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Chan has been chasing time again. It is every day, all around, wrapping him up in a neat cocoon, and yet he can’t feel it with his own hands, can’t grab hold.
It’s not an unfamiliar problem, but it seeps into every narrow crevice. Molds itself incessantly, taking on unpredictable forms that infiltrate and unsettle the precarious structure of his life. Sometimes it’s craggy and caustic—sleeplessness and poor nutrition coupling, turning Chan’s temper into a blunt and brutal mallet. Other times it's a more nebulous, intangible thing—his hands hovering impotent over square keys, eyes fogging as he tries to render something, anything, from the emptiness inside him, like sucking on the tip of an inkless pen.
But tonight, its shape is well-defined. It’s an urgent, unyielding ache—a thick hardened line, trapped and suffocating beneath boxer briefs, and nagging him from the depths of his slumber.
Each moment has been go go go, brake lines cut. Hurried out of the shower and into the booth; out of the studio and onto the set—all the while, cameras hovering like guardian angels in service of someone standing off-screen.
So there’s been no time to take care of these baser urges. Typically, he’s been able to ignore them with relative ease. He’s kept his sights set on a higher goal, cranking up the volume on his duties and drowning out the sound of his body begging for attention.
But now while he dozes, his hand begins to take on a mind of its own, creeping over cotton-lycra to cup a pulsating hunger that will wait no longer to be fed. The first touch almost stirs him, and his hips tense, a sleepy groan wrenching from his lips where only light snores had passed moments before. His fingers graze at first, calloused tips catching on the fabric sheathing the length of his cock. Instinctively, he shoves off his bedding, kicking it until it’s puddled around his ankles at the foot of his meager twin-size bottom bunk.
As cool air spills over him, the hollow of his palm presses against muffled warmth. But much like a jailhouse visit—voices unheard through plexiglass—the sensation is muted. His hips rise with longing, and it’s that lack of satisfaction which finally rouses him.
Chan groans as he wakes, disoriented and groggy for barely a moment before realization dawns. Cold beads of sweat cling to his temple as the nasally hum of restful breathing reminds him of the very full room he is in—but he can’t lift his hand. It slides down, slow and heavy, fingertip grazing the tip of his shaft. His eyes nearly flutter open, but he squeezes them firmly shut and stifles a shudder.
Four men in their sexual prime crammed into a crate with two bunk beds—it’s a cruel joke.
He should slip out, take advantage of the late hour and make use of the bathroom. But it is late, after all. He could take care of this quietly, comfortably; hide any sticky evidence in the bundled shirt he must have unconsciously peeled off when his temperature began to rise.
He palms himself again, hips needy and squirming, and listens. Even the AC is silent on a cool autumn night like this, which means no cover. But the mattress above him is quiet, and its springs would cry out a warning should Hyunjin stir.
Then across the room, low and rhythmic open-mouthed breathing, either Seungmin up top or Minho below, but otherwise no signs of life.
Up, then down, again, again—and he arches, exhales, and his bed and body creak.
Throwing an arm over his face, he slots his nose into the crook of his elbow. His other hand is getting restless, dancing along his waistband and eager to slip past. He just needs to do his due diligence, to verify, and then he can finish what had started without him. His thumb sneaks under elastic as he peeks across the room from beneath the shelter of his arm.
Shades of blue are cast like an inescapable net over their dorm room. Moonlight pours thickly from the skylight above, trapping each object it touches—from dirty sneakers to forgotten dinnerware—in a dreamlike haze as it highlights their surfaces like a deep-sea still life.
Chan squints underwater.
Seungmin is supine across the top bunk, eyes closed and arms flung wide. His motionless face a pointed arrow aimed at the ceiling, and his gaping mouth the source of the only sound Chan can hear.
Chan drags his thumbnail along the boundary of coarse hair at his pelvis, his stomach coiling and contracting. He searches the shadows of the bottom bunk, but only a sliver of Minho’s bed is visible. A thin strip of moonlight lines its nearest edge, amplifying the darkness beyond.
Withdrawing his thumb, Chan lines up his remaining digits to dive in and take hold, but he can’t find the proof he needs. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, body wriggling with impatience. Lifting his arm imperceptibly, he strains to sort through splotchy shapes as they coalesce into the contours of Minho, wrapped in burgundy sheets and lying on his side.
Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Chan hunts for the distinct lines of Minho’s face, a sharp jawline cutting into focus. He stalks its path as he breaches the elastic barricade at his hips, but just past the curve of Minho’s cheekbone, Chan finds a set of wide white eyes following his hand's descent.
He freezes, stopped in his tracks like a criminal under the glare of a searchlight, but Minho is transfixed—unaware he’s equally as caught.
Chan tries and fails to form a thought, to piece together an actual plan that might get him out of this embarrassing situation. But the threads of time are once again winding away from his grasp, and Minho’s eyes grow restless and begin to shift.
At a loss, Chan dips his hand lower. It’s a reckless diversion, but it works, and Minho’s eyes shoot back to the movement.
Drawing circles near the base of his impatient erection, Chan searches Minho’s face from behind the shield of his arm.
Damp, brown strands of hair stick to Minho’s forehead, resting lightly on the furrows carved between his brows. His eyes have thinned to slits, and Chan tries to focus in, discern the expression that has them drawn so narrow and the emotion hiding behind it.
He’s relieved when he can’t find any disgust. No signs of repulsion or irritation either, just rapt attention. That, and something else Chan can’t quite put his finger on.
Stalling for more time, he runs the tip of his finger softly down his entire length, until his cock twitches up, begging his palm to grab hold.
He could back out. Roll over, and pretend to have been asleep all along. He could force his eyes closed and endure the throbbing until morning.
But there’s a bulge beneath Minho’s blanket, right where his pelvis must be, and Chan is almost certain he just saw it move.
It’s so dark in here, and Chan’s been living in a state of near-constant sleep deprivation—he could have imagined it. He works his lip between his teeth, tracing his fingers in idle deliberation. Barely conscious, can he truly trust his own eyes? Especially considering just how disastrous getting this wrong could be.
A vision of Minho leaping from his bed, jabbing an accusatory finger at him, floods Chan’s mind, and his hand takes to trembling. He can almost hear it, the other members grumbling in anger and confusion, ripped from sleep as Minho announces Chan’s wretchedness, his perversion. His stomach twists into shameful knots, red rising to the tips of his ears.
But then, there it is again—he’s so sure he sees it.
It’s the same tentative up, then down, again, again—and he can’t ignore it, can’t resist it. And so, instead, he tests the waters.
Feverish with anticipation, his entire body shivers as he finally grabs hold of himself. Sucking in air through his teeth, he lets loose an involuntary hiss, piercing the silence of the dorm like steam from a pressure valve.
Slowly, he begins to pump, and the bulge at Minho’s waist writhes in time.
Could he be seeing it correctly? Minho has always been impossible to read, with all his teasing sarcasm and handsy advances that suggest but never presume. Chan had tried more often than he’d like to admit to weigh out how much of Minho’s catlike toying was sincere playfulness, and how much was predatory. Sometimes when Minho’s hands would land on his backside, smug laughter puffing against Chan’s neck and rushing right down to his dick, he’d blush and stumble, but he would also wonder.
What might happen if instead, he turned, caught Minho’s wrist, and pulled him closer?
A tingle of excitement runs down the center of his chest, untangling the knots at the core and spurring him into action. He adjusts his cock away from his thigh and up against his belly, allowing the tip to peek out as he gives it a few more deliberate strokes.
Performing is something he’s well acquainted with, it’s more familiar to him than his own desire. The urge to please, to deliver to an audience whatever they delight in—it’s a challenge he can’t resist. It intensifies his arousal, his blood ablaze as it courses through his veins. If Minho wants a show, Chan will make sure it’s one he never forgets.
Raising his arm a little more, he studies Minho’s face as he strokes himself. His entranced expression, cheeks dappled with a red that deepens as Chan smears precum over the head of his cock, leaving a faint sheen reflecting the moonlight above them. He measures the ragged breaths slipping between the part of Minho’s lips as Chan wiggles out of his boxers, allowing his cock to spring upright into full view.
There’s an audible intake of breath across the room as Chan twists his wrist, milking pleasure and more precum, coating his palm so he can fist himself in earnest. Bowled over by stimulation, the arm covering his face flees unwittingly, groping at the bed for purchase while his hips buck. His eyes roll back to close as the slick slippery sounds grow louder.
He’s longing for release, to stampede carelessly over the edge. It would feel good enough, sate his palette, and scratch the itch. But he isn’t one to settle—not when he’s already come this far. He may never have an opportunity like this again, so he can’t squander it by diving off the cliff alone. No, instead, he’s going to grab Minho by the collar and drag him right over the edge with him.
Foggy but electrified, the wires of his brain are sparking and shorting. What little lucidity he’d started with is fading fast, and he can’t think straight anymore. He rolls onto his side, gripping his shaft by the base to hold back his orgasm. He needs to see, and more importantly, he needs Minho to see him seeing.
But when he opens his eyes, he nearly gasps as he finds Minho right in front of him—naked, as he slips nimbly beside Chan. He reaches for the blanket at Chan’s feet and with a swift and skillful pull, he draws it over them like a veil, sweeping a cool gust across their skin.
Chan gapes, panic and worry churning in his gut as the fleeting chill is quickly smothered by the heat of their bodies slotting together.
“I’m sorry, I—”
Minho cuts him off with a forceful finger against Chan’s lips, then threads his arms around his neck. Nuzzling into the space between the mattress and the blush-stained apple of Chan’s cheek, Minho’s cool nose presses into the warm shell of his ear.
“You’re not as sly as you think you are,” Minho breathes, raising goosebumps along the nape of his neck.
Chan throbs, and he falters. When had he been caught? How long had Minho been waiting to pounce? It hardly matters now, and the questions flit out of his mind as Minho peppers kisses along his jawline. Chan bites his lip to stifle a moan, but he can’t keep his hips from rolling forward at Minho’s gentle ‘Sh-sh-shhh’ tickling his ear again.
The combination of his cock grinding against Minho’s and the thick humid air beneath the sheet makes Chan dizzy. He tugs the fabric down to their chests, savoring the fresh air, and tilts his head forward to watch as they slide against one another. He’s seen Minho nude before, but never hard. The truth is, he’s never seen any man hard like this before, not in person. So when Minho hooks his leg over Chan’s thigh, increasing the friction, he nearly startles when the lust clawing at his chest shifts into something more like the flutter of butterflies.
“Pretty,” Chan can’t help but whisper.
“Hm?” Minho hums, pulling back to see his face.
Chan’s eyes lift, flickering over Minho’s features, uncertain where to settle. “Pretty,” he repeats, voice husky and low, a stark contrast to his sheepish grin. He reaches up, running a finger along Minho’s bottom lip. “All of you.”
Minho surges forward, teeth clacking as their mouths collide, sounding their obvious inexperience. His lips are two hot coals pouring fire into Chan’s pleading mouth until even the air he breathes scorches his lungs. The heat warps and bends Chan’s vision, and he pushes headlong into its intoxicating haze, heartbeat pounding in his throat—calling out for the flame of Minho’s tongue tangling with his own.
He kisses Chan as if it might never happen again, like a door is slowly closing and he’s trying to shove them both through the crack. It tastes like the ice cream that melted in Chan’s hand the summer they visited Jeju—rich but fleeting, toffee and caramel dripping down his skin. Chan wonders if this is Minho’s first kiss too.
Winding a hand through the soft hair at the back of Minho’s head, Chan tries to steady himself. They’re grinding in a frenzy, struggling to keep both tempo and quiet, but there’s too much empty air in the intimate space between them. His free hand moves to grip them both, but he hesitates, seizing Minho’s hip instead.
He wants nothing more than to feel his hand encircling Minho, to squeeze their cocks together, to twist and stroke. But Chan’s never touched anyone like this before, and he’s pretty sure no one’s ever touched Minho like this either.
Maybe it’s a little stupid to be stressing about this now, with Minho grinding rabid and wild in his lap. But Chan knows he won’t be able to shake the worry unless he’s absolutely certain Minho is as enthusiastic as he seems. Because if Chan misjudges by even a fraction, oversteps by so much as an inch—the harm would be irreparable.
He pulls softly on Minho’s hair, attempting to separate them, but Minho resists. He sucks Chan’s bottom lip into his mouth, holding it between his teeth with a faint but defiant whine.
Chan loathes to break their connection, but with another light tug, his wet and swollen lip snaps back into place, and Minho pouts. Glancing down, Chan lets go of Minho’s hair, ghosting his fingertips down the length of his chest until they hover just above their straining erections. He raises his gaze back to Minho’s, eyes widening as his brow lifts in silent question.
Can I? Will you let me? Would you like it if I—
Minho unlaces his arms from Chan’s neck, taking hold of the nervous hand hanging between them, and Chan starts to think this must be his way of saying ‘no’. He swallows hard, looking away as Minho brings Chan’s hand to his mouth.
With his thumbs, Minho spreads Chan’s palm flat and open, pressing a chaste kiss to its center. Blush coloring his cheeks, Chan tries to pull his hand away, to connect their lips again, but he halts, breath hitching, as Minho’s tongue caresses the heel of his palm. Deliberate and languid, Minho licks a scalding path upward, saturating the well of Chan’s palm before continuing right to the tip of his middle finger.
Mind spinning with desire, the tickling sensation pushes Chan to what he’s sure is the brink. That is, until Minho tilts forward to wrap his lips around two of Chan’s fingers, compounding his pleasure immeasurably.
Desperate for friction, Chan ruts forward, digging the nails of his free hand into the meat of Minho’s thigh. His mouth hangs open, self-control waning as Minho swirls his tongue in a teasingly slow figure eight. His eyes lift, shameless as they lock with Chan’s, and they’re blown black—engulfing every bit of dim light to capture the minute details of Chan’s dumbstruck expression.
He’s mesmerized by his fingers disappearing deeper and deeper into Minho’s mouth. By the trail of saliva that leaks down his cheek. By the hidden possibilities lurking in the depths of the twin black pools he’s pinned in place by.
But as his fingertips brush the spongy wall at the back of Minho’s throat, Chan’s cock twitches reflexively. Precum dribbling down its head, it strikes against Minho’s equally fervid erection, issuing a wet smack that breaks his trance.
Chan rips his hand away, Minho’s teeth scraping sharp across his knuckles, causing his own to grit. His patience has thinned, a string of honey stretched so long and fine you can hardly see it until suddenly, it’s gone.
Minho’s surprised inhale turns into a loud hitch as Chan gathers their cocks into his fist.
Now it’s his turn to silence Minho with a rough kiss against his swollen lips. Shot through with adrenaline, he chases after Minho’s tongue while he works his saliva-soaked hand in a twisting motion to coat their lengths. All of Minho’s bravado dissolving, he yields—mouth slack as it’s plundered, his hands falling helpless against the taut muscles of Chan’s chest.
Up, then down, again, again—but demanding now, wet sloppy noises building from their mouths as well as from the clumsy pumping of Chan’s fist which he can’t quite close around both their cocks. Breaking their kiss, Chan presses their sweat-slick foreheads together to peer down and get a better handle on the situation, but the obscene display nearly overwhelms him and he has to loosen his grip.
He doesn’t get more than a moment's respite before Minho’s hand plunges down to catch his own, completing the circle. His grip tightens over Chan’s, forcing their cocks to rub together with astonishing pressure, and it takes every ounce of discipline Chan can muster not to cum right then and there.
Minho’s other arm digs between Chan’s ribs and the bed, hooking under his arm and looping up to clutch onto Chan’s shoulder in order to steady them while Chan grabs a generous handful of Minho’s ass to do the same. Their hips knock together as they thrust in tandem, struggling to find a rhythm, speeding with excitement then halting in fear whenever the bed springs squeak.
Soon they settle into grinding on alternating beats—Minho fucking up into their hands as Chan withdraws, followed by the converse. Quick but measured movements that keep their volume as low as possible.
The white-hot drag of Minho’s cock against Chan’s is agonizing, and he knows he can’t hold out for much longer. Giddy and light-headed, he tilts his chin up, searching for Minho’s mouth again, but the rocking of their bodies throws him off target. His low growl of frustration rumbles along the corner of Minho’s mouth, frantic to connect their lips.
“Hyung…” Minho breathes, a hopeful urgent sound that guides Chan, and he swallows up the whimper that follows as their mouths finally crash together.
There’s no thought left for the dorm room or the people within it. Not for how or why, or what might come next. If any of Chan’s internal alarm bells are ringing, the static buzz of desire has dampened their warnings beyond recognition. His usual anxiety is lost in a wave of euphoria, worries dissipating in the surf like seafoam. Even time, the very thing that had been out of reach no matter how constricting, now stills within the union of their palms. Compressed yet everlasting, drawing out this moment of ecstasy beyond its usual bounds.
“Fuck,” Chan pants into Minho’s lapping mouth, “I’m going to—”
Minho nods eagerly against Chan’s face before he can get the words out, and their bodies stutter together, losing pace as their thrusts become erratic again. They cling to one another like a dream slipping from memory upon waking, crescent claw marks burning like brands, muscles straining to keep hold of something more than flesh.
Bucking with no semblance of restraint, no awareness of the world around them, they race to the peak of their pleasure and dive in unison. Hands still interlocked, cocks surging upward together now, it’s a final twist of their wrists over their engorged and aching heads that has Chan seeing stars. His legs shake with the intensity of his orgasm, and he can feel Minho’s shaft tensing out rivulets of cum alongside his own, painting their chests in the warm white liquid.
Falling, falling, blood roaring in their ears and dulling their senses, they rush through clouds—hungering for the pavement. Their lips part to gulp down hot lungfuls of air, hips slowing as they wring out every precious drop of passion, and their eyes lock once more. With chests heaving and hearts thudding, Chan is overcome by a sense of weightlessness, of floating. As though they’re suspended together mere inches from the ground, time having stopped.
In this surreal, liminal space—blissfully detached from the trivial concerns of his life—Chan's lips meet Minho’s once more, and he can hardly even hear the shrill and rusty sound of springs echoing through the room as the bed above them creaks.