Archive of Our Own ^beta

The apartment was quiet. Still, even. The kind of quiet that is heavy, pressing all around you – not the peaceful calm of solitude. Minghao sat on the floor of his living room with a half-drunk bottle of wine beside him, his back propped against the edge of the couch and his long legs stretched out in front. A single, flickering candle burned low on the small coffee table, its wax pooling into a tiny ceramic dish he’d once bought at a street market with Mingyu.

It was his birthday.

Jeonghan had been hinting at a group dinner for weeks, not-so-subtly trying to organize something, nudging him through texts and emoji-laced reminders. Soonyoung had even called a few nights ago, apologizing for being too swamped with choreography deadlines to make it out that weekend – but Soonyoung loved his work almost obsessively, so Minghao didn’t take it personally.

But still, he hadn’t agreed to anything. He had told everyone he wanted to stay in – that he wasn’t feeling good.

The truth was simpler than he let on: this was the first birthday he’d spent without Mingyu in nearly a decade, and he didn’t know how to be around people who would look at him with that particular brand of pity he couldn’t stand. The soft, concerned kind. The kind that acknowledged he was alone and he was letting the loneliness get to him, without saying it outright.

So, he sat. Alone. In silence. With the bottle of Mingyu’s favorite red – dry, a little spicy, smooth at the end – and stared blankly at the window. Rain threatened outside, the clouds hanging low like they might collapse under their own weight. Seoul felt muted.

Minghao refilled his glass. He hadn’t eaten much, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t aiming to get drunk. Just – dulled. A little numb. He sipped, licking the taste off his lips, and leaned his head back against the couch.

He missed him.

He missed the way Mingyu would kiss his shoulder absentmindedly while passing by. The way he’d surprise him with stupid, heartfelt gifts. The way he would never let Minghao sulk on his birthday, no matter what excuse he tried.

Even last year, when Minghao had insisted he didn’t want anything special, Mingyu had shown up with the ingredients for a cake that he proceeded to bake in Minghao’s kitchen. Towards the end of the night, Mingyu had sunk down on one knee and asked Minghao to spend his life with him. Minghao didn’t remember a happier birthday.

Now Minghao had the cake shop app open on his phone, untouched. Nothing ordered.

He closed his eyes and sighed through his nose. Two years. They’d only just started. Mingyu had enlisted eleven months ago, and already, Minghao was acting like a widower. It would be pathetic if he cared enough to think about it as such.

As it stood, Minghao missed Mingyu like a phantom limb.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his spiral.

He blinked, unsure if he’d imagined it. Another knock, louder this time.

Minghao frowned, sitting up straighter, swiping at his cheeks automatically even though he hadn’t realized tears had started to gather. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He padded over in bare feet and opened the door cautiously.

Junhui stood there, in a hoodie too big for him and a white paper bag in one hand. Minghao didn’t remember inviting him over.

“Hey,” Junhui said.

“…Hey,” Minghao replied, blinking slowly. “What are you—”

“I figured you’d be doing nothing, so.” Junhui lifted the bag. “I brought cake.”

Minghao stared at him for a moment. Then, he sighed and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Junhui entered without ceremony, taking off his shoes and glancing around the apartment. It looked lived-in, but barely. There were clothes folded on the chair, the wine on the floor, half a candle on the table. The couch cushions were sunken from where Minghao had clearly been sitting all day.

“You didn’t go out at all?” Junhui asked, moving toward the table.

“No,” Minghao said flatly.

Junhui pulled the cake from the bag and placed it carefully on the table. It was small, round, with a single stripe of raspberry glaze on top. He lit the single candle stuck in the center. “Didn’t even buy your own cake?”

Minghao offered a tight smile. “Didn’t see the point.”

Junhui didn’t argue. He sat down beside Minghao on the floor, their shoulders almost brushing, and nudged the cake toward him. “At least blow this out.”

Minghao glanced sideways at him. Junhui’s expression was unreadable, but his presence was steady, warm. Reliable in a way he had always been to Minghao. He closed his eyes, wished to stop feeling so terrible, leaned in and blew the candle out silently.

“What did you wish for?” Junhui asked, nosy as always.

“Secret.”

Junhui pouted but opened the wine again and poured a second glass. He passed it to Minghao without asking. They clinked their glasses lightly.

“To birthdays,” Junhui said.

“To getting through them,” Minghao replied.

They drank.

The silence that settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was weighted, yes, but not suffocating. Minghao forked a piece of the cake and took a small bite. It was light, sweet, and rich – like something you only ever tasted once a year. He swallowed slowly, eyes dropping to the floor.

“I miss him,” he said suddenly, voice small. “I miss him so much and I feel stupid for it.”

Junhui’s hand found his thigh under the table, resting there gently. “I know.”

“I know it’s only been eleven months,” Minghao said, blinking fast. “I know that. But today is–” he turned to look at Junhui, “I don’t remember a birthday without him.”

Junhui didn’t say anything. Just rubbed small circles into Minghao’s leg with his thumb.

“I thought I could handle it,” Minghao whispered, the wine softening his edges further. “But every morning I wake up and reach for him. And he’s not there. In the shower. In bed. Every time I turn around.”

Junhui turned to him, and now their faces were close. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I know.”

Minghao looked up, eyes glassy. “Do you?”

Junhui’s hand slid further up his thigh, not in a sexual way – just anchoring. “Wonwoo’s gone too. I know it doesn’t make this better. But you’re not alone.”

Minghao inhaled shakily, watching Junhui. The warmth of his palm. The way he sat so close, so still. His hoodie was slightly damp from the drizzle outside. His hair looked darker. His lips looked… soft. Familiar.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the building loneliness, or the intimacy of sharing something no one else seemed to understand.

Maybe it was just Junhui.

Minghao leaned forward.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plan. His mouth found Junhui’s softly, hesitantly, as if waiting for the rejection to come at any moment. But Junhui didn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand slid behind Minghao’s neck, and he kissed him back.

The second kiss was less careful. The third was hungry.

And by the time Minghao found himself being eased onto his back on the living room floor, cake forgotten, wine abandoned, it was no longer about comfort or even sadness. It was about need.

It was about the gaping hole left behind by the men they loved, and how that ache demanded to be filled.

The first sound Minghao made when Junhui pressed against him was quiet, barely more than a breath exhaled through parted lips, but it was the kind of sound that seemed to echo between them, hot and slow. Junhui’s weight on top of him didn’t feel suffocating – it felt grounding, real, firm in a way nothing else had felt in months.

Their mouths met again, sloppier this time. Minghao tasted sugar and wine and something distinctly Junhui, something bitter and soft all at once. It made him chase more. He pulled Junhui’s hoodie up over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. It landed in the half-empty cake box and neither of them noticed.

Junhui’s hands slid beneath Minghao’s shirt, and he pushed it up without ceremony. The cold air hit Minghao’s skin and made him shiver – not from chill, but from the sudden awareness of what they were doing.

He wasn’t thinking about guilt. He wasn’t thinking about how this would look in the morning. All he could think about was that his body was aching for attention, starving for touch, and Junhui was right there, matching every move with a calm, practiced control that belied the fire he kept so tightly bottled inside.

Junhui broke the kiss only to whisper, “Are you sure?”

Minghao nodded, voice gone hoarse. “Yes.”

And that was it.

Junhui kissed down his chest, slow and deliberate. His mouth left a wet trail across Minghao’s sternum, tongue flicking lazily at a nipple until Minghao gasped, hands threading into Junhui’s hair. It had been too long. Too fucking long. Every touch felt electric, every drag of lips across his body reigniting nerves that had long since gone dormant.

He’d forgotten how good it felt to be wanted.

Junhui didn’t rush. He took his time, like he was savoring something forbidden – and he was. That fact lingered over everything they did, turned every sigh and moan into something stained and dangerous.

By the time Junhui had tugged off the rest of their clothes, leaving Minghao spread bare on the rug beneath him, there was nothing left but heat. Raw, aching, undeniable heat.

Junhui hovered over him, cock flushed and hard, brushing against Minghao’s thigh. His hands slid down, parting Minghao’s legs easily, fingers finding him already wet with anticipation. Minghao’s breath hitched, body twitching at the first touch.

“Fuck,” Junhui murmured, voice low. “You’re already–”

Minghao cut him off with a kiss, needy and breathless. “Don’t talk,” he whispered against his lips. “Just do it.”

Junhui didn’t need more instruction.

He slicked his fingers with spit and slid one in slowly, watching Minghao’s face carefully. Minghao groaned, hips shifting to meet the intrusion. There was no hesitation, no reluctance. He was too far gone for shame. He wanted it. Needed it. Craved the feel of someone else filling him, replacing the absence Mingyu had left behind.

Another finger. Then three.

Junhui worked him open with methodical, practiced strokes, crooking just right until Minghao was biting his knuckles to keep from moaning too loudly. He tasted copper on his tongue and couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Please,” Minghao gasped eventually, head thrown back against the rug. “Now. I can’t. Junhui, please.”

Junhui pulled his fingers out slowly, dragging across that spot one last time just to hear Minghao curse under his breath. He rolled on the condom with shaking hands, breath caught in his throat.

And then, with a firm grip on Minghao’s hips, he pushed in.

The stretch was exquisite. Minghao’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack, the pressure making him feel split wide open. Full. So fucking full. He hadn’t been touched like this in months, hadn’t let anyone inside, hadn’t wanted anyone–

–but this wasn’t just anyone.

Junhui sank in fully, hips flush against his ass, and paused.

Minghao looked up at him, pupils blown, sweat dampening the hair at his temples.

“Move,” he whispered.

And so Junhui did.

He set a slow, grinding pace at first, letting Minghao adjust, but that restraint didn’t last long. The desperation between them was too much, too heavy, and soon he was thrusting harder, deeper, fucking him with a need that bordered on brutal.

Their bodies slapped together, raw and fast, sweat pooling between them. Minghao clung to Junhui’s shoulders, nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks. He met every thrust with equal hunger, legs wrapped tight around Junhui’s waist, panting and whispering broken curses in Mandarin, in Korean, in nothing at all.

“You feel so good,” Junhui gritted out, head buried against Minghao’s neck. “Fuck—you feel—fuck.”

“Harder,” Minghao begged, drunk on sensation. “Don’t stop—don’t—”

Junhui shifted his angle, and Minghao nearly screamed.

He arched off the floor, spine curving like a bowstring, eyes wild with the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it. He felt like he was unraveling from the inside out.

“You think Mingyu would recognize you like this?” Junhui growled suddenly, voice thick and rough against his skin. “What would he say, seeing you spread out on the floor, begging to be fucked?”

Minghao’s body convulsed. That was what did it – the filthy, unspoken truth dragged into the light. His fingers gripped at Junhui’s arms, legs trembling.

“Say it,” Junhui demanded, thrusts vicious now. “What would he say, seeing you like this?”

Minghao moaned, high and broken. “He—he’d be disgusted.”

“No. He’d be jealous.”

That snapped something loose in Minghao.

He came with a sob, untouched, his body locking up and then shuddering apart. It was violent and sudden and complete. He felt empty and full at once. Boneless. Ruined. He barely registered Junhui’s name leaving his lips, slurred and wet.

Junhui fucked him through it, hips stuttering a few thrusts later before he groaned deep in his chest and collapsed forward, forehead against Minghao’s shoulder as he came, breathing ragged.

They lay there like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just shaking.

Nothing left to say.

The air was thick with sweat and the scent of sex, still lingering long after the sounds had faded. Outside, the sky was beginning to soften from slate to a pale, bluish gray, filtered by the blinds in streaks across the apartment floor. It must have rained during the night; the streets glistened with residue, and the balcony rail was wet with droplets that clung to the edges like glass pearls.

Minghao stirred.

His body ached. Not painfully. More like a dull, quiet ache that pressed into his thighs, his lower back, the bruised swell of his hips. A reminder. Evidence. His fingers flexed slightly against the rug, and he opened his eyes.

The living room was calm in that strange, post-chaos stillness. Cake, half-eaten, sat tilted on the edge of the coffee table. The wine was nearly gone. Their clothes lay in a scattered trail from the hallway to where he now lay half-draped in a throw blanket that smelled vaguely of Junhui’s shampoo.

He blinked again and looked around.

Junhui was nowhere in sight.

Minghao wasn’t surprised. His body registered what had happened, slowly and without emotion, like a security camera replaying footage after the fact. Every second from the night before replayed in his head with perfect clarity: the heat, the mouths, the way Junhui had said, you think Mingyu would recognize you like this?

And how he’d nearly cried from how badly he’d wanted that moment to never end.

He sat up with a groan, clutching the blanket to his chest. The air was cold against his skin, damp with leftover sweat. He took a few slow breaths. In, out. Nothing felt like regret. If anything, it was worse – it felt like he’d gotten exactly what he needed. Exactly what he’d been starved for.

There was a sound from the balcony. Minghao turned his head.

Junhui was standing outside, barefoot, wearing only his sweatpants from the night before, low on his hips. A steaming mug was cupped in his hands. He was on the phone, voice low, smiling softly as he spoke. Minghao could tell immediately who it was.

Wonwoo.

The image was surreal. Casual. Almost boring. The two halves of Junhui’s life intersecting with no visible friction. One hand holding a coffee cup, the other shoved into the pocket of pants he’d worn while fucking someone else’s husband.

Minghao stood slowly. The blanket fell away, revealing blotches of red and violet bruising along his neck and shoulders. He moved toward the hallway, careful not to make noise, and disappeared into the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, showered and dressed, he emerged wearing a black turtleneck. The collar hugged his throat high and tight. He looked put together. Deliberately so.

Junhui glanced over his shoulder through the glass door, raising a hand in greeting.

Minghao nodded once.

Then, he spoke into the phone again: “Yeah, no, I didn’t do much last night. Just stayed in. Slept early.”

He laughed at something Wonwoo must’ve said on the other end. Then he turned back to look at Minghao. His expression was unreadable. Minghao couldn’t be sure what his face did in response.

Minghao brewed himself tea and sat down on the couch. His phone buzzed beside him.

[Mingyu 🐶]

Happy birthday, Myungho! I miss you so much. Let’s video call when you wake up.

He smiled without thinking. Then pressed the call button.

It rang once. Twice.

Then Mingyu’s face appeared, pixelated at first, then clear. He was in his military dorm, face flushed from the morning he must’ve just returned from. His hair was short, military cut, but his smile was the same – warm, boyish, and devastating.

“Hey,” Mingyu grinned.

“Hey,” Minghao replied, curling slightly into himself. “I missed you.”

“God, you look good,” Mingyu said, eyes scanning the screen. “Is that my turtleneck? You really do miss me.”

Minghao laughed, soft and effortless. “And I’m getting older. Gotta stay warm.”

“You look happy.”

There was a beat.

Minghao touched the edge of the cup.

“I am,” he said. “Because I get to see you.”

Mingyu beamed. “That’s cheesy.”

“You like cheesy.”

“I do.”

From the balcony, Junhui’s call ended. He lingered a moment longer, watching the city beyond the rail. Then he turned and stepped inside, brushing past Minghao without a word.

Minghao didn’t look up. He didn’t have to.

He already knew the weight of Junhui’s presence behind him. The heat of his skin. The way his breath hitched when he came.

But now, he smiled softly into the camera, fingers grazing the rim of his cup.

Happy birthday to him.