Archive of Our Own ^beta

Beomgyu hates Mondays.

Not because he has an early class that day, or because of the gross fluorescent lighting in the main lecture hall, or even because the vending machines in the building always seem to be out of that one energy drink he actually tolerates. No, he hates them because he is always there.

Yeonjun.

Yeonjun, with his too loud laugh and his stupid backwards cap and his habit of lounging in his seat like he owns the damn campus. He hates Mondays because Yeonjun is always there, flirting either with the TA or the girl who always sits two rows down, and unfortunately, Beomgyu himself.

Beomgyu hunches over his sketchpad, earbuds in, and pretends to ignore him. He always pretends. It’s almost become a ritual around this point. He pretends not to notice when Yeonjun walks in fifteen minutes late, or the way his shirt clings to his chest. He pretends not to care when Yeonjun tosses him that insufferable smirk and sits directly behind him again.

“Yo, Gyu,” comes the familiar drawl behind him.

Beomgyu doesn’t answer. He shades in the corner of his drawing a little harder.

“You look pissed today,” Yeonjun asks, all faux innocence. “Something happen?”

Beomgyu sighs and pulls out one earbud. “Yes, actually. You walked in.”

“Ouch.” Yeonjun clutches his heart. “You wound me, artist boy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But it fits,” Yeonjun says, leaning forward until Beomgyu can feel the heat of him at his back. “You’re always sketching. Kinda sexy, actually.”

Beomgyu turns slightly and rolls his eyes. “Are you flirting with me, or just trying to give me an aneurysm?”

Yeonjun grins. “Why not both?”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So smug, stupid, and… pretty?

Beomgyu hates how his eyes linger just a little too long, the way his heart rate spikes when Yeonjun licks his lips absentmindedly while scrolling on his phone, and he hates how his stomach flutters with heat that feels too much like interest.

“You’re exhausting,” Beomgyu mutters, slapping his sketchbook shut. Class isn’t even in full swing yet and he already wants to throw himself out of the window.

Yeonjun leans back, legs spread obnoxiously wide. “And yet, here you are, still drawing me with your eyes.”

Beomgyu refuses to dignify that with a response.

-

Beomgyu likes the quiet part of campus. The Fine Arts building is half windows, half cement, and always smells faintly of turpentine and cheap coffee. His studio space is tucked in the corner of the third floor, and on Tuesdays, he has it mostly to himself.

He’s painting something abstract and angry in reds and blacks when Taehyun slides into the room, slightly too loud for the setting.

“Still emotionally bleeding into the canvas, I see.”

“Hello to you too, Taehyun,” Beomgyu says without looking up.

Taehyun crosses his arms, smirking. “You missed lunch. Again.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Liar. You forget to eat when you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being productive,” Beomgyu corrects, wiping his hands on a rag. “Big difference.”

Taehyun plops onto a stool nearby, spinning slowly. “Okay, Van Gogh. But you know what helps art? Nourishment. Also drama, but it seems like you already have that in the spades.”

Beomgyu gives him a look. “What do you want?”

Taehyun smiles. “To inform you that you’re coming to Kai’s party this weekend.”

Beomgyu groans almost immediately. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Taehyun says, pointing at him. “Because I need backup… and maybe also because I might be making my move on someone.”

Beomgyu closes his eyes and counts to ten mentally. “Please don’t tell me it’s Yeonjun.”

“What?” Taehyun looks at him, genuinely concerned. “No, gross. I have standards. I mean Soobin.”

“Soobin? Choi Soobin? As in the one who never talks and wears sunglasses indoors?”

“He’s mysterious, okay? And hot,” Taehyun defends. “I like a challenge.”

“You like chaos.”

“Exactly.”

Beomgyu sighs and turns back to his canvas. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s a yes,” Taehyun says smugly. “I’ll make sure you don’t wear something depressing.”

-

Another thing Beomgyu hates is the library basement. It’s cold, it echoes, and everyone who studies there takes themselves a bit too seriously. Unfortunately for him, it’s the only place with decent printers, and he needs to finish an art history paper that’s due in… two hours.

He’s halfway through fixing his citation format when someone drops into the seat next to him. 

Of course, it’s him again.

“You know this place is haunted, right?” Yeonjun says, peering over Beomgyu’s laptop. “They say some girl died here trying to finish a bio final.”

“Sounds like a valid reason to die,” Beomgyu says, not even looking at him.

Yeonjun leans in like he belongs there. Like this isn’t a little weird. “Are you always this fun in study mode?”

“I’m not in the mood, Yeonjun.”

“Are you ever in the mood?”

Beomgyu closed his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Don’t you have other friends to bother?”

“I do. Kai and Soobin are upstairs. Kai’s trying to flirt with the librarian. It’s going terribly.”

“And yet you’re here.”

Yeonjun flashes him a smile. “I like the vibe.”

“What vibe? I’m literally just trying to survive.”

“Exactly,” Yeonjun says, like that explains everything. “You’re hot when you’re stressed.”

Beomgyu looks at him. “Are you stable?”

“Mentally? No. But emotionally? I’m thriving. You?”

Beomgyu returns to typing. “God, you’re so annoying.”

Yeonjun stays sitting beside him for another thirty minutes. He doesn’t say anything else, but Beomgyu notices the way their thighs are pressed lightly together.

-

Thursday mornings are for studio critiques, and Beomgyu hates studio critiques. 

He hates a lot of things, when he really thinks about it.

Everyone circles up, sitting cross-legged on the paint-stained floor while Professor Kim wanders through half-finished canvases with the bored detachment of a man who must have once been relevant. Taehyun sits beside Beomgyu, sipping iced coffee and whispering commentary that keeps him from falling asleep.

“This guy’s whole piece is just a blue square,” Taehyun mumbles. “Am I missing something?”

“It’s called minimalism,” Beomgyu whispers back. “But yes, it sucks.”

They both laugh quietly, trying not to get caught.

“Alright,” Professor Kim drawls, stepping up to Beomgyu’s painting. “This one’s interesting. Raw, and upolished in a deliberate way. It feels like anger, but not aimless.”

It’s the closest thing to a compliment Beomgyu has heard in a month.

He glances at Taehyun who nods and raises his eyebrows approvingly. “You’re getting better at showing what you’re feeling,” he says. “Even if what you’re feeling is ‘I want to stab someone’.”

Beomgyu smiles bitterly. “Art is pain.”

“Art is refusing you want to climb Yeonjun like a tree.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” Taehyun says, grabbing his sleeve. “You’re getting lunch with me first.”

Beomgyu groans. Loudly. 

-

The student lounge is overcrowded and Beomgyu just wants to microwave his sad leftovers in peace, but of course, Taehyun’s commandeered the comfiest couch and is sitting with… for fucks sake, Yeonjun, Kai, and Soobin.

Beomgyu turns to leave.

Taehyun spots him instantly. “Beomgyu! Come sit! I thought you stood me up.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re literally holding a microwave meal. Just come.”

Beomgyu reluctantly shuffles over. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, and opens his lunch.

Yeonjun is sprawled across the couch like a Roman emperor. His legs are long, Beomgyu notices.

“You look extra emo today, Beomgyu. New trauma?”

“New headache,” Beomgyu says. “Guess why.”

Yeonjun laughs. Kai laughs too, which makes it worse somehow. Kai is attractive in a sharp, terrifying way. His nails are painted, and he laughs like he knows a secret you don’t. Soobin doesn’t say much. He just watches everyone from behind his mirrored sunglasses, sipping something from a travel mug.

“So,” Kai says, stretching. “Party Friday. You coming, Beomgyu?”

“Unfortunately,” Beomgyu mutters in response.

“Aw,” Yeonjun says with a curl of his lips. “You get to see me dressed up and attractive. You’re welcome.”

“I might actually drown myself,” Beomgyu says deadpan. 

Yeonjun leans forward. “Only if you let me come save you.”

Beomgyu throws a balled up napkin at him.

-

It’s that Friday night and Beomgyu is getting dressed under much protest.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this,” he grumbles, pulling on a pair of black jeans. “I don’t even like parties.”

“You like watching people and you like judging. It’s pretty much the same thing,” Taehyun says, tossing a denim jacket at him from where he’s sprawled across Beomgyu’s bed. “And you look hot. Accept it.”

“I look normal.”

“You look hot and unapproachable. It’s your brand, Gyu.”

Beomgyu sighs and checks his reflection. He looks… okay. Baggy black jeans, fitted black turtleneck, rings on his fingers. Brooding. Vaguely tragic.

He can work with this.

“Just don’t let me get too drunk,” Beomgyu says.

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “You’re trusting me with that?”

“…Shit.”

Beomgyu flops down onto the edge of the bed next to him, head tipping back dramatically. “Tell me again why I agreed to this?”

“Because you have no willpower and I am very charming,” Taehyun says sweetly. “And also because you’ve been stress-painting all week, and honestly? You need to get out there. Like, just a little. Let the people worship.”

“I don’t want to be worshipped.”

“You want to look pretty,” Taehyun insists. “Which is why we’re doing eyeliner.”

Beomgyu sits up. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” Taehyun stands and cracks his knuckles like a man preparing for war. “Just a little. Trust me, and you’ll look like a tortured prince. Like you’ve written poetry in a graveyard or you’ve had sex with your sadness, or something.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Beomgyu whines, but he doesn’t stop Taehyun as he pulls him towards the desk chair and spins it around.

“Close your eyes,” Taehyun says, already fishing around in his bag for some eyeliner.

Beomgyu obeys. He feels the cool brush of a fingertip under his eye as Taehyun holds his face steady.

“You’re being surprisingly gentle,” he chirps.

“Shut up, I’m concentrating.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the faint music playing in the background and the precise movements of his friend’s hands. It feels… weirdly intimate.

“You ever think about kissing him?” Taehyun asks casually, lining Beomgyu’s waterline.

Beomgyu blinks an eye open. “Who?”

“Yeonjun.”

Beomgyu snorts. “God, no.”

Taehyun doesn’t say anything. He just smudges a little eyeliner along his lash line, watching him carefully.

“Okay, fine. Maybe like… once,” Beomgyu admits. “But it was more of a ‘what would that even feel like’ thing, not an actual thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Beomgyu opens his eyes fully. “What?”

“Nothing. Just wondering how many drinks it’s gonna take before you try.”

“I’m not going to—“

“Shh, shh.” Taehyun shoves a lip gloss into his hand. “Put this on, then we’re leaving.”

Beomgyu looks at it. “Is it tinted?”

“It’s called heartbreaker haze. You’re wearing it.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He sighs again, but dabs on the gloss. Just a little. Just in case. His lips look… kissable? Which is not the point. Except maybe it kind of is?

“Alright,” he says, standing. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Taehyun grins. “You’re gonna have fun.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

Beomgyu grabs his phone and shoves it in his pocket before taking one last glance in the mirror. 

Tortured prince, or whatever Taehyun said. His eyeliner is a little smudged, his lip gloss is barely visible, and his hair is perfectly messed.

He doesn’t look like himself. He likes it though.

-

The party can already be heard halfway down the block.

Thumping bass, a hint of yelling, and that unmistakable clash of too many songs playing through different speakers at once, battling it out of dominance. Beomgyu wants to turn around immediately.

“Are you sure this is Kai’s place?” he asks, slowing his steps.

Taehyun nods as he checks his phone. “Yup. He texted me the address. It’s the one with the blue porch light and the blow-up flamingo on the roof.”

Beomgyu stares up at the ridiculous lawn decoration. “Why.”

“Kai doesn’t believe in subtlety. Or budgets.”

Beomgyu looks up again, really taking it in this time. It really is a massive porch with a wrought-iron railing and a wraparound balcony. The lawn is freshly mowed. There are actual lanterns in the trees. It looks positively insane.

“I thought he was, like, a regular student,” he mumbles.

“He is,” Taehyun says. “He just also happens to have a family that owns three vineyards and a chain of boutique hotels.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. House parties hit different when Daddy bought the house.”

They reach rhe edge of the lawn and pause. The front yard is already scattered with groups of people smoking, laughing, telling into their phones, or trying to untangle themselves from someone else’s limbs. A girl in heels is crying on the porch, and another group is playing beer pong on a plastic folding table that looks one nudge away from collapse.

“I’m going to kill you,” Beomgyu hisses.

“You say that every time,” Taehyun says, cheerfully patting his back. “And yet you keep showing up.”

“I never show up. You drag me.”

“Semantics.” Taehyun tilts his head, eyes already scanning the crowd. “Alright, I’m gonna go find Soobin and annoy him until he loves me. You’ll be fine, right?”

Beomgyu blinks. “You’re ditching me already?”

“I’m not ditching, I’m emotionally preparing the battlefield. Just grab a drink and stay mysterious. You’re good at that.”

Beomgyu flips him off, but only half-heartedly.

Inside, the party is absolute chaos. There’s lights flashing, drinks everywhere, and people he sort of knows waving at him from corners. The air smells like sweat, tequila, and perfume.

“Just smile like you’re not on the verge of a breakdown,” Taehyun says, nudging him. “And don’t make that face you’re making.”

He loses him to the crowd quickly.

It happens faster than he expects. One moment Taehyun is beside him, pointing out where the drinks are, and the next he’s getting tugged towards Soobin by someone Beomgyu vaguely recognises from a lecture hall.

Which leaves Beomgyu alone.

He hovers near the living room, eyes scanning the crowd. The music is too loud to think straight, but he doesn’t need to think. He just needs to surgive long enough to fulfill whatever ambiguous promise he made by showing up tonight. He sips sonething citrusy and flat from a red solo cup, already regretting coming here, when a shadow blocks the light beside him.

Then comes a voice. “Hey.”

And just like that, the energy shifts.

The guy slides into his periphery. He’s tall-ish, maybe a year or two older, with over-gelled hair and an ugly ring on every other finger. He’s wearing a button-up shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and a gold chain that glints like a warning sign.

“Hey,” the guy says, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Beomgyu glances up, expression flat. “Hi.”

“You here alone?”

Beomgyu lifts his drink a little. “Does it matter?”

The guy chuckles like they’re sharing a joke. “You looked kinda lonely over here. Figured I’d keep you company.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?” the guy says, stepping closer. “You don’t look good. You look like you’re waiting for someone. Or just waiting, period.”

Beomgyu shifts slightly, pressing his back harder to the wall. “I said I’m good.”

The guy just smiles, unfazed. “I get it. You’re playing hard to get.”

Beomgyu levels him with a look that’s all eyebrow and no amusement. “No, I’m playing not interested. It’s different.”

“Ooh. You’re feisty,” the guy says, and that’s the moment Beomgyu knows this isn’t someone who listens. Not someone who backs off. One of those guys. The kind who mistake disinterest for a challenge and boundaries for an invitation. 

He starts to sidestep away, muttering, “I have to go—”

But the guy’s hand comes out, fingers brushing against Beomgyu’s waist like he owns the air around him. “Don’t be like that,” he murmurs. “Just trying to have a little fun—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice doesn’t shout. It slices.

Both of them freeze.

Beomgyu turns his head and there he is. 

Yeonjun.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his jaw is tight, and his usual smirk gone, replaced with something darker, something that crackles in the air like static.

The guy immediately raises both hands, taking a half-step back. “Hey man, just talking—”

“It didn’t look like just talking.”

Yeonjun is already stepping forward. He’s got that specific kind of rage in his eyes. The quiet, icy kind. The kind you don’t want to test.

The guy tries to laugh it off. “Look, it’s cool. We were just—”

Yeonjun grabs him by the collar.

“I saw your hand,” he says lowly. “Touch him again and I’ll break every fucking finger you own.”

The guy stammers something. No one hears it.

From the side, Kai’s voice cuts in. “Jun.”

Yeonjun doesn’t move. His fist is still balled up, and his eyes are still locked on the guy, who now looks like he’s seriously rethinking all his life decisions.

“Yeonjun.” Kai’s closer now. Calm, but firm with one hand lands gently on Yeonjun’s shoulder, a grounding weight.

Yeonjun breathes in, like he’s forcing air back into his lungs. Then he releases the guy with a shove.

“Get out of here,” he snaps.

The guy stumbles back into the crowd, disappearing so fast he might as well teleport. No one stops him.

Kai murmurs something in Yeonjun’s ear and steers him away, hand still on his shoulder, guiding him out of Beomgyu’s line of sight. Yeonjun doesn’t look back.

Beomgyu is left blinking, still backed against the wall, heart pounding a little too fast.

The warmth of that guy’s hand still lingers faintly on his side, but it’s nothing compared to the ghost of Yeonjun’s voice, protective in a way that makes his skin tingle.

He takes a shaky breath.

What the fuck.

Beomgyu stays still for a moment. The leftover adrenaline prickles under his skin, sharp and sour. He’s not used to someone stepping in like that to protect him. Especially not someone like Yeonjun.

He feels weird, unsettled, but somehow also grateful. He still feels a little gross from being touched when he didn’t want to be.

He needs to find Taehyun.

He winds his way through the crowd, eyes darting over unfamiliar faces, weaving past half-drunk conversations and loud laughter. His shoes stick to the floor in places. The bass makes everything feel heavier, if not, claustrophobic.

Finally, near the back patio doors, he spots Taehyun and Soobin, and almost immediately, he freezes.

Because Taehyun is smiling. That part isn’t strange. But Soobin—stoic, silent Soobin—is smiling back. Real and warm, the kind of smile that softens his entire face. He leans in, says something too quiet to hear over the music, and Taehyun laughs.

Then Soobin kisses him.

Beomgyu watches, wide-eyed, as Taehyun kisses him back, soft, slow, like they’ve done it a hundred times. They’re still smiling when they pull apart, noses brushing, eyes crinkling.

They look stupidly happy.

Beomgyu blinks. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Soobin look... alive.

And for a second, he considers going over. Telling Taehyun that he wants to leave. That he’s not feeling it tonight. That he almost got—

But then Taehyun laughs again, forehead pressed to Soobin’s, and Beomgyu steps back.

He can’t ruin that. He’ll be fine.

He’s walking away when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you wanna join a game?”

Beomgyu turns slowly. It’s a girl he doesn’t recognize, holding a half-empty bottle of soju and looking way too excited.

He opens his mouth to say no, but she’s already grabbing his arm.

“It’s easy! Come on, we’re playing in the kitchen. You’re cute, you’ll do great.”

Beomgyu isn’t sure what he’s agreeing to, but the next thing he knows he’s sitting at a kitchen table surrounded by strangers and someone’s explaining the rules. There’s no real structure. It’s just something vaguely resembling Never Have I Ever meets Truth or Dare. He is wildly unprepared.

“You’ll catch up fast,” the girl next to him says, tossing her long pink hair over her shoulder. “You’ve got that look.”

Beomgyu tilts his head. “What look?”

She grins. “The I’m-secretly-wild-but-I’m-pretending-to-be-above-it-all look.”

“I was literally trying to leave a minute ago.”

“Same thing.”

The round begins.

Someone says something tame, like “Never have I ever failed a class,” and four people drink. Then, it gets worse. “Never have I ever hooked up in a campus bathroom.” “Never have I ever sent a nude in the middle of a lecture.” “Never have I ever cried during sex.”

Beomgyu drinks once, then twice. Then—fuck, he’s laughing. He doesn’t even know why. His face feels warm and his vision is just a little blurry around the edges. Someone cheers when he admits to sending a flirty drunk text to the wrong person. Someone who else dares him to kiss the person to his left. He refuses, and they boo. He drinks again.

After that, everything starts bending. The music is too loud, his fingers are numb, and his bottle is nearly empty.

He doesn’t remember agreeing to a game of speed rounds, but suddenly there’s shouting and clapping and he’s downing shots because he guessed the wrong number in come counting game and someone is yelling “this guy seriously can’t count!” and he’s laughing so hard he almost falls off his chair.

He catches himself on the edge of the counter and slumps against it. Everything’s tilting.

His brain feels sluggish, soaked in alcohol and static. His skin tingles, yet he’s grinning. He thinks. Maybe. Probably? It’s hard to tell.

Someone nudges his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He nods, but it only makes his stomach churn. The floor feels like it’s not where it’s supposed to be.

He thinks of Taehyun, and of Yeonjun. Of how stupid it is that Yeonjun looked so worked up over someone touching his waist, and how much stupider it is that Beomgyu feels a little fluttery about it.

He clutches the counter. Oh no.

The girl next time him laughs, reaching for another bottle. “You’re kinda bad at this, huh?”

Beomgyu blinks at her. “I think I’m dying.”

“Cute.”

The lights are too bright. Or maybe they’re too dim? Either way, they’re spinning and flashing, stuttering through clouds of smoke and music and the warm fuzz in Beomgyu’s head. The bass rattles in his ribs like a second heartbeat. His stomach lurches.

Bad. This is bad.

He stumbles back from the counter, bumping into someone who spills beer down his arm. He barely notices. 

He needs to find Taehyun.

Beomgyu pushes through the crowd, muttering apologies when people shove past him. His mouth tastes like artificial lime and regret. 

Where’s the living room? The hallway?

His legs feel like jelly and he finds himself at the bottom of a staircase, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing tethering him to the Earth. Somewhere upstairs, he hears voices and a familiar giggle. It’s Taehyun.

Beomgyu blinks hard, trying to focus, and drags himself up one step. Then another, until he’s on the landing and peering around the corner towards one of the guest rooms.

The door is open just enough.

He sees Soobin first. His jacket is off, he’s sitting on the bed, knee bouncing. He looks nervous.

Then Taehyun steps into view and he’s smiling a real smile, wide and lopsided. The kind Beomgyu only sees in rare flashes when he’s talking about his favourite music genre or getting praise in crit. 

Soobin says something Beomgyu can’t hear, and Taehyun throws his head back and laughs—like really laughs—and suddenly Beomgyu knows he can’t go in there.

Because then he sees Soobin lean in, hesitant but still sure, and Taehyun meets him halfway. Their mouths brush before it deeps into something lingering. 

Beomgyu stands frozen, watching the boy who never talks and the friend who talks too much melt into each other like they’re made for it.

He smiles.

And then, he leaves.

He stumbles back down the stairs, hand dragging on the wall. He doesn’t even known where he’s going, he just knows he can’t disturb this moment.

Beomgyu’s outside before he knows it, gulping down air like he’s been underwater for hours. The cool night hits his face and it helps a little, but it’s not enough. The muffled music thumps through the walls behind him like a warning, but he stays right where he is, slouched against the side of Kai’s overwatered hedge, head tipped back, eyes glassy.

He thinks he might puke. Or die. Or evaporate into the dark like smoke.

A screen door creaks open behind him and he hears footsteps on the porch.

“You good?”

Beomgyu doesn’t have to look. That voice, cocky snd smooth even when it’s quiet, exists in his bones at this point.

“Go away, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun steps closer instead. “No can do,” he says, crouching a little so they’re level. “You’re literally swaying. You want me to let you pass out in someone’s yard? Or worse—on Kai’s hydrangeas? He’ll kill you.”

Beomgyu barks out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Why do you care?”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just here to annoy you. Or maybe…”

He trails off, eyes scanning Beomgyu’s face. His flushed cheeks, the mess of his hair, and the way he’s gripling the edge of a planter like his life depends on it.

“…Maybe I saw you looking like you were about to collapse and figured someone should check in.”

Beomgyu stares at him. “How aren’t you drunk yet?”

“Pacing myself,” Yeonjun says. “Shocking, I know.”

“Didn’t think you were capable of restraint.”

Yeonjun flashes a crooked grin. “I have layers.”

Beomgyu exhales through his nose. His head feels like it’s full of bees.

“Can you walk?” Yeonjun asks.

“I think so,” Beomgyu lies.

Yeonjun straightens and offers a hand. Beomgyu glares at it for a second before reluctantly taking it. His fingers are cold. Yeonjun’s aren’t.

The contact is brief, but it’s grounding, and it makes something hot and sharp twist in Beomgyu’s stomach. It feels worse than alcohol, worse than anything.

“C’mon,” Yeonjun says, already guiding him towards the sidewalk. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Beomgyu blinks, startled. “Wait—what? Where are we going?”

“Your place, right?”

Beomgyu hesitates. “Why would you—“

Yeonjun doesn’t look back. “Because I’m not letting you walk home alone. And offense, but you’re about ten seconds away from face-planting, and I don’t trust anyone here to not take advantage of that.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth to argue.

Then he closes it and follows obediently.

They walk down the sidewalk, and Beomgyu’s vaguely aware of the click of his shoes against the pavement, the crispness of the night air, and Yeonjun’s hand hovering just barely at the small of his back, not touching, just there.

Beomgyu’s still unsteady and a little dizzy. The alcohol hums beneath his skin, warping his perception until everything is moving too fast and too slow all at once. Yeonjun keeps glancing over like he’s checking Beomgyu hasn’t disappeared.

“Why are you being nice?” Beomgyu asks, voice slurred but sharp.

Yeonjun chuckles low under his breath. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“It is, coming from you.”

“Well, damn. You wound me again.”

Beomgyu stumbles slightly on a crack in the sidewalk, and Yeonjun instinctively reaches out, one arm curling gently around his waist to steady him.

And that’s all it takes. Something in Beomgyu cracks open like a floodgate.

He turns, gripping Yeonjun’s jacket and dragging him in closer, breath hot against his collarbone. “You’re so annoying,” Beomgyu mumbles, voice dangerously soft. “So smug. So—so hot, I fucking hate you.”

Yeonjun freezes, and for one glorious second, they’re pressed together. Beomgyu’s clinging, and Yeonjun breathing hard, lips inches from skin.

“Beomgyu…” Yeonjun starts, voice tight, hands still holding Beomgyu’s arms.

Beomgyu leans in anyway. “We should do something stupid.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk,” Yeonjun says. Carefully. Firmly. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking straight enough to know I want you.”

Yeonjun swallows hard.

He steps back like it physically hurts him to do so. “Not like this,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse. “You’ll hate me in the morning.”

Beomgyu stares dazed, heart pounding. “What if I don’t?”

Yeonjun smiles, soft, sad, and utterly unfair. “I’m not risking it.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence. Not cold silence, just heavy silence, like something is settling between them. 

When they reach Beomgyu’s building, Yeonjun guides him up the stairs, fingers light on his elbow. He doesn’t say much. He just makes sure Beomgyu doesn’t fall over. When Beomgyu fumbles with the key, Yeonjun gently takes it and unlocks the door for him.

Beomgyu steps inside, kicking off his sneakers with all the grace of a newborn deer. His jacket ends up on the floor. So do his keys. So does he, briefly, slumping against the wall like it betrayed him personally.

Yeonjun closes the door gently behind them, turning the lock with a soft click. He surveys the damage: jacket, keys, a fine arts student rapidly losing structural integrity.

“Alright, Picasso,” he says, squatting down beside Beomgyu. “Let’s get you some water before you start reciting poetry and vomiting everywhere.”

Beomgyu squints up at him. “Too late. I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not dying,” Yeonjun says, dragging him up by the arm.

“I can feel my soul leaving.”

“It’s just tequila. Hang on.”

Yeonjun half-guides, half-carries him to the bathroom, muttering something incoherent under his breath. 

Then, with the kind of speed and violence that only jungle juice can induce, Beomgyu launches himself at the toilet and absolutely destroys it.

Yeonjun steps back just in time.

“Shit,” he says, blinking. “Okay. You’re fine. Get it out, it’s okay.”

Beomgyu groans into the porcelain. “I want to be sedated.”

“You are sedated.”

“Sedated-er.”

Yeonjun grabs a cloth, wets it under the tap, and kneels beside him. He presses it gently to the back of Beomgyu’s neck, his other hand rubbing small, careful circles between his shoulder blades.

“I hate you,” Beomgyu slurs.

“I know,” Yeonjun says softly. “You can hate me after you don’t choke on your own stomach acid.”

Eventually, the storm passes and Beomgyu slumps against the bathtub, pale and miserable, hair damp with sweat.  Yeonjun hands him a cup of water, helps him brush his teeth and rinse his mouth, and even hands him a clean shirt from the pile of laundry on a nearby chair.

“Thanks,” Beomgyu slurs, tugging the fresh shirt over his head. Yeonjun gives him a soft smile in return before guiding Beomgyu to his bed by the wrist.

Beomgyu collapses onto the mattress, one hand fisted into the sheets and the other still clutching the cold washcloth Yeonjun gave him. His skin feels clammy, but his head is clearer now. Yeonjun crouches by the bed, brushing damp hair away from Beomgyu’s forehead with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“You good?”

Beomgyu swallows and nods.

“You wanna lie down for a bit?”

Another nod.

Yeonjun helps him shift up the bed, tugging some pillows into place. Their hands brush while he does that, and Beomgyu’s fingers curl, gripping Yeonjun’s wrist before he can pull aways.

“Don’t go.”

Yeonjun freezes. “Beomgyu,” he says softly. “You’re drunk. You literally threw up like… two minutes ago.”

“I’m not drunk, and I know,” Beomgyu whispers in return. “I know. But I don’t feel sick anymore, I just…” His voice cracks. “I really need you right now.”

Yeonjun resolve, which was already paper-thin, crumbles.

He climbs onto the bed without another word, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Beomgyu’s thighs, and his hands bracket Beomgyu’s shoulders. They’re nose to nose, breaths mingling.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Beomgyu’s hands slide under Yeonjun’s jacket, desperate for contact. “Don’t stop. Please? Don’t make me say it again.”

The kiss starts fairly slow, and it’s more like a breath than anything, but then Beomgyu whimpers and Yeonjun shudders.

Yeonjun pulls back just a breath, eyes flicking down to Beomgyu’s already kiss-swollen lips, then lower, down to his torso, to where his turtleneck has ridden up a little to expose the edge of a rib. He exhales a low curse and dips his head, teeth grazing the underside of Beomgyu’s jaw.

Beomgyu shivers. “Yeonjun.”

“Still okay?” Yeonjun murmurs against his skin.

Beomgyu nods a bit too fast. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Please. He says it like a confession.

Yeonjun surges back up to kiss him again, harder this time, and his hands slide under Beomgyu’s shirt, dragging his fingertips over Beomgyu’s heated skin, grazing the soft dip of his waist. Beomgyu’s hips jerk and Yeonjun groans muffled into his mouth.

They’re moving in tandem, grinding against each other. It’s clumsy and desperate, but in the way that means something, the kind of messy that comes when they’ve spent too long pretending they didn’t want this.

Yeonjun presses an open-mouthed kiss on neck again. His teeth graze skin and then tongue soothes it. He sucks a mark into the hollow of Beomgyu’s collarbone and Beomgyu lets out a broken sound he immediately tries to muffle with the back of his hand.

Yeonjun catches that hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Don’t hide,” he breathes.

Beomgyu stares at him, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising and falling in fast, uneven waves.

“I’ve never done this with someone like—like this,” he says, almost embarrassingly honest. “It’s usually just… fast.”

Yeonjun brushes hair out of his eyes.

“We don’t have to go fast,” he says. “We can go at your pace.”

Something about how easy he says it and how true it sounds makes Beomgyu grab at him again, pulling Yeonjun closer like he can’t stand another inch between them.

They kiss deeper and longer. Hands slide under clothes, fingers slip under waistbands, skin meets skin in frantic, greedy bursts, and each time Beomgyu gasps, Yeonjun shudders like it’s his body being touched. 

Their legs tangle under the blanket. Yeonjun ends up half on top of him, hips cradled between Beomgyu’s thighs, and the friction makes Beomgyu let out a string of sounds he’ll probably be embarrassed by later.

“Fuck,” Yeonjun whispers, voice vibrating against Beomgyu’s skin. “You’re driving me insane.”

Beomgyu’s fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, trying to tug him closer even when there’s barely any space left between them. His head lolls back against the pillow, throat exposed, his whole body strung tight with need.

Yeonjun lifts himself just barely, a hand slipping between them, tracing the line of Beomgyu’s belt with maddening slowness.

“Can I?” He asks, voice wrecked but still careful and patient.

Beomgyu nods frantically, too worked up to say any actual words, but Yeonjun doesn’t move.

“I need to hear you say it, Gyu.”

The way he says his name hits somewhere deep in Beomgyu’s chest. His eyes flutter open, meeting Yeonjun’s dark gaze, and he swallows thickly.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Touch me, Yeonjun.”

That’s all it takes.

Yeonjun unfastens Beomgyu’s belt with shaky fingers, tugging his pants off. Beomgyu shivers at the sudden exposure, thighs twitching as the cool air hits his overheated skin, but Yeonjun’s already moving, palming him through thin fabric, a slow movement that makes Beomgyu whimper and buck up into his hand.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” Yeonjun says, awestruck, and Beomgyu almost cries when he ducks his head and presses a soft kiss just below Beomgyu’s navel, so sweet and filthy it makes his toes curl.

"So pretty like this," he says, like he can’t help it. "All needy for me."

"Shut up," Beomgyu snaps weakly, but it’s ruined by the way he’s gasping and trembling under his touch.

Yeonjun smiles against his skin, a devilish curve of his mouth, and his hand slides away from Beomgyu’s cock, coming up to cup his face instead. Beomgyu whines at the loss of contact.

"Wait," Yeonjun says. "I want to taste you."

Beomgyu’s breath catches in his throat, eyes wide, blinking up at him like he’s unsure he heard correctly. His mouth opens, but it takes a second before any sound comes out.

“You—what?”

Yeonjun doesn’t repeat himself. He just smiles and slides down Beomgyu’s body, kissing along his collarbone, down his chest, over the ridge of his ribs. He goes slow, careful, making sure each touch lingers.

Beomgyu’s hands tremble where they clutch at the sheets, and his breath is turning into soft, shaky whines.

When Yeonjun reaches his abdomen again, he pauses, looks up.

"This okay?"

Beomgyu nods once, but Yeonjun stays still.

“Words?”

“Yes,” Beomgyu breathes. “Please, I—yeah.”

Yeonjun lets out a sound of approval and kisses his way down Beomgyu’s stomach. Beomgyu lifts his hips automatically to help, face burning with embarrassment he can’t hide.

Yeonjun sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, palms warm on Beomgyu’s thighs, and spreads them open gently until Beomgyu’s breath hitches. His fingers trace the inside of his thigh, feather-light and reverent.

“You’re so pretty,” Yeonjun murmurs, almost to himself.

And then he leans in and mouths at the crease of Beomgyu’s thigh, right where skin is softest.

Beomgyu shudders.

Yeonjun works slowly—tongue tracing teasing circles, lips brushing the tip, breath hot and unrelenting until Beomgyu’s hips are rocking up on their own, greedy and impatient. His thighs twitch, trying to close, but Yeonjun’s hands keep them open, firm but gentle.

“Let me,” Yeonjun murmurs again.

And then he’s taking him in, inch by inch, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring it.

Beomgyu cries out, hand flying to grip at Yeonjun’s hair.

He’s so warm, so wet, the pressure just right. Yeonjun knows exactly how to move his mouth, how to use his tongue, how to suck and hollow his cheeks and moan around him until Beomgyu’s shaking.

“Yeon—shit, Yeonjun, I’m gonna—”

Yeonjun pulls off with a slick pop and a smirk. “Not yet.”

Before Beomgyu can whine or beg or even breathe properly, Yeonjun’s kissing further down, tongue laving at sensitive skin, and then—

“Wait. What are you…” Beomgyu pants, voice turning panicked.

“I’ve got you,” Yeonjun whispers.

He reaches for Beomgyu’s lube he spotted earlier on the desk, half-hidden by a sketchbook, and slicks his fingers. Then he nudges Beomgyu’s legs higher, one palm on the back of his thigh.

“This okay?” he asks again, thumb stroking light circles.

Beomgyu is panting now, flushed to his ears, dizzy with the way Yeonjun is looking at him like he’s fragile and sacred and filthy all at once.

“Mhm,” he manages.

Yeonjun leans in, mouth working along his inner thigh as he presses in one finger slowly, letting Beomgyu get used to the intrusion. Beomgyu gasps, thighs trembling, and Yeonjun doesn’t move until he nods again.

Then he does a scissoring motion that has Beomgyu biting his lip hard, hips twitching up into the air.

“Doing so good, Gyu,” Yeonjun murmurs, kissing just above where his fingers move “You’re so tight… fuck. You’re gonna feel so good.”

Beomgyu’s moaning freely now, messy and needy, mouth slack as he writhes against the sheets. His hair sticks to his forehead, his rings dig into his own palm from how hard he’s gripping the blanket.

And then Yeonjun leans in again, mouth and fingers moving together.

Beomgyu breaks.

He arches off the bed with a sob, legs wrapped around Yeonjun’s shoulders, lost in the rhythm of his mouth and hand and the overwhelming, devastating feeling of being wanted like this.

“Yeonjun—”

He’s unraveling. Coming apart at the seams.

"Yeonjun…" Beomgyu chokes out again, voice cracking on the last syllable. His thighs tighten instinctively around Yeonjun’s head, trembling with the effort to stay grounded as pleasure roars through him, hot and blinding.

Yeonjun hums against him, sending vibrations through every inch of his body. He eases his fingers in deeper, curling them just right, and Beomgyu lets out a broken moan that feels like it’s being dragged straight from his chest.

Yeonjun pulls back slightly, lips slick, chin shining faintly in the dim light.

"You're doing so good," he says, voice rough. "Let me make you feel even better, yeah?"

Beomgyu can't do anything but nod helplessly, biting down hard on the heel of his hand to muffle the desperate sounds clawing their way out of his throat.

Yeonjun presses a third finger in, slow and patient, stretching him carefully. His other hand strokes light patterns over Beomgyu’s hip, grounding him, coaxing him through every twitch and gasp.

Beomgyu’s face crumples with the intensity of the way Yeonjun’s fingers push against that spot inside him that makes his whole body shudder, hips canting up automatically.

"Fuck, Yeonjun," he whimpers, head tossing side to side on the pillow.

"I know, baby," Yeonjun murmurs, leaning up to kiss his inner thigh, the hollow of his hipbone. "You’re doing so good for me."

The words sink into Beomgyu’s skin like heat. He can’t even think anymore. Every brush of Yeonjun’s mouth, every deliberate stretch of his fingers, every filthy, loving thing he whispers against his skin drives him insane.

Yeonjun moves his hand faster, thrusting in and twisting his fingers expertly, while his mouth finds Beomgyu’s leaking cock again. He licks a broad stripe up the underside, swirling his tongue around the head before taking it into his mouth with a messy, eager sound.

Beomgyu sobs, hand flying back to tangle in Yeonjun’s hair, tugging helplessly.

He’s so close he can barely breathe, stars bursting behind his eyes.

"Please," he gasps. "Please, Jun, I—"

Yeonjun hums in approval around him, sending another shudder ripping through his frame.

Beomgyu unravels with a broken cry, thighs locking around Yeonjun’s shoulders as he comes hard, hips jerking despite himself. Yeonjun takes it, lets him ride it out, swallowing around him, hands stroking soothingly over his thighs.

It feels like falling apart and floating at the same time.

Beomgyu slumps back against the mattress, boneless, chest heaving with the effort of trying to catch his breath.

Yeonjun pulls off slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and gazes up at him with something wild and soft in his eyes.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low, careful.

Beomgyu nods, dazed, reaching for him.

Yeonjun smiles and crawls back up his body, kissing him slow and deep, letting Beomgyu taste himself on his tongue.

Beomgyu whimpers into his mouth, needy, still trembling.

"I want you," he says, barely audible, desperate. "Please, Yeonjun"

Yeonjun cups his face with both hands, forehead pressing to Beomgyu’s.

"Are you sure?"

“Yes.”

“And you won’t hate me in the morning?”

Beomgyu shakes his head, fingers clutching at Yeonjun’s shirt like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

"I need you," he whispers.

“Fuck,” Yeonjun groans, wrecked, and kisses him again, hands moving to grab the lube and slick himself up quickly.

"Turn over for me, baby," he says, voice shaking.

Beomgyu does, clumsy and pliant, baring himself without hesitation. He shivers when Yeonjun palms over the curve of his ass, squeezing gently.

"So fucking pretty," Yeonjun mutters under his breath, almost like he’s in pain.

He lines himself up carefully, running the head along Beomgyu’s stretched entrance, and Beomgyu keens, pushing back against him instinctively.

"Okay," Yeonjun breathes. "Okay. Deep breath, baby."

And then he starts to push in, slow and careful.

Dragging it out, inch by inch, until Beomgyu is trembling under him, fingers twisting the sheets into knots.

Beomgyu gasps, back arching at the slightly painful stretch, but he doesn't tell Yeonjun to stop. He pushes back against him, desperate for more.

"Fuck," Yeonjun groans, voice wrecked. "Fuck, you're perfect."

He bottoms out finally, hips flush to Beomgyu’s ass, and they both freeze, breathing hard, clinging to the moment.

Beomgyu is whimpering softly, overwhelmed but not hurt, and Yeonjun leans down to kiss the back of his neck, murmuring soothing words he probably doesn’t even register saying.

"You’re okay, you’re doing so good, so fucking good for me, baby."

Beomgyu nods against the pillow, pushing back into him.

“Move, please… Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun groans again, pulls out a few inches, and thrusts back in shallowly.

Beomgyu moans, high and wrecked, fingers clawing at the mattress.

It’s messy and desperate and almost too much, but it’s exactly what he needs.

Exactly what Beomgyu wants.

Yeonjun’s hips roll forward again, just barely, and Beomgyu lets out a shattered moan, his whole body jerking with the intensity of it.

"Good boy," Yeonjun breathes against the nape of his neck, voice low and wrecked. "Taking me so well."

Beomgyu’s fingers scramble against the sheets, trying to find some kind of anchor as Yeonjun starts moving, slow, deep thrusts that make stars burst behind his closed eyes.

But then Yeonjun’s hand finds the small of Beomgyu’s back and presses down, guiding him into a deeper arch. Beomgyu whimpers, back curving instinctively, ass tilted up perfectly for him.

"Just like that," Yeonjun rasps. "Fuck, just like that."

The new angle has Beomgyu seeing white. Every time Yeonjun pushes in, he drags against something devastating inside him, making his eyes roll and his jaw go slack.

He can't even think. Can’t do anything except feel Yeonjun, all around him, inside him, overwhelming him in the best way. Yeonjun pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the small room.

Beomgyu cries out, voice raw and broken.

"You okay?" Yeonjun pants as his hands smooth down Beomgyu’s sides.

"More," Beomgyu gasps, pushing back desperately. "Please, Jun, more—"

Yeonjun grips his hips harder, bruising, dragging Beomgyu back onto his cock with every thrust. Beomgyu falls apart under him, sobbing quietly into the mattress, thighs trembling, hands tangling the sheets.

"You're perfect," Yeonjun groans, fucking into him with deep, steady strokes. "So fucking perfect, baby."

The hand on Beomgyu’s lower back doesn’t let up, keeping him arched, exposed, making every thrust hit just right.

Beomgyu's body clenches around him, greedy, desperate, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck, fuck, I can’t—" Beomgyu sobs, voice wrecked and high-pitched. "Yeonjun!"

Yeonjun slows down for a second, rubbing soothing circles over the small of his back. “You’re okay," he whispers. "You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you."

Beomgyu nods frantically, sniffling against the sheets.

Yeonjun leans down, chest pressing against Beomgyu’s trembling back, mouth finding the shell of his ear. "You’re doing so fucking good for me," he whispers, voice cracking. "Let me make you come, yeah? Let me make you feel good, pretty boy."

Beomgyu whimpers in answer, barely coherent.

Yeonjun wraps a hand around Beomgyu’s cock, still hard and leaking against his stomach, and starts jerking him in time with his thrusts.

The stimulation is too much, it’s overwhelming, and Beomgyu's thighs start shaking violently.

He’s so close. So fucking close—

Yeonjun groans against his skin. "Come for me, Gyu. Come on, baby, you can do it."

Beomgyu shatters.

He comes with a loud, long whine, whole body locking up, clenching tight around Yeonjun in a way that drags a wrecked, broken curse out of him. Yeonjun barely manages a few more thrusts before he’s coming too, deep inside him, hands bruising Beomgyu’s hips as he holds on for dear life. They collapse together in a heap, panting, trembling, sweaty.

Beomgyu doesn’t even have the strength to move. He just lets Yeonjun press slow, open-mouthed kisses along his spine, shivering under every one.

Yeonjun’s still murmuring to him, soft nonsense words, soothing strokes over his back.

“You did so good.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“I’ve got you.”

Beomgyu lets himself believe it, just for tonight.

Everything feels slow and heavy, like he’s sinking through the mattress. Beomgyu barely registers the way Yeonjun breathes against the back of his neck, warm and steady, or the way he strokes trembling fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

He feels...empty. Boneless. Trembling faintly, his heart stuttering in his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

Dimly, Beomgyu feels Yeonjun shift behind him, hears his voice low and careful.

"Beomgyu?" Yeonjun murmurs, brushing hair away from Beomgyu’s face. "You good?"

Beomgyu tries to respond, but it comes out more like a wrecked little hum against the pillow.

Everything is too much—the sheets against his burning skin, the aftershocks still rolling through his body, the faint taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue.

Yeonjun moves carefully, pulling out, and Beomgyu shudders, a soft, pained sound escaping him without permission.

"Sorry, baby," Yeonjun whispers, sounding pained. "You’re okay, you're okay."

Beomgyu tries to nod but his body doesn’t want to cooperate. He just lets himself collapse fully into the mattress, limbs heavy and loose, head spinning.

He barely notices the way Yeonjun cleans him up, only distantly aware of the way soft tissues drag across his skin, of Yeonjun’s murmured apologies as he wipes him down gently, over and over, like he’s something fragile.

Beomgyu hears the rustle of the covers being pulled up over him, feels the sudden warmth of the blanket settling over his bare legs, his bare back. He's half asleep already, barely able to keep his eyes open, but even through the haze he’s aware of how ruined he must look. Small and vulnerable on the messy sheets, legs still spread lazily, bruises blooming soft and pink along his hips where Yeonjun had held him too hard.

Something deep and aching tugs inside his chest when he feels the bed shift like Yeonjun might be getting up, panic flares weakly through him.

"No," he slurs, grabbing at Yeonjun’s shirt with clumsy fingers. His hand doesn’t even close properly around the fabric, but he tugs anyway, desperate. "Stay."

There's a pause, and then a shaky exhale from Yeonjun.

"Yeah, okay," Yeonjun says, voice low and fond in a way that Beomgyu’s too tired to unpack right now.

The bed dips again as Yeonjun slides in beside him, careful, like Beomgyu might break.

Beomgyu doesn't even think. His body moves on instinct, curling toward the comforting heat, pressing his forehead against Yeonjun’s chest. Yeonjun’s arm wraps around him, a warm hand splaying over the bare skin of Beomgyu’s back, and Beomgyu’s body goes slack with relief. He smells Yeonjun’s cologne, sweat, and something sharp that dizzies him, and lets himself drift. Somewhere far away, he feels Yeonjun press a kiss into his hair.

"Goodnight, artist boy," Yeonjun whispers, barely audible over the blood rushing in Beomgyu’s ears.

Beomgyu wants to say something back, something clever or mean or maybe something desperate and real, but sleep catches him first.

His breathing evens out, slow and deep, the darkness tugging him under.

—

The first thing Beomgyu registers is the pounding in his skull.

The second is the sour, bitter taste in his mouth, and the way the morning light slices cruel and bright through his blinds.

He groans, dragging an arm over his eyes. Everything hurts. His back, his thighs, his throat. His stomach lurches warningly and he swallows against it, pressing deeper into the mattress.

That’s when he realizes the sheets are a mess. His body aches in ways that make last night come back in disjointed flashes—heat, teeth, Yeonjun’s hands everywhere. Yeonjun’s mouth everywhere.

Beomgyu’s stomach twists, and it isn’t entirely from nausea.

He peels his eyes open. The other side of the bed is empty, the covers kicked down and tangled, still faintly warm. For half a second, irrational panic spikes in his chest. Did he just imagine it?

But then he feels the bruises along his hips, the faint stickiness between his thighs. His cheeks burn.

Yeonjun had been here, and Yeonjun had touched him like he was something breakable.

Beomgyu turns his head, moving slowly to keep his stomach from revolting. That’s when he sees a scrap of paper folded in half, sitting neatly on his nightstand.

His heart skips.

He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers, unfolds it. Yeonjun’s handwriting is messy and rushed.

I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful.

Call me when you’re not too mad?  -YJ

Beomgyu stares at it for a long time.

Peaceful. He snorts and flops back onto the bed, the paper fluttering onto his chest.

He feels anything but peaceful. His body feels wrecked, raw. His mind feels worse, like someone’s gone through it with a paintbrush dipped in acid.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

He rubs his hands over his face, groaning into the silence of his room.

Half of him wants to never speak to Yeonjun again, but the other half…

The other half remembers the way Yeonjun had held him like he mattered. The way Yeonjun had kissed him like he was something worth being careful with.

Beomgyu groans again, pulling a pillow over his head.

He doesn’t even know if he’s furious or terrified or hopeful.

He just knows he’s completely, utterly fucked.

And definitely not in the fun way.