second as he forgets that he needs to undo it before he starts trying to remove it. He manages to hang the coat beside Zhao’s jacket on the wall next to them just as Zhao finishes with another tap to his calf.

“Now wasn't that so much easier?” Zhao sighs as he stands. Yeonsu clearly doesn’t hide his disappointment well enough, because Zhao picks up on it immediately. “Oh– I’m sorry?” He smirks, inching forward as he squints at Yeonsu through his glasses. “Did you want me to stay down there?”

Yeonsu swallows. Hard.

“Mm. I thought so.” And then he's stepping away again, as if nothing happened.

“Zhao–” Yeonsu grabs his wrist before he could turn away, quite literally seizing the moment before it slips from his fingers. He's not sure what to do with it now he has it, but he’s got it. Zhao looks him up and down, all languid motions, lazy, confident charm. He takes his time doing it, as well, slowly turning his hand so he's holding his captor’s wrist, too.

“ Yeonsu.” He purrs in response. It's a gunshot at the racetrack. Yeonsu’s on him, kicking off his boots as they stumble backward down the hallway, Zhao’s smug grin still pressing into every kiss as his hands immediately go to Yeonsu’s chest, his jaw. Yeonsu’s got fistfuls of Zhao’s hips, pinning him to a wall they fall against, kisses hot, flames licking inside their mouths, dancing on their tongues.

“You know,” Zhao murmurs, voice heavy, one hand snaking into Yeonsu’s hair as a warm tongue settles over the pulse in his neck. “I thought about letting you fuck me back at the restaurant–mm–!” Yeonsu barely bites under the corner of Zhao’s jaw, knee lifting in between his legs, kissing with just enough teeth to draw out more of those lovely, lovely noises. He tries not to go too hard, not to bruise the flesh underneath him as the image stirs up a familiar hunger in his chest, blood flooding from his brain, his hands finding skin between Zhao’s waistband and shirt, and, still, the heat pools in the pit in his stomach, spreading further south.

“Would you?” He rasps against Zhao’s throat as Zhao’s fingers curl against his scalp. “Have let me?”

“No.” Though Zhao doesn't sound too convinced. He reconsiders. “Maybe.” The logic is fading fast from his head, all brain function getting lost somewhere between the soft hair in his hand, the firm muscle underneath the other, the tongue on his neck, the thigh pushing up between his own. “Probably not.” He has to draw a line somewhere. If not for himself, for health codes and sanitary reasons.

“Not even if I bent you over the counter?” Zhao can tell Yeonsu’s picturing it. He pushes down on his hips, not enough to be forceful, but strong enough to make Zhao whimper as his dick grazes against Yeonsu’s thigh. He can see it too. Fuck. “Made you beg for it?”

“ Fuck –” Zhao breathes, feeling Yeonsu grin into the curve between his neck and shoulder. He needs to lose his shirt. Like, yesterday. “I’d certainly like to see you try.”

It’s funny that even now, as they grind against one another, drinking each other in, they’re still trying to outdo themselves.

Yeonsu's hands are at his shirt now, and it's the fucking shoelaces all over again.

“F–Zhao…” He can't help but laugh at himself a little as he fumbles, and Zhao chuckles breathlessly, one hand resting atop Yeonsu’s.

“Just– rip it, I don't care.”

“But–”

“You think I haven't dreamt about that kinda shit?”

It’s all the permission Yeonsu needs.

“ Fuck, Yeonsu, yes...” Zhao practically croons as his shirt is torn open, and it's music to Yeonsu’s ears. He takes a moment to appreciate his handiwork, reaching up and touching every part of Zhao he can, though he does pause once, thumb hovering over the tiny gold bar that's pierced through Zhao’s left nipple.

“All the things we've gone through, and this is what surprises y–hh–”

“Not surprised.” Yeonsu corrects him, thumb lovingly rolling over the piercing, not too harsh, not too light. “Interested.”

“Yeah?” Zhao tries to regain some semblance of control, moving only to get one arm pushed back against the wall, pressed under Yeonsu’s free hand, fingers slipping up underneath the gold bangle and curling against his pulse, and even that feels erotic. The hand he can move hangs off of Yeonsu’s wrist, near his chest, not doing much else but to remind him to– “K-keep going…”

“Is it sensitive?” It's his turn to tease, now, and Yeonsu’s so glad he's more patient than Zhao, because all the anticipation, all the build up to have him fall apart at his touch, writhing against his leg, has been worth it.

“Fuck–” Zhao gasps, unable to keep up appearances as Yeonsu picks him apart with precision, head falling back and pressing the back of his fist to his lips, forcing back the moans that would no doubt signal the beginning of the end. He can't crumble like this yet. There's so much more they have left to savour, to fight over.

“Mm-mm, none of that.” Yeonsu's devilish as he takes Zhao's remaining free hand and threads his fingers between the rings, palm to palm, before also trapping it against the wall. “I want to hear you.” Yeonsu knows that Zhao’s stubborn enough to try and gain the upper hand here, and that just makes him hungrier. They were always like this– competitive, in everything they did.

Hell, it's basically what got them into this in the first place. Because Zhao couldn't leave well enough alone. Because Yeonsu had to return the favour.

The kiss is almost enough to get Zhao to forget Yeonsu is the one who has him pushed up against a wall, not the other way around, all play, Zhao nipping at Yeonsu’s lips to illicit the tiniest of inhales, before capturing him entirely, hungry, grasping. Yeonsu breaks away, though not without a final drag of Zhao’s teeth on his lip.

“You like to bite, Zhao?” It’s less of a question and more of an observation. Yeonsu kisses down his throat, slowing to flatten his tongue against Zhao’s collarbone, closing his mouth around it in the wettest, softest kiss. But no teeth. Not yet. Zhao, however, does bite– jaw clenching down to stifle the noises that Yeonsu is craftily trying to draw out of him. Make him work for it. 

Zhao’s eyes fly open in realisation when he feels hot, hot breath on his chest.

“Oh, you fu– uuughk… !” He's not quick enough stop the absolutely filthy moan that comes out of him as Yeonsu’s teeth close around his nipple, metal bar burning, the sharp sensation going straight to his crotch.

Yeonsu hums triumphantly around Zhao’s piercing, then licks, then sucks. A string of curses fall from Zhao, breathless, eyes rolling back, hand that's entwined with Yeonsu’s a viper’s grip. Yeonsu nudges his leg a little higher. Zhao keens.

“ Fuck, Yeonsu!”

He’d been so sweet, earlier, pleading for his name, and now he's crying it, vulgar and dirty and divine.

“That's what I want to hear.” Yeonsu murmurs, satisfied, the sound still ringing in his ears. He's got his message across. His grip on Zhao eases, one hand trailing down his wrist, up and across his shoulder. He puts his mouth to Zhao’s nipple again, gentle tongue lazily circling the oversensitive nub before a final, careful graze of teeth. Zhao scrambles for something to latch onto, fingers hooking around the collar of Yeonsu’s t-shirt. He continues to swear, to groan, seeking pleasure in any way he can, back arching and it’s like art. Yeonsu’s hand rests at the other side of Zhao’s chest, touches over his pec, his ribs, the curves of his waist and hip, every single scar. He has to resist the urge to pull at the band of his shorts, noticing the bulge underneath all those layers. Zhao is pliant under him, heavy breathing, pupils blown wide.

“You gonna follow that up…?” Unbelievable. He's still trying to goad him. “Or you gonna make me–  hump your leg like a fucking teenager?” Yeonsu smiles as he kisses back up his breastbone, half-hidden chuckle still hot against Zhao’s skin. Zhao’s ragged and practically bucking against him and he’s still making demands?

“You're insatiable.”

“I don't–” Zhao’s breath hitches as Yeonsu reminds him exactly how they're pressed up against one another, grinding his hips against Zhao’s with a near-animalistic kiss under his jaw. “-hear you complaining, though.”

“I should have known you wouldn't go easy on me.”

“I can be as easy as you want me to be, Yeonsu-kun~” Zhao counters, nails raking down over his chest, with just enough pressure to make Yeonsu feel the friction on his skin, hot under fabric. It takes an ungodly amount of control to not push against it, drive Zhao’s nails further into his torso– or better yet, grab his wrist again and move it lower, just to really see how skilled those fingers were.

But he's gotten this far. Let’s see how much further he can push it.

“ Really ?”

Yeonsu withdraws almost entirely, only remaining contact being the hand pinning Zhao's above his head, and Zhao has to stop himself from sliding boneless down the wall. He practically whines at the loss of heat, of contact, fingers tugging at the hem of Yeonsu’s shirt before it pulls back to push up under his shades, smile incredulous, bashful as he covers his eyes.

“Enjoying this, are you? Making me all needy and shit…” It's just barely a whisper, breathed out into the space between them, more like an admission he didn't expect anyone to hear. Lips parted, skin flushed, one hand still interlocked with his… Zhao’s a sight to behold. But there's more to see.

“Bedroom?” Yeonsu can't help but smile when he leans back in and asks, tone teasing only slightly– and is immediately gifted with the sight of Zhao peeking out at him from between all those rings and nail polish, all silvers, golds, black, red. Cute.

“Bedroom.” Zhao repeats back to him. He wastes no time – Yeonsu finally releasing him entirely – to then have their stances flipped, Zhao pulling a dirty martial trick and using their interlocked legs and counterbalance to almost trip Yeonsu into now having his back against the wall. It's so fast and so out of left field that Yeonsu grunts, only really registering what’s happened when one of Zhao’s hands, the other still firm on his shoulder, spreads flat against his abs, and slowly, slowly, starts moving lower. “If you can make it that far.”

“Zhao…” The wind’s been knocked out of him. Fuck, was Zhao going to be pulling these kind of moves all night? That'd certainly be one way to keep him on his toes.

Zhao seizes the opportunity– and the end of Yeonsu’s shirt– with both hands, pushing it up over his stomach, his chest, pausing for a moment to really revel in what he sees.

“ Fuck, you weren't lying when you said you put the effort in…”

It's shameless, really, getting hard over Zhao ogling him like this–but his voice was like syrup and his hands could work miracles, feeling up his sides, one stopping to cup his pec and squeeze, working out exactly where to push and where to stroke. Zhao hasn't even given him the dignity of undressing him completely, just pushing the shirt up enough to expose him, making him still sweat under the fabric around his shoulders, his neck.

“You said it yourself, right? ‘Imagine me training, day in, day out,’ – I don't think you realised at the time, but I heard you.” Zhao always seemed to notice the stupid things he said, for better or for worse. Just like him to be so attentive, just like now, as if he's trying to study him, commit every detail to memory. He repeats the motion of trailing his thumbs down the deep “V” of his abdomen when he notices Yeonsu tense. He notices how his breath shudders when his nails graze over the muscles along his ribs. “I imagined.”

It's like he's making the calculations on exactly how to undo him.

“But this is so, so much better.”

Their eyes meet by chance and Zhao’s are impossibly dark behind his glasses– brimming with lust– and savage, ravenous.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

His fingers dig deep into the flesh around Yeonsu's hips, and his tongue is on his neck, and Yeonsu gasps, hand shooting up to pull on Zhao’s hair. He's unrelenting, teeth dangerous on his pulse, and then there's the familiar pull at his waistband– impatient. Always so impatient.

“Zhao–” They haven't even gotten to the bedroom– Zhao’s barely touched him and yet he’s so achingly hard that he doesn't even bother to stop himself from arching into the touch. Zhao’s noticed– of course he's noticed– and his grin is wicked between kisses to his throat, his jaw, his ear. He unbuttons Yeonsu’s pants with ruthless efficiency and even though he feels a little embarrassed, Yeonsu can't help but watch.

“...Make such a mess, not sure if you're even gonna make it to bed…”

He strokes him through his underwear, the trapped heat and slow pace and harsh friction near unbearable, the sweetest torture he's endured in a long while. Zhao’s tongue runs up his jaw, along the curve of his ear.

“But you’d try and fuck me anyway, wouldn't you?” Zhao’s voice is silk, and it’s silk smothering his senses. “Because you're just that fuckin’ sweet, so fuckin’ thoughtful, Yeonsu…” God, his name sounds like heaven, coming out of him. “You think it's gonna pay off? All that training?” Zhao’s hand quickens, the other firm against Yeonsu's hip before his thumb presses hard into the sensitive cleft alongside the bone. “How's your endurance ?”

The question is somehow enough for Yeonsu to remember he still has one hand unoccupied and it locks around Zhao's wrist– not stopping, not getting him to go faster, just there. It's enough of a plea as anything else.

He almost regrets it as Zhao mercilessly picks up the pace.

“ Fuck –Zhao– please –”

He's still watching Zhao work him over, and over, seeing the faint lines of tendons flicker over the back of his stunning, devious hand, supple flesh and heavy rings.

And just as quickly, Zhao stops entirely. Yeonsu moans, the sound strained as it catches in his throat.

“You’re adorable.” Zhao presses a laughably tame kiss to Yeonsu’s temple. He's a wreck, still staring helplessly at the hand hovering above his cock. Precum’s staining the fabric, a filthy little signal that Zhao has indeed, made his calculations correctly.

It's positively evil, the way he moves just to trace his fingertips along the waistband.

“Zhao.” Yeonsu feels like all the blood in his brain has fled right to his crotch, but the reprieve is enough to get him to speak a little more. “Bedroom.”

Zhao chuckles against his neck, the noise vibrating through his already racing pulse.

“Bedroom.” Zhao echoes again. His fingers tuck into the top of Yeonsu’s underwear and practically pulls him forward by it, leading him off the wall and towards what he could only assume was the aforementioned room. Zhao continues the journey backward, right up until he's up against the foot of the bed. He sinks onto the edge, shockingly tender compared to just moments ago as he pulls Yeonsu forward by the hips, leading him to stand between his open legs.

Zhao looks up at Yeonsu like he's admiring sculpture.

“Mm.” Watching with sincere appreciation as Yeonsu finally manages to remove his t-shirt—properly, now, not hiked up underneath his chin and over his tits like something out of a porn magazine. “What now?”

He's so coy about it, Yeonsu considers jumping him right then and there. But he knows Zhao’s impatient, and that's exactly the kind of reaction he wants, and Yeonsu had literally just prided himself on how patient he had been only minutes ago in comparison.

If he wants this to last, he's got to be clever about it.

“You say that like your hand wasn't around my dick just now.” Yeonsu rumbles, taking up Zhao’s chin in his hand, a more direct reminder that– hey, his eyes were up here. Now that he thinks about it...

Yeonsu’s other hand comes up to join the other, back of his fingers gingerly caressing Zhao’s face, before delicately, slowly, removing Zhao’s shades.

“That’s better.” He hums, folding them carefully.

“Took you long enough.” Zhao's still too smug. Yeonsu has got to do something about that. And fast, if the stunt against the wall was anything to go off of. “Put ‘em there.” Zhao looks back to a bedside cabinet—where the glasses case that Yeonsu had got him sits, and—the first bonsai, too, sat underneath a currently lit sun lamp. “And grab what you want from the drawer.”

“Bossing me around already, Zhao?” Yeonsu grins, though not disobeying. He hears Zhao flop back against the silk sheets with a content sigh, and when Yeonsu turns to catch a glance at him, he’s stretched out on top of them like a cat in a spot of sunlight.

“Mm. Can't help it.” Zhao murmurs. “You're so pretty when you do as you're told.”

“And what about when I don't?” Yeonsu muses, turning his attention back to the cabinet as he sets Zhao’s glasses inside the case, then opening the drawer. It has the usual suspects– lube, condoms (different sizes, too, how thoughtful )- something silicone catches his eye but he shuts that thought down real quick, snatching just the basics and closing the drawer. No distractions. Not tonight. “What then?”

“I haven't made my mind up about that just yet.” Zhao peers up at him, head turned so he’s grinning upside-down from the edge of the bed, lifting his hips up just enough to be suggestive. “Wanna show me?”

“Hm.” Yeonsu considers it. He could just give Zhao what he wants, and then some, he's sure, but he could also see if there was something else. Something that’ll draw this out a little longer, really have Zhao begging, pleading, making all those noises that were driving him insane, something to really sweeten the spice that's still lingering on their tongues.

“I have something in mind.” Yeonsu smirks. He leans forward, crawling onto the bed and on top of Zhao, one foot still on the floor and the other leg closer to their bodies, gently keeping Zhao pinned on his back. No more tricks. The kiss that brings it all back is deliberate, and slow, and just shy of the frantic passion they kissed with earlier. It's controlled, or at least, attempts to be. Until Yeonsu can't help but be a little selfish, hand finding Zhao’s nipple and massaging it under his thumb. It's like he’s struck gold, instantly being rewarded with Zhao trying to grind up underneath him, limited by the knee pressed into his hip, breaths getting shorter as he pants into the kiss, more teeth, grip in his hair getting tighter. Best of all are the sounds. Zhao’s trying not to moan again, not give him the satisfaction right away, but that just results in smaller, muffled groans, ones Yeonsu can hear clearly once he pulls away from Zhao's biting kisses, moving back to his jaw, throat, collarbone.

For Zhao, it’s like he's being toyed with. Yeonsu’s figured out the game, now, and not only that, he’s playing to win. Playing with him. 

Yeonsu moves lower. Zhao knows where he's headed.

“Come on.” He half-whines, hands grasping, pulling, pushing a little more insistently with the hip that's trapped under Yeonsu’s knee. “Haven't we done this already–yyy..!” Yeonsu’s mouth is on the piercing again, hardly recovered from last time. It hurts in the best possible way.

“ Fuck–” Yeonsu’s not shy with this teeth, now, as well, bite wider at first, clamping down on a whole chunk of his pec like a burning, sharp embrace before his tongue comes into the equation, fat and hot and wet, then lapping at him, licking, sucking, overstimulating, fingers encircling and rubbing at his other nipple, attentive, unforgiving.

“Yeonsu– please –shit–” He hates that he's falling apart so quickly and so willingly and yet he can't think of anything better. Both pain and pleasure shoot through Zhao’s body at a rapid-fire pace, trapped with nothing to help release the rich, deep pressure that's mounting in his dick. He writhes, clutching at Yeonsu’s shoulders. He needs contact. He needs friction. Anything.

“ So sensitive.” Yeonsu trills, making sure he's close enough to have his voice reverb through Zhao’s chest, hands trailing downward to his waist. He withdraws his leg, both feet now planted firmly on the floor, both hands now planted firmly on Zhao. He's not going anywhere. “Now.” Yeonsu then yanks Zhao downward, flush against his hips, and Zhao nearly cries as his body collides with Yeonsu’s at the edge of the bed, feeling on the edge of himself.

“Let me help you out, here.”

“You—”  Zhao bites back yet another curse as he realises it's now Yeonsu getting on his knees, and not the other way around. “That’s my line. That was my idea.”

“Mm,” Yeonsu places a kiss below his hip. “Mine now.” All his.

He's grateful that Zhao’s shorts are easy to unfasten. It's just a little disappointing– not surprising– that Zhao's just wearing leggings under the shorts, not thigh highs and a garter like he’d wistfully fantasised one night, but he tucks the thought away for later. Maybe that’ll be the next gift.

“Yours.” Zhao breathes, like a confession, melting into the bed as one of the hands that was in Yeonsu’s hair moves away so he can bite on the end of his thumb, rings on back of his fingers pushed up against his cheek.

It's almost criminal, Yeonsu thinks as he pulls away Zhao’s clothes, kissing at his stomach, navel, hips, that Zhao’s body had been hidden away under all these layers for so long. But it also, almost, made this moment even sweeter. All this talk of thank-you-gifts and here he was, unwrapping Zhao like a present.

He makes sure to take his time, especially when his mouth is on the inside of Zhao’s thighs. His skin is soft under his tongue, between his teeth–all too tempting to sink into and bruise and claim. He curves one arm underneath Zhao, wrapping around his leg, raising it to rest on his shoulder. All the while, he kisses, open mouthed, greedy, his other set of fingers drifting down to splay at the base of Zhao’s cock.

Zhao tries to lift his hips but Yeonsu keeps him steady, holding him down with a flat palm.

“Fuck–Yeonsu–give me a break…”

“Be patient.” Yeonsu chuckles into the crease between Zhao’s leg and the rest of his body, before lazily licking a stripe all the way alongside it. “Good things come to those who wait.”

As if he had to prove it, he begins to slowly–agonisingly so–stroke Zhao as his lips drift ever closer to join his fingers. Zhao's breathing is audible, near desperate, the leg draped over Yeonsu tenses as the back of his heel digs in between shoulder blades. His body shakes with the effort of resisting the want, need, to fuck into Yeonsu’s hand, his own moving quickly to find something to cling to. They decide on the sheets, both at his sides.

“Just– fuck– shit–” He's incoherent as Yeonsu kisses up in between his fingers, then finishing the journey by dragging his tongue, spit-slick and sloppy, from root to tip.

“Ask nicely.” His breath is fire-hot, lips close enough to brush against his dick, soft and inviting. Zhao’s voice is a whimper.

“ Please…”

It’s more than enough.

Heat engulfs Zhao and he moans, loud, curling upward as Yeonsu swallows him down in one smooth motion, strong arms still holding him in place against the edge of the bed.

“H-Holy shit, Yeonsu…”

Propped up on his elbows, Zhao can see everything – and Yeonsu's eyes are looking up at him, too, intense, ablaze with lust. Zhao nearly cums right there at the sight of it all.

“Fuck, so good to me…”

Yeonsu glances down with a satisfied hum, as if it's the praise that's making him blush. His cheeks hollow out, tongue wrapping around Zhao’s cock, lips reddening as he moves, up, and down, up, down, and Zhao’s hand is in his hair– again–though not pulling, not this time.

“So good…”

And it's true. Any man likes having his dick sucked, but this was something else. Yeonsu’s focused but calm, slow but not at all lazy. It makes the heat more overwhelming, the longer and more drawn out his movements are. And his tongue. It's like it was everywhere. It curls and presses up against the underside of the head and Zhao can feel himself coming undone, falling apart, crumbling, breaths becoming shallow—

Yeonsu pulls away with potentially the most devious smirk Zhao has ever seen him wear. It would have been painful, were it not also unbelievably sexy. Swollen lips, slightly parted, lifting upward, eyes heavy-lidded and practically sparkling. Zhao nearly wishes he could take a photograph of it.

He can only really repeat himself.

“So good to me.” His hand falls slightly, enough to cradle Yeonsu’s cheek. “What did I do to deserve this?” Yeonsu can tell Zhao is honest when he asks. So genuine, it almost hurts.

He can't quite answer him. Not well enough, not now. He tries to answer in other ways. Another kiss to the thigh on his shoulder. A gentle tug of fingers. You deserve the world.

As if it's a goodbye kiss, Yeonsu flattens his tongue against the end of Zhao's cock before sealing his lips around the head, the most vulgar, wet noises emerging from the act and then he moves away again, then lower, all tongue, all spit and sweat and precum as he licks his way down as if it's the only thing guiding him, the muscle in his mouth good for nothing but exploring Zhao’s body.

Zhao's losing strength, and fast, keening as he sinks back against the mattress again, the thigh that Yeonsu has wrapped his arm around lifting higher, whilst Yeonsu’s mouth goes lower.

“Fuck, yes… ”

“Can I?” Yeonsu asks, breathing quickly, briefly shifting away a moment to grab the lube from where he left it on the bed, as if he couldn't quite move fast enough. “Eat you out?” He's just as quickly back on his knees, mouth back on the inside of Zhao’s thigh, firm, strong hands gently pushing on Zhao’s legs, the question in the actions themselves. Zhao answers with both his body and his words.

“As if you even have to a– aask, fuck–”

Zhao's barely given the go-ahead before Yeonsu’s tongue is on him, shortly followed by the rest of his mouth–barely moving inward, focusing on getting Zhao good and wet, first.

“You swear a lot.” Yeonsu mumbles in between kisses. “You have a filthy mouth, Zhao.” Zhao knows that the irony isn't lost on either of them, but he takes the bait anyway.

“Says the one with his tongue in my ass–nngh!”

Yeonsu’s tongue slides into him with conviction, slipping past the ring of muscle and lifting, before repeating the motion, cycling like the tides, waves lapping at the shore. It almost makes Zhao see stars.

Yeonsu's hands, now wet with lube, find Zhao again, one set of fingers curling around Zhao’s cock whilst the others grab a fistful of his ass, thumb just shy of his entrance. Zhao’s a mess, now, no longer able to hold back, moaning outright, and loud, as he desperately tries not to writhe too much against the sheets, muscles tense. Yeonsu's tongue is dragging over, inside, outside. His thumb swipes under the head of his dick at the same time and the noise that rips outward comes from somewhere deep within him, guttural and desperate.

Yeonsu pulls back with an audible gasp himself, inching the hand on Zhao’s ass closer to his hole, thumb pressing over the opening like a test. There's barely enough time for Zhao to recover before the slippery digit pushes inside.

“O–oh fuck…” It's not nearly enough, feels like Yeonsu’s just toying with him, tugging on his hole, his dick, just to see him squirm, just to hear him beg. “More, Yeonsu, please… ”

“I don't know if you can handle more…” Yeonsu notes, cruelly apathetic, but pushing further anyway, other thumb flicking over the head of Zhao’s cock. He twists on his back and Yeonsu’s head spins with fantasies of how flexible he knows Zhao can be. If he’d be able to sound this pretty even if he was folded in half.

“Shit–!”

“We're going to have to do something about the swearing…” He continues, hands leaving Zhao entirely.

“No–no, I’ll st-st-aaaggh..” Zhao groans as two lube-slick fingers slide into him, thankfully slow enough so he doesn't lose his mind right away, eyes rolling back, sliding shut. “I’ll stop, I’ll shut up–”

“Don't you dare.” With Yeonsu’s other hand no longer on him (and judging by the faint rustling of clothes, Zhao knows exactly where it's gone) Zhao has to touch himself, feeling like he's going to go insane if he doesn't. He jerks himself off erratically, messily, too desperate to match the torturously slow pace that Yeonsu’s working him open at.

“You really are impatient, aren't you?” He hears Yeonsu shift, and when Zhao looks up he sees that their bodies are aligned, now; and the second they lock eyes Yeonsu’s fingers curl inside of him and it feels so fucking good that he almost passes out.

“Fuuuck!” Zhao doesn't see his orgasm coming and it hits him hard, too soon, and if his mind wasn't so rattled he’d curse himself out for being so predictable, so selfish, so impatient. The pleasure rips through him regardless, uncaring, wracking his body with immeasurable heat and tension, white ropes spurting over his stomach, his chest– it's obscene.

Yeonsu’s not sure if he's seen anything hotter.

He can’t help but curl his fingers again, just to see if he can get the same reaction, or prolong the current one, and Zhao all but screams, the noise choking out of him somewhere between an unforgivably loud moan and a cry. Without any time to rest, he’s cumming again.

“Holy shit…” Yeonsu mutters, forgetting himself, composure lost, eyes wide, the sound of Zhao breaking going straight to his dick.

“Fuck– mmnh…” Zhao’s incoherent, blissful, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sheets as he rides Yeonsu’s hand down off of his high. “Yyyeonsu… Yeonsu… ”

Oh, it's so over for him. His name is never, ever going to sound as good as it does right here, right now.

Black-tipped fingers find Yeonsu’s forearm, still between his legs, and cling onto it, holding both of them still as Zhao tries, needs, to catch his breath. He’s panting at the ceiling for a good couple of moments, and Yeonsu suddenly starts feeling unsure as to what to do, what he's done.

“Are you alright?”

Zhao smiles at the empty space above him, and it's enough to reassure Yeonsu in the time it takes for Zhao to form a comprehensive sentence.

“Never been better.” Zhao lets go of Yeonsu’s arm and carefully, slowly, the latter withdraws. The low, rumbling whine that it draws out of Zhao is almost a reward. He can't take his eyes off him. Zhao props himself up on his elbows, assessing the damage, before his eyes land on Yeonsu's dick, rock-hard and red– a bulging vein visible even underneath the condom.

“Well.” It's ridiculously hot. He can hardly understand that the sight alone is enough to cause his own aching cock to twitch, but it is, and it does, pain and pleasure once again wreaking havoc in his body, in his brain. He somehow has the energy left to hook a leg around Yeonsu, pulling him forward. Yeonsu’s wide eyes impossibly grow even wider. “Maybe I could be better…”

In-fucking-credible, Yeonsu thinks. This man is going to kill him.

“Wh–I—Zhao,” He breathes, leaning down and bracing himself with one hand against the bed– the other hand betraying the concern, taking up Zhao’s thigh and lifting, grip just a little bit tighter than it needs to be. “Are you sure?”

“Well, you put in all the hard work, didn't you?” Yeonsu’s grasp on Zhao’s leg goes from firm to aggressive as Zhao reciprocates, hand drifting down between them to guide Yeonsu against his wet, still-throbbing hole. Yeonsu gasps, having managed to block out how bad the pressure in his dick had gotten, until Zhao had touched him, a heat spiking in his belly. “Don’t worry.” He doesn't. Not when Zhao is staring up at him like this, all comfort, excitement, hunger. “I’m insatiable, remember?”

Yeonsu groans as he pushes into Zhao, the muscle enveloping him in unbearable heat, pulsing tightness. Zhao, still not satisfied, drags Yeonsu down by the jaw, pulling him into yet another suffocating kiss. Their tongues slide against one another, sloppy as they both begin to gasp, to sweat harder, breathe heavier. Zhao bites Yeonsu’s lip, grinding underneath him, and Yeonsu has no choice but to keep up the pace, ramming into Zhao faster than he first anticipated to, all plans for self-restraint melting underneath the rush of warmth that builds, and builds, mounting tension like Zhao has got him bound in rope, pulling the knots tighter, and tighter. His hips slam into Zhao with such force the noises of flesh on flesh are a perfect, staccato undertone below Zhao’s breathy little gasps. 

“Zhao– Zhao—” He hardly has the capacity, yet alone the courage, to ask him. Zhao understands anyway. He leans up towards him, Yeonsu mouthing at the soft corner of Zhao’s jaw, chasing pleasure and keening as painted nails dig little crescent moons into his shoulder blade, the back of his neck.

“Yeonsu.” Zhao purrs, right in his ear. Yeonsu moans, again, Zhao scratching flames down his ribs. “Yeonsu.” Again, as the pace quickens, rapid-fire, and he can feel Zhao tense up more, thigh pushing on his shoulder, hand pulling on his hair, muscle squeezing around his dick. The name sounds like a plea, now. “Y-Yeonsu…” It goes from an answer to begging, and Yeonsu descends onto Zhao’s neck with his teeth, not biting down, but certainly desperate enough to leave a mark. “Fuck–Yeonsu!”

Zhao completely comes undone when Yeonsu closes his hand over his oversensitive cock and shows zero hesitation, stroking him fast, merciless, timed perfect with every precise buck of his hips.

“Oh, fuck, Yeonsu, Yeonsu!” Zhao’s eyes are wide, almost panicked, fist in Yeonsu’s hair, other hand latched to his side, nails dragging down so hard he knows the scratches will take days to fade. Painfully overstimulated, Zhao’s muscles wind ever tighter and Yeonsu ever meaner with his thrusts, pinpointing the bundle of nerves inside Zhao, addicted to the way he flutters around him every time they collide, and the sounds …

“Fuck, nn–mm–Ye– Yeonsu !” Zhao cries, back arching, spilling over his chest a third time, and Yeonsu can't help but grin as his own orgasm hits him like a truck, white-hot shooting through him, out of him, deep inside Zhao, who's pulsing, grinding, still so tight that there's a very distant, irrational part of Yeonsu that wonders if he's going to have enough willpower to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck, yes…” Zhao sounds almost delirious as he goes boneless on the bed, limbs wrapping around Yeonsu as he lets himself sink on top of him, Yeonsu still mouthing at the bruise now starting to rise on Zhao’s neck. They breathe in tandem, gasping each other's air, sticky pools of cum and sweat pressed between their bodies. They can feel two heartbeats pounding away at each of their chests.

When their pulses and breathing slow down enough, Yeonsu gingerly pulls out, rolling to one side with as much grace and decorum as a slowly wilting flower. Zhao, half convinced Yeonsu has broken his brain, continues staring at the ceiling, arm that isn't trapped under Yeonsu uselessly flopping beside him. They both lie there, dazed, unable to do much more than breathe and blink away the metaphorical stars that could still be spinning around their heads.

“Fuck…” Zhao doesn't seem to have much else left in his vocabulary. “We… should have done this… sooner.”

Yeonsu can't stop the soft, light laughter that bubbles up and out of him, hand coming up to his chest, not really caring about the mess that covers it, covers him, over his hands, his torso, his face.

“Have you not learnt… anything… about patience?” He banters back, in between heaving breaths and faint laughter. It's not long before Zhao’s laughing quietly too.

It's perhaps Yeonsu's second favourite sound of the night.

The exhaustion quickly starts to settle into his bones, and before it takes him completely, Yeonsu still has enough common sense left in him to, at the very least, remove the condom and tie it, glancing around for a trash bin and flinging it in there once he finds it.

“Don't go anywhere.” Zhao’s voice eventually finds some composure, and the mattress creaks as he sits up. “I’m just gonna go wash up.”

As he leaves, he turns the sun lamp above the bonsai atop the bedside cabinet off.

Yeonsu, still basking in the afterglow, hazily takes in his surroundings, more plants on another windowsill, clashing patterns hanging in an open wardrobe. He hears a shower turning on, gentle rush of water on tile, and then, very, very faintly, on occasion, whistling. It stinks of sex but there's still the scents of the apartment, of the kitchen, unlit candles, incense. Zhao, Zhao, Zhao.

He eventually returns, Yeonsu having not been quite able to drift off in the too-large bed, not without the warmth of a body nearby. He’s glad he hasn't, as now he's blessed with the sight and sensation of Zhao in a black silk robe, warm, damp washcloth in hand, towel in the other, moving forward to gently wipe the mess from his body.

“Thank you.” Yeonsu mutters sleepily, already feeling the night starting to weigh on him, pulling him into silken sheets like an embrace. Zhao chuckles, quietly, before pressing a kiss to Yeonsu’s forehead as he cleans up the last of the stains.

“Careful, ‘thank you’ is what started all this.” He murmurs against Yeonsu’s brow, before pulling away, then briefly disappearing, black robe swinging as he pads back to the bathroom. Yeonsu closes his eyes, dragging sheets over him, on his side, everything smelling of sweet spice, of incense, of Zhao. He only moves again when he feels the mattress sink with the addition of Zhao slinking back under the covers behind him. He hardly hears what’s said as Zhao, who probably thinks he’s asleep, curls in around his back, one arm wrapping around his waist, hand coming to rest near his steadily beating heart. He whispers into his shoulder.

“Stay.”

Yeonsu doesn't respond, but he agrees to, silent as they slip into sleep.

Zhao is still asleep when the man beside him wakes. Joongi Han, or Yeonsu Kim, whoever he was, wipes the sleep from his eyes and stares at the morning light streaming in through the window, the dust floating in the beams. He still feels Zhao wrapped around him, and he doesn't have the heart to move him, to risk waking him. Instead, he lies there, on his side, just trying to commit this moment where everything is still, and perfect, and silent, to his memory. Where he doesn't have to think about who he is, where he is, where he’s going. Because he's not going anywhere. Not until Zhao wakes up.

He almost drifts back to sleep, the rise and fall of Zhao’s chest at his back soothing, the sound of his breathing like the distant rush of ocean waves. He feels it, though, when Zhao stirs, first behind him, the subtle movement against his shoulder blades first, then the arm still wrapped around his chest lowering, gently pulling their bodies closer together. Finally, is the lazy kiss that is daintily pressed to the curve of his shoulder, accompanied with a familiar, near-feline rumble.

“Good morning.” Joongi sighs, a little sad that the moment’s over, but the blow is heavily softened by, well. Everything that comes with waking up in Zhao Tianyou’s bed, next to the man himself.

“Morning.” Zhao croaks, voice very clearly still recovering from the overexertion of the previous night. He continues to kiss along Yeonsu’s shoulder, all the way to the back of his neck, chaste and sweet and sleepy. After the journey, he murmurs against his skin. “What name do I have the pleasure of using now?”

He thinks. Yeonsu Kim was most certainly the one who wants to stay, selfish and scared and clingy. Perhaps a bit too much. Joongi Han is calmer. But Joongi Han wasn't the man who was in Zhao’s bed last night. Not entirely, anyway. It's too early to decide– would be easy to simply say Joongi and slip back into the normal, everyday routine, where he pushes everyone, Zhao included, away to a safe distance. He doesn't want to though, even if it was the easier option. Yeonsu Kim is clinging onto this one, tiny piece of heaven. Joongi Han can't bring himself to knock it out of his hands.

It's going to be difficult. But he hopes it will hurt less than doing it alone, cutting himself on razor-sharp shards, patching up that archway in their walls with blood and tears and shattered glass. He knows that if he tries, the mirror still won’t ever look the same, and this time, Zhao will be trapped on the other side of it. It was broken before, anyway. Let it stay in pieces. If only for this moment.

“I don't know.”

“That’s fine.” Zhao is so quick to answer, as if whatever he had said, Zhao would have taken care of him anyway. He presses another kiss to the junction at his spine, neck and shoulders. “Just let me know if that changes.”

He remembers a question Zhao asked, all too often, last night.

‘You know, you’ve been giving me a lotta thank-yous lately. You sure I deserve ‘em?’

‘So good to me. What did I do to deserve this?’

This, Yeonsu thinks, bringing his hand to rest on top of Zhao's, relaxing back into him with a sigh. This is what you do to deserve every gift I give you.

They lie like that for a while, until he feels Zhao grin against his skin, facial hair gently prickling his neck.

“I’ll save my Joongi Han in the streets, Yeonsu Kim in the sheets joke for later.”

Joongi opens his eyes, expression deadpan. He shouldn't have expected Zhao’s sentimentality to be sustained. Oh well. The moment was nice while it lasted.

“Please don’t ever say those words in that order ever again.” He begins to smile, in spite of how awful Zhao’s timing was. Zhao snickers into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Fine. But only because you said please.” Joongi– Yeonsu– shifts, turning in place to face Zhao, all smudged eyeliner and mussed hair. Zhao is beautiful in the morning light. There's something truly remarkable about how devious his eyes get, shining and warm, the most intense shade of deep, dark brown, enough to rival even the most expensive blends of black coffee. It's cliché, but it's true, that he could drown in him. Zhao’s still smiling wide, sleepy-silly, at his own stupid joke.

“You’re lucky that your cooking is better than your comedy.” He jokes back, bringing up a hand to push back Zhao’s hair, dark strands soft after last night's shower. Zhao practically nuzzles into the touch, eyes closing and pushing his cheek up into his palm.

“Mm.” Zhao catches Yeonsu’s hand with his own, softly pressing his lips to his pulse. He smiles. “I’ll make us some breakfast instead, then.”

Us.

He watches as Zhao gets out of bed, wrapping the robe around himself. Yeonsu sits up in silky sheets, not quite sure if he wants to let Zhao out if his sight just yet. Zhao smirks as he looks back, before turning and leaning back in. They kiss, only briefly. Lightly. Careful. Zhao's voice is doting as he speaks.

“You can give me another thank-you gift for it later.”