White noise (1/2)
Title: White noise
Lenght: one-shot
Characters: Sehun (centric), Kai, rest of EXO (ot9)
Pairings: Sehun/Kai
AU: sex workers?
Rating: nc15
Word count: 12.266
Genre: fluff, some smut? slight angst?
Warnings/notes: sex workers (obviously); non-explicit sexual content; engaging in sexual acts while underage (still past the age of consent, worry not); underage drinking; ages have been twisted and Sehun is a little older than Jongin; unholy mentions of Jesus Christ; sappiness tbh; Sehun in a suit proceed with caution; soft Jongin; not what you'd expect from a sex workers au.
Summary: Sehun only wants to unwind, to let loose. Jongin reels him in like no other, but Sehun doesn't know where they stand.
"The dancer has the kind of ease one only gets with practice. Sehun has the kind of confidence one only gets by faking it."
______________________________
The first word that comes to mind is, without a doubt, sketchy.
There are neon lights everywhere, but not all of them are functioning. Some have gone out and haven’t yet been replaced. A black light lamp illuminates the bar, where four barkeepers tend the bunch of people, mostly male, that sit on tall velvet-cushioned stalls.
No one will explain why they won’t ask you for identifications at the door. No one will tell you why the EXIT sign is crooked.
Across the bar, several scaffolds connected to a main stage are surrounded by handfuls of armchairs and coffee tables. There’s no dancefloor. At the back, black curtains tinted by red lights hide a set of glass doors that only come to sight when they get crossed by pairs, who are quick to disappear behind them.
It’s early, so the place is mostly empty. There are more workers there than there are customers, and when he checks the time, the metal of his watch heavy on his wrist, Sehun assumes it’ll probably be a while until anything worthwhile starts taking place. So he sits in one of the armchairs -the one that seems the least damaged, probably due to not having the best view of the closest stage- and calls one of the waitresses over, a girl with a kind smile and a gracious walk, draped in black and silver, that towers over him in vertiginous heels.
Sehun’s fingers grip the stem of a martini glass shortly after, olive spinning in the bottom as he moves the glass around. The pleasant herbal aroma of the vermouth dances right under his nose, and at the first sip, his eyes close. He’s had a long day. Truthfully, he only wants to relax tonight, and the place is quiet, soft music pouring from the speakers. The click-clack of the waitresses’ heels and the click-clack of the glasses at the bar feel like white noise and Sehun thinks that, under different circumstances, maybe he would have fallen asleep.
His thoughts get interrupted by light chatter at his back, not for being particularly loud or particularly interesting (really, it’s nothing but small talk), but because it’s quiet and this sound is new in this environment, and Sehun can’t help but glance back.
What he sees is nothing out of the ordinary; just a group of three boys that come inside, greeting the bartenders and waiters by their names as if they were used to seeing them all the time. More workers, probably -what’s their role exactly, Sehun can’t know. All he knows is one of them, though objectively attractive, seems dull; and when the waitress cracks a joke the other two laugh at, the boy manages a smile, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes.
***
It’s easy enough to let loose. It’s easy enough to sit back, with a cocktail in his hand and his eyes roaming around the room, watching the dancers but not really looking. His spot isn’t as bad as he had originally thought -it spares him from most of the attention, though a piece of clothing or two have landed on his lap already.
He tips well, because he can afford it. He tips even the ones that aren’t of his liking; the ones that are too boring and the ones that are too vulgar; the ones that fix their attention too much on him and the ones that don’t even look at him at all. He tips them because, after all, that’s their job, and whether he is enjoying it or not, nobody asked him to sit there and watch.
He’s only mildly surprised when two of the guys he saw at the entrance come on stage. They are both tall and slim, skin taut over lean muscle, yet they seem to be yin and yang: one of them, light complexion, light hair, moves sharp and powerful. The other, smooth as a summer breeze, has dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin is the golden brown of honey in the sunlight. It doesn’t take Sehun any time to connect this guy to the one he saw earlier, albeit they don’t really seem like the same person at all. The guy he saw earlier had sad eyes and his figure hidden under a worn-out hoodie, and he was reluctant to making eye contact for more than five seconds at a time. This guy, however, has the looks of a model and the soul of a fiery star, burning from within. He acts like the stage is his, and Sehun has no doubt that he’s right. To him, at least; he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off him.
And it surprises him, because when he saw him back there, he didn’t give it a second thought. And it’s not about his body, Sehun thinks, and it’s not about his face. It’s not even about the way his hands go up to brush locks of hair away from it, skin glistening with sweat. It’s more about his confidence; about the way his eyes fix on the public, drinking up their stares. It’s about how it seems like he probably knows he has some sort of flaw (although none of them are discernable, at least to Sehun’s eyes), but he also knows his fortes outnumber them by much. He knows he’s going to reel them in, whether they want it or not. He knows he’s untouchable.
Sehun almost forgets there’s another dancer on the main stage, so when he looks up at the screen behind it, he’s briefly confused to read two names dancing across it. He doesn’t know which belongs to whom.
He tips, of course, even more so than before. When he’s sliding the bills, folded neatly, into the waistband of the dancer’s boxers, his fingertips graze his skin ever so slightly, and he’s warm and slick with sweat. His eyes are deep and intense and seem to find Sehun’s easily, his quickened breath hovering above him, yet not close enough. It lasts for half a second, maybe less even; but it leaves Sehun breathless and wanting, throat dry, skin burning where it touched him, and eyes blurry with desire. They follow him as he rounds the room, and even as focused as he is, he can tell he is not the only one the dancer has this effect on. He can’t blame them.
Sehun can’t help but wonder, if vaguely, how long he must have been doing this to get so good at it.
The voice from the speakers, an invisible host, pronounces their names again over the music. The other dancer, the one Sehun’s eyes neglected, waves, flirty, at the sound of his own name. Lay, apparently. And finally, Sehun’s favorite does the same. His name, now clear with the way he nods his head at it, rolls off Sehun’s tongue in a whisper.
He makes sure to remember it, although he doesn’t think he could possibly forget it.
***
It was a matter of luck, or maybe destiny, the first time Sehun landed in Galactik Strip Club; or so would he think if he believed in such a thing. Then again, Sehun doesn’t believe in much: only in the power of money and his competitors’ desire to watch him fall, and in the extents of his own willpower. It had only been, however, a matter of convenience. He had taken a new route home and come across this place, going in without much thought. He wanted a drink, really; he wanted to unwind and find something to distract him from the paperwork and the business plans, from the meetings, from being politically correct. He wanted, just for a little while, to have no worries.
The second time, nevertheless, is completely purposeful, though he wouldn’t admit it even to himself. He’d convince himself that he was just stressed, that he needed a diversion. He’d say there were just too many frequent customers at his usual bar, that the bartenders knew him enough to ask questions but not well enough to not be a burden. He’d say he needed something new.
And, in a way, he wouldn’t be lying. Technically. Because although it’s true that he needs something new, he knows damn well that his craving can’t be satisfied with a whisky on the rocks and a few songs he doesn’t know the lyrics to. What he wants, specifically, dances around in skimpy clothing Sehun hasn’t ever until now found attractive, and this time around he thinks he maybe glances at him from time to time, too.
The experience is just as intoxicating as it was the first time around, if not more, now that Sehun knows his name. It’s well known that you should not give a name to something you aren’t allowed to even want. The name itself is short, and it sounds nice in the host’s voice; but it would sound nicer in Sehun’s lips.
He almost doesn’t enjoy the show as much, as impatient as he is for it to finish. Almost. He tips him a handful of crumpled bills that he hopes will stand for a promise of a sort. And after he’s disappeared behind the curtain, Sehun doesn’t waste his time before standing up and getting in motion.
He doesn’t know how this works. He’s never done it, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t send a rush of shame down his spine. It’s somewhat unethical, he figures, and probably unscrupulous of him to do. At this point, however, he can’t bring himself to care enough to stop.
A man in a suit watches him from a corner, a glass of red wine in his hand and his dark hair slicked back, contrasting against his fair complexion. He sits in a velvet armchair the color of the contents of his glass, an arm propped on the armrest; the other, tilting his glass slightly sideways. He looks distinguished, like the men Sehun receives in his office every day. And that, in a place like this, can only mean one thing.
“Are you the manager?” asks Sehun calmly, with the tone he reserves for particularly difficult clients; one that says I know what I’m doing, what I want, and how to get it, and you better collaborate. It’s a tone that guarantees he won’t get toyed with.
The man casts him the hint of a smile. “Kim Joonmyeon,” he replies, without moving one millimeter from his position; “at your service.”
Sehun doesn’t trust him. He looks like a businessman, and he knows those all too well. There’s not one day he doesn’t see one in the mirror. “I’m looking for one of your… employees. His name is Kai?” His voice doesn’t quiver -it’s trained to stay stable under all circumstances.
“Ah,” grins the man -Joonmyeon. “My star.” He snaps his fingers, his eyes never leaving Sehun’s. It makes him uncomfortable, even if he’d never let it show. Sehun knows -he can tell- that something about him is off. One of the waitresses (the one that had brought Sehun his first martini in here, he notices) joins them. “Yooah, sweetheart, could you please bring our dear Kai to accompany us?”
The girl leaves with a nod and a “Yes, sir”, disappearing as quickly as she arrived. And in the time it takes her to get the dancer, Joonmyeon doesn’t say a word: an awkward silence Sehun has no interest in breaking; he isn’t interested in anything this man has to say.
The boy comes back without the waitress, in simple clothes and with a backpack hanging lopsided from his shoulder. His intentions are clear, though if Joonmyeon notices, his façade doesn’t sell him.
“You have an admirer, my dear,” he says, his tone soft and mellow. Sehun hates him instantly.
The dancer -probably used to his manners- seems all but intimidated. “My shift just ended,” he informs just as calmly. His voice is deep yet strangely melodic. It simultaneously matches his looks perfectly and not at all. Barefaced, purplish shadows darken his eyes.
A tiny wrinkle forms right in between the manager’s eyebrows, so small Sehun wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been expecting it. “This job doesn’t stop at 5 o’clock and pick up the next morning, Kai. You know this well.”
A rictus flashes across his face briefly, and after one blink, it’s gone. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, and he glances at Sehun for half a second. “Follow me,” he instructs before starting towards the dark curtains, and before following him Sehun sees, out of the corner of his eye, a smirking Joonmyeon whose eyes stay stuck to his back.
***
“I’m not at my best, currently, as you can see. I was about to leave. Almost at the door, actually.”
Kai tosses his backpack on the floor, in the corner furthest from them of the small room. It lands right against the mirror that covers the whole wall, making the small space seem twice as big. The king size bed stands in the center of the room, its jet black duvet covers draping around it down to the floor. The dancer stands next to it, looking way more comfortable than Sehun feels.
“I don’t mind,” he lets out. He seems unable to use his businessman tone, and he figures it’s probably because he doesn’t really think of this as a business.
The boy raises his eyebrow, skeptical, but he doesn’t contradict him. “So what do you want?” he asks, but his voice is tinted by boredom and a distinctive lack of interest.
Sehun stays on his spot. “I want your number,” he admits, making sure to sound confident and hoping it won’t be mistaken for pedantry.
At this, the expression on the dancer’s face goes from skeptical to uncredulous, and Sehun thinks he can even see a bit of displeasure. “Excuse me?” he snaps back. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is not Grindr. I’m not here to get a date.” His tone isn’t rude, exactly; but it leaves no space for retorts. “You don’t pay, you don’t get the service.”
“I never said I wasn’t going to,” clarifies Sehun, deadpan. Of course, he isn’t surprised to get this reaction; but he had made his decision as soon as he saw the manager. “You don’t get to keep one hundred percent of everything you make here, am I right?” When the boy doesn’t reply, he takes it as a concession. “So that’s what I’m offering you. Extraofficiality, if you will.”
Kai seems to ponder. He doesn’t want to trust him, and Sehun’s can’t blame him. But the offer is too good to decline, and of course, that’s what the young CEO was counting on.
Finally, he finds a loophole. “He already saw us going in here. You can’t just walk out without paying.”
“I will, of course,” Sehun agrees. “You’ll get your percentage of that, too.”
The boy’s eyes narrow; two thin crescent moons that stare him down. “Then what do you earn from it?”
The business grins. “Paying double isn’t a problem for me. You’ve seen how much I’ve tipped you. What I earn is the satisfaction of knowing he,” Sehun delivers, his head tilting in the general direction the main area of the club should be, “doesn’t get any of it for once.”
It’s a few moments before Kai moves at all. His eyes don’t leave Sehun’s, as if trying to discern his intentions. In the end, he seems to deem him honest -either that, or the idea of going behind his boss gives him the same thrill it does for Sehun.
He takes a step towards Sehun, grabbing his arm easily and cuffing his sleeve up to his elbow; then he goes back to his bag and rummages through it. When he comes back, there’s the cap of a Sharpie trapped between a row of perfect teeth, and Sehun watches him scribble eleven digits right below the crease of his elbow. While Sehun isn’t happy about how long it’s going to take him to wash it away, he appreciates the fact that the ink won’t ruin the white broadcloth of his shirt.
“Text me in twenty minutes,” says the dancer, quickly capping the marker and tossing it back into his backpack. “I’ll give you the address. And wait a bit before going out -I have a reputation to keep up.”
That’s it. In one swift motion, he picks his bag back up and goes out the door, and Sehun watches him walk away in a different route than they’d taken to go in.
He glances back at his forearm, where the ink blinks at him dark and accusing.
***
It takes Sehun longer to find the apartment than it had taken him to checkout. The neighborhood is far from what Sehun is used to. The paint peels off the walls and more lights are out than on. There are alleys he’s only seen in movies and deemed exaggerated. A lone dog digs up in a collapsed trashcan.
He finds the building after a while, but only because of the figure that awaits him at the door. He can’t see his face; it’s hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt and the shadow it casts. He recognizes, however, the logo on the front of the hoodie and the frayed state of the end of the sleeves.
His car doesn’t match the landscape, and he knows it’s not the safest environment. But, at this point, he doesn’t have an option. He leaves the coat in the passenger seat and keeps his sleeves cuffed just below his elbows. Although he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it a little bit more unkempt, he doesn’t match the landscape, either.
They meet at the door, and in the poor lighting, it’s only the bow of his lips and the rigor of his shoulders that gives the dancer’s identity away.
He guides him in silence through stairs with walls as shelled as the building’s façade, stains that either won’t come out or no one has attempted, and burnt out lightbulbs that nobody seems interested in replacing. Of course, there’s no elevator. His hands stay hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and his face, ducked downwards.
After what Sehun counted to be four floors, Kai stops at a door with a C drawn in marker in the middle at eye level. His hand emerges from his pocket with a small key in his fist, and when he opens the door, he goes in hastily, gesturing at Sehun to do the same.
The place is just barely big enough for one. Bed, fridge and a small couch coexist in one room, with the only exception of a tiny bathroom Sehun sees through the door ajar. There’s no table. On one of the walls, a few shelves hold a small collection of books in piles that threaten to collapse. In the far corner, on the bed, there are no sheets, a discolored blanket spills onto the floor, and the pillowcase is just a shirt turned inside out.
“Sorry about the bed,” the boy says when he sees Sehun’s eyes on it. He looks tired, and he sounds tired, too. “My sheets… they’re in the laundry.”
“It’s okay,” Sehun assures. “I don’t mind.” He means it. This place most definitely lacks the luxury the club has, but if Sehun had been looking for luxury he would have stayed home.
He takes a tentative step towards the dancer, but there isn’t much space to test. Another two and they’re face to face, and Sehun isn’t a saint, but without the boy’s initiative, he doesn’t think they would have gotten anything done. It’s only the grip of his fingers on the front of his shirt that has Sehun wrapping his arms around Kai’s waist. It’s only the nip of his teeth on Sehun’s bottom lip that has him pulling him closer. It’s only his fingers digging in the soft mane of Sehun’s raven hair, tugging at it eagerly, that has him thinking that possibly, maybe, he wants him too.
He only has to take two more steps to have the back of Jongin’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and make him topple over it, landing on top of him and propping himself on his elbows. He only has to tug at the boy’s hoodie once to have him pull it over his head, skin soft, warm and exposed underneath it. He only has to run his hands over it, slowly, to have him arching his back up into him.
A few of the buttons of his dress shirt plummet to the ground, and Sehun doesn’t think he’s going to miss them. Before he can realize, the rest of their clothes join the boy’s blanket on the floor, and a chain of tiny bruises blossom along the caramel expanse of Kai’s neck and down to his shoulder.
It’s easy for Sehun’s lips to find the dip right under his collarbones. It’s easy for Kai’s nails to imprint red crescent moons on Sehun’s back.
It’s easy as a whole, really, because, with Kai in his arms, Sehun manages to forget he’s still a businessman. With Kai in his arms, Sehun manages to forget this is yet another transaction.
The dancer has the kind of ease one only gets with practice. Sehun has the kind of confidence one only gets by faking it. Sehun isn’t a saint by any means, but he doesn’t recall ever being so engrossed in someone before. Most times before, he’s been driven by hormones and the heat of the moment, and giving is so hard; taking had always been easier. He hadn’t yet truly experienced the desire to watch someone unwind beneath him. He hadn’t ever wanted to break someone’s walls.
It’s a completely new experience to be so enthralled that he forgets this is about him, too. Even more so: that this is supposed to be more about him than it is about anyone else. But he’s too preoccupied with the mess of Kai’s hair and the bead of sweat on the back of his neck; too captivated by the abused state of his lips and the sheen of his tongue when it comes out to wet them, and the marks his teeth leave on Sehun’s shoulders, and the way his eyes roll back as he struggles to pronounce a name he doesn’t know. He hadn’t asked, and Sehun had forgotten to say. And he regrets it now, when he has to imagine how it would sound in his warm voice, forceful and raw.
He allows himself a couple of minutes to catch his breath, and the boy lets him. He doesn’t push him away or roll out from under him, although his eyes are fixated on the ceiling above them. The lightbulb is naked, too.
When he feels like he’ll be able to walk without his knees failing him, he gathers his clothes and puts them on hastily. He feels dirty, but he also perceives a rush of adrenaline he hopes he won’t get addicted to.
They don’t say much. The boy slips into a clean pair of boxers, this time a faded blue. Sehun brushes his own hair back with his fingers, leaves a wad of bills on the small side table that’s right next to the door and walks out. When he looks back, the door is already closed.
***
After the encounter, things go back to normal, more or less. Sehun goes back to his routine, crispy papers piling up on his pristinely white desk, black tie already loosened up, back aching and eyes dry. The silver pen is heavy on his hand. A rhythmic knock on the door.
“Come in,” instructs Sehun without looking up, as he signs yet another contract.
His secretary comes in the room and closes the door behind him -an unequivocal sign that something, without a doubt, went wrong.
“I think it’s safe to say we have a really big problem in our hands,” says the secretary, pulling the chair across from him and sitting down without asking for further instructions. Kyungsoo, Sehun’s secretary, happens to also be a close friend of his friend since high school, although his professionalism forbids him from interrupting him during work hours.
Sehun puts his pen down. “Shoot.”
“There’s a new agency opening up next month. Yes, I see your face, they shouldn’t be a problem, they’re so new, they aren’t at our level, but.”
“But?” prompts Sehun, tossing a pile of papers into a drawer.
Kyungsoo taps his fingertips on the laminate of the desk. “I’ve been doing some research, and turns out they have very good connections. It’s called KS Models and the owner is Byun Baekhyun, the son of the CEO of Nylon Korea, so you know damn well they’re gonna have very easy access.”
Sehun puts his pen down. This is a problem indeed. “What do we know of their style?”
“Not much yet,” Kyungsoo says, setting down a folder before him. “This is as much as I gathered. They keep everything hush, they want to go out with a bang or something. As far as I know, they have a couple of models already with a very wide aesthetic.” He opens the folder and starts laying pictures before Sehun in a row. At first glance, they do seem a little eclectic, but the longer Sehun looks at them, the more he can see the connection between them: clean lines that make them suitable for high fashion, but also a sense of normalcy that brings it down a notch and makes you think you might also see this on the street. Overall, they all seem like extremely good looking boys-and-girls-next-door.
“This is… very similar to what we look for.” Sehun can see why this sparked a sense of alarm on his secretary.
Ever since Sehun started running this company, his vision has been very clear: he doesn’t want anything that can seem unreal. He doesn’t want his models to be like untouchable gods -he doesn’t want his agency to be associated with a cluster of goals that are impossible to reach. What he wants to portray is the exact opposite: that beauty can be found in practically any context, without the limits of beauty canons and social acceptableness and an army of clones.
And all the people that currently lie on his desk look like people he wouldn’t doubt in recruiting.
“I know,” nods Kyungsoo. “I don’t think it’s intentional, but the standards are changing. The influences are coming from a wider spectrum and this is going to be a double issue for us: not only do they now have another option that can offer something very similar to what we’ve been offering, but we’re also going to be tugging on potential models somebody else will also want.”
Sehun allows himself to process this, to really break it down. And he comes to the conclusion that there isn’t much he can do, aside from, well, stepping up his game enough that they will no longer be considered competence.
Which, after all, is not very different than what he’s been doing so far, and what’s gotten him to where he is.
***
He had hoped it’d disappear, the same way he can buy a gallon of salted caramel ice cream when he gets the craving and have it on a Saturday night, with his feet on the coffee table and his dog next to him on the couch, and it’d all be gone like it’d never existed.
It is, however, not the case.
It had taken a total of three showers for the ink to completely disappear from his arm, and eight days after, every time he closes his eyes he can see it all again. He feels the ghosts of his fingertips, gliding down his back. He can feel it inside, crawling into his skin. It’s distracting, frustrating, and Sehun is afraid to admit that, at this rate, it’s not going away anytime soon.
He waits, still. He waits until he can’t handle it any longer; until he can’t find any more distractions or reasons to delay it. He waits until Kyungsoo sends him home early, prying a folder from his hands with gentle fingers and advising a bath and chamomile tea, and Sehun lies back in his bathtub, bubbles up to his chin, phone in his hand, and the thrill of a child at the chance of a surprise gift.
To: Kai
Are you free tonight?
If Sehun was expecting a quick reply, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t double check, because he’s not that lame, but his phone doesn’t chime until, long minutes later, the pale lavender foam has started to dissipate.
From: Kai
Later. Why? Wanna meet up?
Sehun takes his time to respond as well, although his behavior isn’t justified -he knows well that the guy was probably at work, given the time, and he owes him nothing anyway. Yet he steps out of the tub leisurely, draping himself in a warm bathrobe and picking up his empty glass with the remnants of Chardonnay. And even though by the time he gets back to his phone it’s barely been a total of three minutes, the small victory is still his to claim.
To: Kai
Can you come over?
This time, the reply is instantaneous. Sehun types a quick answer before making his way to his bedroom, bare feet quickly coming one after the other, silent on the dark carpet, no sound echoing in the entire house.
***
He keeps himself from walking up and down the hall. Instead, he sits on the couch, agitated. The white leather sticks to his skin where it touches him, and his foot taps on the wooden floor involuntarily. Vivi judges him from his position on the floor.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sehun scowls to the small poodle. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Vivi doesn’t acknowledge his remark, right or wrong, but the ring on the door does startle the both of them, even though Sehun was expecting it.
From outside, Kai cocks a brow at him through the glass of the front door, deep blue hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, although upon a first inspection, they shouldn’t have fit. The material clings to slim thighs, and Sehun does his best to not stare while the boy steps into his home.
“Nice place,” he says, but his voice doesn’t hold admiration. He isn’t surprised, naturally.
“Thanks,” replies Sehun out of politeness. He’s still unsure of the way he should talk to him; how formal is too formal, and how casual is too casual. He assumes he should speak in a way that makes them both feel comfortable, but whereas Kai doesn’t seem to care, Sehun isn’t exactly comfortable with the situation altogether. Most of all, he’s uncomfortable with the idea that he might not want to let go, at least for now, and he doesn’t know what that says of him as a man, or as a person. As a professional, even.
He still doesn’t know how he should go about it. He can convince another CEO that his interests are theirs, too, quicker than Kyungsoo can bring them coffee, but he’s never been able to get comfortable with people as quickly as most people his age do. He also had never paid for sex before Kai, let alone multiple times, and he’s painfully aware that he isn’t visiting him to play videogames until five a.m., like Kyungsoo would. The situation is strange as a whole, and when stripped off his business suit, Sehun is clumsy, inelegant. Distinguished, of course; but nonetheless meager in most social situations.
So he clears his throat. “Would you like something to drink?” he offers. He feels inadequate, in his designer dark wash jeans next to Kai’s well-worn ones, out of place in his own home.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he hears Jongin reply, hood falling off and uncovering chocolate hair, but he’s already turning his back towards the kitchen. When he returns, the boy is crouching next to the couch, where Vivi lies on his back, with Kai’s hand running through his fur.
“He never does that,” Sehun lets out, surprised, a bottle in his right hand, two glasses in the left. And when Kai looks up at him, eyes big with a curiosity Sehun hasn’t witnessed before, peeking from under his fringe, he clarifies: “He never likes anyone. He’s known Kyungsoo for years and he still won’t let him touch him. My secretary,” he adds, just in case. Not that it matters. Not that Kai cares, anyway.
He pets the poodle one more time before getting up. “I have three dogs,” he says, glancing back at him. “Back in my parents’ place. Maybe that’s why.”
This is the first fact about himself Kai has let out in Sehun’s presence, and he stores it as such. He has dogs. He also has parents. Alright.
He takes the glasses from him, and Sehun pours the beverage on both of them. He almost went for champagne, but he figured that was maybe too celebratory. They had nothing to celebrate. This was still business, not a birthday party.
Sehun sees, but doesn’t watch, Kai as he sips from the glass, weighing it in his hand. He clacks his tongue once.
“Cabernet?” he asks.
Sehun nods. “Sauvignon. Australian.”
“Ah,” says the boy. He takes another sip. His sweatshirt covers his neck partially, although it doesn’t cover all of the marks there. They match the wine, in a way.
He sits on the couch, and Vivi scoots closer to him. A tinge of jealousy creeps up the back of his mind. Vivi doesn’t ever favor anyone but him.
“You worked today?” he asks, however. It’s not just the marks on his skin, but also the tired hunch of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes. It’s the way that, every time he blinks, his eyes stay closed for a millisecond too long. He nods. Sehun hadn’t expected any different. “I’m sorry,” he says then. “You should have told me you were tired.”
He shrugs, finishing what’s left of his drink. “It’s okay,” he says, and Sehun understands he really can’t say any different. “Come, sit,” he continues, and if it hadn’t somewhat taken him aback, Sehun would have probably laughed at this stranger inviting him to take a seat on his own couch. But he is somewhat taken aback, and so he sits, Vivi’s paws tapping on the wooden floor mutely as he leaves the room, like he, too, noticed the change in the atmosphere.
Sehun’s glass is pried off his fingers and left somewhere on the coffee table, and on his lap there’s the weight of a boy about whom he only knows a name that might not even be his real one, and that he has dogs, and a killer stare that reduces Sehun to shards. He can, in fact, feel a sequence of thoughts slip out from his grasp at the same rate he can feel Kai’s fingers tapping on his ribs, humming to a sequence he can’t pick up. Because in all the places Sehun had taken control last time, he realizes it had been the other way around all along. And that’s distressing, in a sense. Sehun doesn’t know how not to be in control.
But he isn’t, and he thinks that only adds to the rush. And now it’s evident, with the steady grip of his hands in Sehun’s hair, still damp near the roots. It’s evident in the shift of his hips, gloriously precise and infuriatingly slow. He tastes of mint and cedar and the sheer bitterness of infatuation, of something he has but can’t keep, and so, for now, he holds him closer.
>> continue reading
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a/n: it wouldnt fit obvi, see ya in the next part
Lenght: one-shot
Characters: Sehun (centric), Kai, rest of EXO (ot9)
Pairings: Sehun/Kai
AU: sex workers?
Rating: nc15
Word count: 12.266
Genre: fluff, some smut? slight angst?
Warnings/notes: sex workers (obviously); non-explicit sexual content; engaging in sexual acts while underage (still past the age of consent, worry not); underage drinking; ages have been twisted and Sehun is a little older than Jongin; unholy mentions of Jesus Christ; sappiness tbh; Sehun in a suit proceed with caution; soft Jongin; not what you'd expect from a sex workers au.
Summary: Sehun only wants to unwind, to let loose. Jongin reels him in like no other, but Sehun doesn't know where they stand.
"The dancer has the kind of ease one only gets with practice. Sehun has the kind of confidence one only gets by faking it."
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The first word that comes to mind is, without a doubt, sketchy.
There are neon lights everywhere, but not all of them are functioning. Some have gone out and haven’t yet been replaced. A black light lamp illuminates the bar, where four barkeepers tend the bunch of people, mostly male, that sit on tall velvet-cushioned stalls.
No one will explain why they won’t ask you for identifications at the door. No one will tell you why the EXIT sign is crooked.
Across the bar, several scaffolds connected to a main stage are surrounded by handfuls of armchairs and coffee tables. There’s no dancefloor. At the back, black curtains tinted by red lights hide a set of glass doors that only come to sight when they get crossed by pairs, who are quick to disappear behind them.
It’s early, so the place is mostly empty. There are more workers there than there are customers, and when he checks the time, the metal of his watch heavy on his wrist, Sehun assumes it’ll probably be a while until anything worthwhile starts taking place. So he sits in one of the armchairs -the one that seems the least damaged, probably due to not having the best view of the closest stage- and calls one of the waitresses over, a girl with a kind smile and a gracious walk, draped in black and silver, that towers over him in vertiginous heels.
Sehun’s fingers grip the stem of a martini glass shortly after, olive spinning in the bottom as he moves the glass around. The pleasant herbal aroma of the vermouth dances right under his nose, and at the first sip, his eyes close. He’s had a long day. Truthfully, he only wants to relax tonight, and the place is quiet, soft music pouring from the speakers. The click-clack of the waitresses’ heels and the click-clack of the glasses at the bar feel like white noise and Sehun thinks that, under different circumstances, maybe he would have fallen asleep.
His thoughts get interrupted by light chatter at his back, not for being particularly loud or particularly interesting (really, it’s nothing but small talk), but because it’s quiet and this sound is new in this environment, and Sehun can’t help but glance back.
What he sees is nothing out of the ordinary; just a group of three boys that come inside, greeting the bartenders and waiters by their names as if they were used to seeing them all the time. More workers, probably -what’s their role exactly, Sehun can’t know. All he knows is one of them, though objectively attractive, seems dull; and when the waitress cracks a joke the other two laugh at, the boy manages a smile, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes.
***
It’s easy enough to let loose. It’s easy enough to sit back, with a cocktail in his hand and his eyes roaming around the room, watching the dancers but not really looking. His spot isn’t as bad as he had originally thought -it spares him from most of the attention, though a piece of clothing or two have landed on his lap already.
He tips well, because he can afford it. He tips even the ones that aren’t of his liking; the ones that are too boring and the ones that are too vulgar; the ones that fix their attention too much on him and the ones that don’t even look at him at all. He tips them because, after all, that’s their job, and whether he is enjoying it or not, nobody asked him to sit there and watch.
He’s only mildly surprised when two of the guys he saw at the entrance come on stage. They are both tall and slim, skin taut over lean muscle, yet they seem to be yin and yang: one of them, light complexion, light hair, moves sharp and powerful. The other, smooth as a summer breeze, has dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin is the golden brown of honey in the sunlight. It doesn’t take Sehun any time to connect this guy to the one he saw earlier, albeit they don’t really seem like the same person at all. The guy he saw earlier had sad eyes and his figure hidden under a worn-out hoodie, and he was reluctant to making eye contact for more than five seconds at a time. This guy, however, has the looks of a model and the soul of a fiery star, burning from within. He acts like the stage is his, and Sehun has no doubt that he’s right. To him, at least; he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off him.
And it surprises him, because when he saw him back there, he didn’t give it a second thought. And it’s not about his body, Sehun thinks, and it’s not about his face. It’s not even about the way his hands go up to brush locks of hair away from it, skin glistening with sweat. It’s more about his confidence; about the way his eyes fix on the public, drinking up their stares. It’s about how it seems like he probably knows he has some sort of flaw (although none of them are discernable, at least to Sehun’s eyes), but he also knows his fortes outnumber them by much. He knows he’s going to reel them in, whether they want it or not. He knows he’s untouchable.
Sehun almost forgets there’s another dancer on the main stage, so when he looks up at the screen behind it, he’s briefly confused to read two names dancing across it. He doesn’t know which belongs to whom.
He tips, of course, even more so than before. When he’s sliding the bills, folded neatly, into the waistband of the dancer’s boxers, his fingertips graze his skin ever so slightly, and he’s warm and slick with sweat. His eyes are deep and intense and seem to find Sehun’s easily, his quickened breath hovering above him, yet not close enough. It lasts for half a second, maybe less even; but it leaves Sehun breathless and wanting, throat dry, skin burning where it touched him, and eyes blurry with desire. They follow him as he rounds the room, and even as focused as he is, he can tell he is not the only one the dancer has this effect on. He can’t blame them.
Sehun can’t help but wonder, if vaguely, how long he must have been doing this to get so good at it.
The voice from the speakers, an invisible host, pronounces their names again over the music. The other dancer, the one Sehun’s eyes neglected, waves, flirty, at the sound of his own name. Lay, apparently. And finally, Sehun’s favorite does the same. His name, now clear with the way he nods his head at it, rolls off Sehun’s tongue in a whisper.
He makes sure to remember it, although he doesn’t think he could possibly forget it.
***
It was a matter of luck, or maybe destiny, the first time Sehun landed in Galactik Strip Club; or so would he think if he believed in such a thing. Then again, Sehun doesn’t believe in much: only in the power of money and his competitors’ desire to watch him fall, and in the extents of his own willpower. It had only been, however, a matter of convenience. He had taken a new route home and come across this place, going in without much thought. He wanted a drink, really; he wanted to unwind and find something to distract him from the paperwork and the business plans, from the meetings, from being politically correct. He wanted, just for a little while, to have no worries.
The second time, nevertheless, is completely purposeful, though he wouldn’t admit it even to himself. He’d convince himself that he was just stressed, that he needed a diversion. He’d say there were just too many frequent customers at his usual bar, that the bartenders knew him enough to ask questions but not well enough to not be a burden. He’d say he needed something new.
And, in a way, he wouldn’t be lying. Technically. Because although it’s true that he needs something new, he knows damn well that his craving can’t be satisfied with a whisky on the rocks and a few songs he doesn’t know the lyrics to. What he wants, specifically, dances around in skimpy clothing Sehun hasn’t ever until now found attractive, and this time around he thinks he maybe glances at him from time to time, too.
The experience is just as intoxicating as it was the first time around, if not more, now that Sehun knows his name. It’s well known that you should not give a name to something you aren’t allowed to even want. The name itself is short, and it sounds nice in the host’s voice; but it would sound nicer in Sehun’s lips.
He almost doesn’t enjoy the show as much, as impatient as he is for it to finish. Almost. He tips him a handful of crumpled bills that he hopes will stand for a promise of a sort. And after he’s disappeared behind the curtain, Sehun doesn’t waste his time before standing up and getting in motion.
He doesn’t know how this works. He’s never done it, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t send a rush of shame down his spine. It’s somewhat unethical, he figures, and probably unscrupulous of him to do. At this point, however, he can’t bring himself to care enough to stop.
A man in a suit watches him from a corner, a glass of red wine in his hand and his dark hair slicked back, contrasting against his fair complexion. He sits in a velvet armchair the color of the contents of his glass, an arm propped on the armrest; the other, tilting his glass slightly sideways. He looks distinguished, like the men Sehun receives in his office every day. And that, in a place like this, can only mean one thing.
“Are you the manager?” asks Sehun calmly, with the tone he reserves for particularly difficult clients; one that says I know what I’m doing, what I want, and how to get it, and you better collaborate. It’s a tone that guarantees he won’t get toyed with.
The man casts him the hint of a smile. “Kim Joonmyeon,” he replies, without moving one millimeter from his position; “at your service.”
Sehun doesn’t trust him. He looks like a businessman, and he knows those all too well. There’s not one day he doesn’t see one in the mirror. “I’m looking for one of your… employees. His name is Kai?” His voice doesn’t quiver -it’s trained to stay stable under all circumstances.
“Ah,” grins the man -Joonmyeon. “My star.” He snaps his fingers, his eyes never leaving Sehun’s. It makes him uncomfortable, even if he’d never let it show. Sehun knows -he can tell- that something about him is off. One of the waitresses (the one that had brought Sehun his first martini in here, he notices) joins them. “Yooah, sweetheart, could you please bring our dear Kai to accompany us?”
The girl leaves with a nod and a “Yes, sir”, disappearing as quickly as she arrived. And in the time it takes her to get the dancer, Joonmyeon doesn’t say a word: an awkward silence Sehun has no interest in breaking; he isn’t interested in anything this man has to say.
The boy comes back without the waitress, in simple clothes and with a backpack hanging lopsided from his shoulder. His intentions are clear, though if Joonmyeon notices, his façade doesn’t sell him.
“You have an admirer, my dear,” he says, his tone soft and mellow. Sehun hates him instantly.
The dancer -probably used to his manners- seems all but intimidated. “My shift just ended,” he informs just as calmly. His voice is deep yet strangely melodic. It simultaneously matches his looks perfectly and not at all. Barefaced, purplish shadows darken his eyes.
A tiny wrinkle forms right in between the manager’s eyebrows, so small Sehun wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been expecting it. “This job doesn’t stop at 5 o’clock and pick up the next morning, Kai. You know this well.”
A rictus flashes across his face briefly, and after one blink, it’s gone. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, and he glances at Sehun for half a second. “Follow me,” he instructs before starting towards the dark curtains, and before following him Sehun sees, out of the corner of his eye, a smirking Joonmyeon whose eyes stay stuck to his back.
***
“I’m not at my best, currently, as you can see. I was about to leave. Almost at the door, actually.”
Kai tosses his backpack on the floor, in the corner furthest from them of the small room. It lands right against the mirror that covers the whole wall, making the small space seem twice as big. The king size bed stands in the center of the room, its jet black duvet covers draping around it down to the floor. The dancer stands next to it, looking way more comfortable than Sehun feels.
“I don’t mind,” he lets out. He seems unable to use his businessman tone, and he figures it’s probably because he doesn’t really think of this as a business.
The boy raises his eyebrow, skeptical, but he doesn’t contradict him. “So what do you want?” he asks, but his voice is tinted by boredom and a distinctive lack of interest.
Sehun stays on his spot. “I want your number,” he admits, making sure to sound confident and hoping it won’t be mistaken for pedantry.
At this, the expression on the dancer’s face goes from skeptical to uncredulous, and Sehun thinks he can even see a bit of displeasure. “Excuse me?” he snaps back. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is not Grindr. I’m not here to get a date.” His tone isn’t rude, exactly; but it leaves no space for retorts. “You don’t pay, you don’t get the service.”
“I never said I wasn’t going to,” clarifies Sehun, deadpan. Of course, he isn’t surprised to get this reaction; but he had made his decision as soon as he saw the manager. “You don’t get to keep one hundred percent of everything you make here, am I right?” When the boy doesn’t reply, he takes it as a concession. “So that’s what I’m offering you. Extraofficiality, if you will.”
Kai seems to ponder. He doesn’t want to trust him, and Sehun’s can’t blame him. But the offer is too good to decline, and of course, that’s what the young CEO was counting on.
Finally, he finds a loophole. “He already saw us going in here. You can’t just walk out without paying.”
“I will, of course,” Sehun agrees. “You’ll get your percentage of that, too.”
The boy’s eyes narrow; two thin crescent moons that stare him down. “Then what do you earn from it?”
The business grins. “Paying double isn’t a problem for me. You’ve seen how much I’ve tipped you. What I earn is the satisfaction of knowing he,” Sehun delivers, his head tilting in the general direction the main area of the club should be, “doesn’t get any of it for once.”
It’s a few moments before Kai moves at all. His eyes don’t leave Sehun’s, as if trying to discern his intentions. In the end, he seems to deem him honest -either that, or the idea of going behind his boss gives him the same thrill it does for Sehun.
He takes a step towards Sehun, grabbing his arm easily and cuffing his sleeve up to his elbow; then he goes back to his bag and rummages through it. When he comes back, there’s the cap of a Sharpie trapped between a row of perfect teeth, and Sehun watches him scribble eleven digits right below the crease of his elbow. While Sehun isn’t happy about how long it’s going to take him to wash it away, he appreciates the fact that the ink won’t ruin the white broadcloth of his shirt.
“Text me in twenty minutes,” says the dancer, quickly capping the marker and tossing it back into his backpack. “I’ll give you the address. And wait a bit before going out -I have a reputation to keep up.”
That’s it. In one swift motion, he picks his bag back up and goes out the door, and Sehun watches him walk away in a different route than they’d taken to go in.
He glances back at his forearm, where the ink blinks at him dark and accusing.
***
It takes Sehun longer to find the apartment than it had taken him to checkout. The neighborhood is far from what Sehun is used to. The paint peels off the walls and more lights are out than on. There are alleys he’s only seen in movies and deemed exaggerated. A lone dog digs up in a collapsed trashcan.
He finds the building after a while, but only because of the figure that awaits him at the door. He can’t see his face; it’s hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt and the shadow it casts. He recognizes, however, the logo on the front of the hoodie and the frayed state of the end of the sleeves.
His car doesn’t match the landscape, and he knows it’s not the safest environment. But, at this point, he doesn’t have an option. He leaves the coat in the passenger seat and keeps his sleeves cuffed just below his elbows. Although he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it a little bit more unkempt, he doesn’t match the landscape, either.
They meet at the door, and in the poor lighting, it’s only the bow of his lips and the rigor of his shoulders that gives the dancer’s identity away.
He guides him in silence through stairs with walls as shelled as the building’s façade, stains that either won’t come out or no one has attempted, and burnt out lightbulbs that nobody seems interested in replacing. Of course, there’s no elevator. His hands stay hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and his face, ducked downwards.
After what Sehun counted to be four floors, Kai stops at a door with a C drawn in marker in the middle at eye level. His hand emerges from his pocket with a small key in his fist, and when he opens the door, he goes in hastily, gesturing at Sehun to do the same.
The place is just barely big enough for one. Bed, fridge and a small couch coexist in one room, with the only exception of a tiny bathroom Sehun sees through the door ajar. There’s no table. On one of the walls, a few shelves hold a small collection of books in piles that threaten to collapse. In the far corner, on the bed, there are no sheets, a discolored blanket spills onto the floor, and the pillowcase is just a shirt turned inside out.
“Sorry about the bed,” the boy says when he sees Sehun’s eyes on it. He looks tired, and he sounds tired, too. “My sheets… they’re in the laundry.”
“It’s okay,” Sehun assures. “I don’t mind.” He means it. This place most definitely lacks the luxury the club has, but if Sehun had been looking for luxury he would have stayed home.
He takes a tentative step towards the dancer, but there isn’t much space to test. Another two and they’re face to face, and Sehun isn’t a saint, but without the boy’s initiative, he doesn’t think they would have gotten anything done. It’s only the grip of his fingers on the front of his shirt that has Sehun wrapping his arms around Kai’s waist. It’s only the nip of his teeth on Sehun’s bottom lip that has him pulling him closer. It’s only his fingers digging in the soft mane of Sehun’s raven hair, tugging at it eagerly, that has him thinking that possibly, maybe, he wants him too.
He only has to take two more steps to have the back of Jongin’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and make him topple over it, landing on top of him and propping himself on his elbows. He only has to tug at the boy’s hoodie once to have him pull it over his head, skin soft, warm and exposed underneath it. He only has to run his hands over it, slowly, to have him arching his back up into him.
A few of the buttons of his dress shirt plummet to the ground, and Sehun doesn’t think he’s going to miss them. Before he can realize, the rest of their clothes join the boy’s blanket on the floor, and a chain of tiny bruises blossom along the caramel expanse of Kai’s neck and down to his shoulder.
It’s easy for Sehun’s lips to find the dip right under his collarbones. It’s easy for Kai’s nails to imprint red crescent moons on Sehun’s back.
It’s easy as a whole, really, because, with Kai in his arms, Sehun manages to forget he’s still a businessman. With Kai in his arms, Sehun manages to forget this is yet another transaction.
The dancer has the kind of ease one only gets with practice. Sehun has the kind of confidence one only gets by faking it. Sehun isn’t a saint by any means, but he doesn’t recall ever being so engrossed in someone before. Most times before, he’s been driven by hormones and the heat of the moment, and giving is so hard; taking had always been easier. He hadn’t yet truly experienced the desire to watch someone unwind beneath him. He hadn’t ever wanted to break someone’s walls.
It’s a completely new experience to be so enthralled that he forgets this is about him, too. Even more so: that this is supposed to be more about him than it is about anyone else. But he’s too preoccupied with the mess of Kai’s hair and the bead of sweat on the back of his neck; too captivated by the abused state of his lips and the sheen of his tongue when it comes out to wet them, and the marks his teeth leave on Sehun’s shoulders, and the way his eyes roll back as he struggles to pronounce a name he doesn’t know. He hadn’t asked, and Sehun had forgotten to say. And he regrets it now, when he has to imagine how it would sound in his warm voice, forceful and raw.
He allows himself a couple of minutes to catch his breath, and the boy lets him. He doesn’t push him away or roll out from under him, although his eyes are fixated on the ceiling above them. The lightbulb is naked, too.
When he feels like he’ll be able to walk without his knees failing him, he gathers his clothes and puts them on hastily. He feels dirty, but he also perceives a rush of adrenaline he hopes he won’t get addicted to.
They don’t say much. The boy slips into a clean pair of boxers, this time a faded blue. Sehun brushes his own hair back with his fingers, leaves a wad of bills on the small side table that’s right next to the door and walks out. When he looks back, the door is already closed.
***
After the encounter, things go back to normal, more or less. Sehun goes back to his routine, crispy papers piling up on his pristinely white desk, black tie already loosened up, back aching and eyes dry. The silver pen is heavy on his hand. A rhythmic knock on the door.
“Come in,” instructs Sehun without looking up, as he signs yet another contract.
His secretary comes in the room and closes the door behind him -an unequivocal sign that something, without a doubt, went wrong.
“I think it’s safe to say we have a really big problem in our hands,” says the secretary, pulling the chair across from him and sitting down without asking for further instructions. Kyungsoo, Sehun’s secretary, happens to also be a close friend of his friend since high school, although his professionalism forbids him from interrupting him during work hours.
Sehun puts his pen down. “Shoot.”
“There’s a new agency opening up next month. Yes, I see your face, they shouldn’t be a problem, they’re so new, they aren’t at our level, but.”
“But?” prompts Sehun, tossing a pile of papers into a drawer.
Kyungsoo taps his fingertips on the laminate of the desk. “I’ve been doing some research, and turns out they have very good connections. It’s called KS Models and the owner is Byun Baekhyun, the son of the CEO of Nylon Korea, so you know damn well they’re gonna have very easy access.”
Sehun puts his pen down. This is a problem indeed. “What do we know of their style?”
“Not much yet,” Kyungsoo says, setting down a folder before him. “This is as much as I gathered. They keep everything hush, they want to go out with a bang or something. As far as I know, they have a couple of models already with a very wide aesthetic.” He opens the folder and starts laying pictures before Sehun in a row. At first glance, they do seem a little eclectic, but the longer Sehun looks at them, the more he can see the connection between them: clean lines that make them suitable for high fashion, but also a sense of normalcy that brings it down a notch and makes you think you might also see this on the street. Overall, they all seem like extremely good looking boys-and-girls-next-door.
“This is… very similar to what we look for.” Sehun can see why this sparked a sense of alarm on his secretary.
Ever since Sehun started running this company, his vision has been very clear: he doesn’t want anything that can seem unreal. He doesn’t want his models to be like untouchable gods -he doesn’t want his agency to be associated with a cluster of goals that are impossible to reach. What he wants to portray is the exact opposite: that beauty can be found in practically any context, without the limits of beauty canons and social acceptableness and an army of clones.
And all the people that currently lie on his desk look like people he wouldn’t doubt in recruiting.
“I know,” nods Kyungsoo. “I don’t think it’s intentional, but the standards are changing. The influences are coming from a wider spectrum and this is going to be a double issue for us: not only do they now have another option that can offer something very similar to what we’ve been offering, but we’re also going to be tugging on potential models somebody else will also want.”
Sehun allows himself to process this, to really break it down. And he comes to the conclusion that there isn’t much he can do, aside from, well, stepping up his game enough that they will no longer be considered competence.
Which, after all, is not very different than what he’s been doing so far, and what’s gotten him to where he is.
***
He had hoped it’d disappear, the same way he can buy a gallon of salted caramel ice cream when he gets the craving and have it on a Saturday night, with his feet on the coffee table and his dog next to him on the couch, and it’d all be gone like it’d never existed.
It is, however, not the case.
It had taken a total of three showers for the ink to completely disappear from his arm, and eight days after, every time he closes his eyes he can see it all again. He feels the ghosts of his fingertips, gliding down his back. He can feel it inside, crawling into his skin. It’s distracting, frustrating, and Sehun is afraid to admit that, at this rate, it’s not going away anytime soon.
He waits, still. He waits until he can’t handle it any longer; until he can’t find any more distractions or reasons to delay it. He waits until Kyungsoo sends him home early, prying a folder from his hands with gentle fingers and advising a bath and chamomile tea, and Sehun lies back in his bathtub, bubbles up to his chin, phone in his hand, and the thrill of a child at the chance of a surprise gift.
To: Kai
Are you free tonight?
If Sehun was expecting a quick reply, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t double check, because he’s not that lame, but his phone doesn’t chime until, long minutes later, the pale lavender foam has started to dissipate.
From: Kai
Later. Why? Wanna meet up?
Sehun takes his time to respond as well, although his behavior isn’t justified -he knows well that the guy was probably at work, given the time, and he owes him nothing anyway. Yet he steps out of the tub leisurely, draping himself in a warm bathrobe and picking up his empty glass with the remnants of Chardonnay. And even though by the time he gets back to his phone it’s barely been a total of three minutes, the small victory is still his to claim.
To: Kai
Can you come over?
This time, the reply is instantaneous. Sehun types a quick answer before making his way to his bedroom, bare feet quickly coming one after the other, silent on the dark carpet, no sound echoing in the entire house.
***
He keeps himself from walking up and down the hall. Instead, he sits on the couch, agitated. The white leather sticks to his skin where it touches him, and his foot taps on the wooden floor involuntarily. Vivi judges him from his position on the floor.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sehun scowls to the small poodle. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Vivi doesn’t acknowledge his remark, right or wrong, but the ring on the door does startle the both of them, even though Sehun was expecting it.
From outside, Kai cocks a brow at him through the glass of the front door, deep blue hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, although upon a first inspection, they shouldn’t have fit. The material clings to slim thighs, and Sehun does his best to not stare while the boy steps into his home.
“Nice place,” he says, but his voice doesn’t hold admiration. He isn’t surprised, naturally.
“Thanks,” replies Sehun out of politeness. He’s still unsure of the way he should talk to him; how formal is too formal, and how casual is too casual. He assumes he should speak in a way that makes them both feel comfortable, but whereas Kai doesn’t seem to care, Sehun isn’t exactly comfortable with the situation altogether. Most of all, he’s uncomfortable with the idea that he might not want to let go, at least for now, and he doesn’t know what that says of him as a man, or as a person. As a professional, even.
He still doesn’t know how he should go about it. He can convince another CEO that his interests are theirs, too, quicker than Kyungsoo can bring them coffee, but he’s never been able to get comfortable with people as quickly as most people his age do. He also had never paid for sex before Kai, let alone multiple times, and he’s painfully aware that he isn’t visiting him to play videogames until five a.m., like Kyungsoo would. The situation is strange as a whole, and when stripped off his business suit, Sehun is clumsy, inelegant. Distinguished, of course; but nonetheless meager in most social situations.
So he clears his throat. “Would you like something to drink?” he offers. He feels inadequate, in his designer dark wash jeans next to Kai’s well-worn ones, out of place in his own home.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he hears Jongin reply, hood falling off and uncovering chocolate hair, but he’s already turning his back towards the kitchen. When he returns, the boy is crouching next to the couch, where Vivi lies on his back, with Kai’s hand running through his fur.
“He never does that,” Sehun lets out, surprised, a bottle in his right hand, two glasses in the left. And when Kai looks up at him, eyes big with a curiosity Sehun hasn’t witnessed before, peeking from under his fringe, he clarifies: “He never likes anyone. He’s known Kyungsoo for years and he still won’t let him touch him. My secretary,” he adds, just in case. Not that it matters. Not that Kai cares, anyway.
He pets the poodle one more time before getting up. “I have three dogs,” he says, glancing back at him. “Back in my parents’ place. Maybe that’s why.”
This is the first fact about himself Kai has let out in Sehun’s presence, and he stores it as such. He has dogs. He also has parents. Alright.
He takes the glasses from him, and Sehun pours the beverage on both of them. He almost went for champagne, but he figured that was maybe too celebratory. They had nothing to celebrate. This was still business, not a birthday party.
Sehun sees, but doesn’t watch, Kai as he sips from the glass, weighing it in his hand. He clacks his tongue once.
“Cabernet?” he asks.
Sehun nods. “Sauvignon. Australian.”
“Ah,” says the boy. He takes another sip. His sweatshirt covers his neck partially, although it doesn’t cover all of the marks there. They match the wine, in a way.
He sits on the couch, and Vivi scoots closer to him. A tinge of jealousy creeps up the back of his mind. Vivi doesn’t ever favor anyone but him.
“You worked today?” he asks, however. It’s not just the marks on his skin, but also the tired hunch of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes. It’s the way that, every time he blinks, his eyes stay closed for a millisecond too long. He nods. Sehun hadn’t expected any different. “I’m sorry,” he says then. “You should have told me you were tired.”
He shrugs, finishing what’s left of his drink. “It’s okay,” he says, and Sehun understands he really can’t say any different. “Come, sit,” he continues, and if it hadn’t somewhat taken him aback, Sehun would have probably laughed at this stranger inviting him to take a seat on his own couch. But he is somewhat taken aback, and so he sits, Vivi’s paws tapping on the wooden floor mutely as he leaves the room, like he, too, noticed the change in the atmosphere.
Sehun’s glass is pried off his fingers and left somewhere on the coffee table, and on his lap there’s the weight of a boy about whom he only knows a name that might not even be his real one, and that he has dogs, and a killer stare that reduces Sehun to shards. He can, in fact, feel a sequence of thoughts slip out from his grasp at the same rate he can feel Kai’s fingers tapping on his ribs, humming to a sequence he can’t pick up. Because in all the places Sehun had taken control last time, he realizes it had been the other way around all along. And that’s distressing, in a sense. Sehun doesn’t know how not to be in control.
But he isn’t, and he thinks that only adds to the rush. And now it’s evident, with the steady grip of his hands in Sehun’s hair, still damp near the roots. It’s evident in the shift of his hips, gloriously precise and infuriatingly slow. He tastes of mint and cedar and the sheer bitterness of infatuation, of something he has but can’t keep, and so, for now, he holds him closer.
>> continue reading
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a/n: it wouldnt fit obvi, see ya in the next part