requiem for innocence

[drawingintheair]

requiem for innocence
eunhae
nc-17
growing up doesn't mean putting out your own fires. it means watching them burn until the smoke dies out
7313 words



requiem for innocence

All Hyukjae wants to do any more is dance.

The air con is still broken and the mirrors are fogged at the edges but he keeps spinning on tip toe, t-shirt drenched and hair matted down to a dirty blond. Donghae gave up half an hour ago. The heat was too much; sweat threatening to wring him dry beyond repair. Hyukjae wipes it away with his damp palms, hipbones flashing each time he raises his arms, the pale skin stretched tight over his bones.

That's when the dizziness takes over Donghae. But it's really the heat. It's always the heat.

Hyukjae is synonym with dance; he follows the rhythm of drum beats and electronic eight counts better than he does the rhythm of life. He's like those paintings Donghae has seen in school history books jumping off the pages in liquid color and splattering everywhere. Art in movement, Yunho called it once. Art in tripping over your own feet, in stammering in front of his seniors, in making Kim Heechul annoyed in two minutes flat. Hyukjae brings out the art in all of that.

But there is something about the word 'debut' that turns Hyukjae manic, obsessive, compulsive. And Donghae understands. Donghae loves dance, loves the sweat and the strain and the burn in his muscles. Feels the pressure loom over his head that an impending d-day brings.

But he eats proper meals and goes to karaoke with Jongwoon and Youngwoon, and sleeps in on Sundays. He breathes. He wants. Skin. The press of a mouth.

All Hyukjae seems to want is dance.

The song starts up again and Donghae decides, enough.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Donghae shoots back, the crumbled pack resting on his lap as he sifts around for the lighter in his pockets.

Hyukjae's face takes on a look of horror, his chest heaving from the exertion of dancing for three hours give or take. "Cigarettes? Are you serious?"

"Like you've never been curious."

"Never."

Donghae rolls his eyes, wonders if keeping the cigarettes in his sweat pants was a good idea. "You think cigarettes get ruined in humidity?"

"Donghae!"

"We're just going to try it."

"You are disgusting and I will have no part in this."

"Aww, come on. Where's the solidarity, man? What about our blood oath? We're blood brothers!"

"Blood oath? We spit and shook hands. We're spit brothers."

"Blood, spit, still body fluids. We shook on it. You're bonded to me for life."

Hyukjae's face has lost intensity, heaving breaths simmered down to quiet pants. He's sweaty all over and his neck looks sticky with heat. Donghae wonders if the skin feels as hot as it looks. His palms itch.

He distracts himself with rolling the wheel against the flint and watching the flame flicker. He's practiced this part before, years of watching the elder men on his block and city boys starved to be called adults.

Hyukjae sighs, drawn out like he's suffering, as he drops down next to Donghae. Their shoulders touch and Hyukjae leans forward to pick up the pack with disdainful fingers, the ends of his hair brushing Donghae's cheek. Hyukjae feels like a heat wave during summer, suffocating in the tiny practice room. Donghae has been thinking of nothing but suffocation for weeks.

Pressing closer, Donghae ghosts his mouth over the edge of Hyukjae's ear, asks, "Are you really not curious?"

Hyukjae's breath pushes out of his lungs harshly and his fingers tighten around the red and white box before he shoves it into Donghae's chest, such despair in the clenched "Fine," he says, Donghae tries not to smile too obviously.

They each take a cigarette. Donghae struggles for a moment, wondering if he's supposed to put it in his mouth first and then light it or the other way around while Hyukjae stares at the brownish tip of his cigarette moodily.

"This is so stupid. We're dancers. I'll be winded before I'm twenty and it'll be all your fault."

Trying his luck, Donghae lights it between his fingers. "Don't inhale the smoke. Just blow."

Hyukjae looks skeptical but he lets Donghae light him up, brings the tip cautiously to his lips. Just blow isn't as easy as it sounds and they both end up choking on ash, lungs squeezing and unforgiving.

"Why do I listen to you?" Hyukjae mutters when he gets a bit of air back. He elbows Donghae's gut for emphasis.

Donghae grasps his arm, presses his thumb to the inside of Hyukjae's elbow where the skin is fleshy and warm. "Because I'm the only one who will dance with you at three p.m. on a Sunday."

Hyukjae doesn't have a rebuttal for that one.

The itch in Donghae's palms heightens there where they touch, travels from his palms and through his veins.

"Hyukjae-"

"This isn't so bad," Hyukjae cuts him off, avoiding Donghae's eyes.

Donghae wonders if Hyukjae is being this difficult on purpose. They say Donghae is slow but Donghae isn't paying attention. Hyukjae pays too much attention, jots down notes in the margins and on his forearms, and he still doesn't get it.

It's been weeks. Weeks. Enough, Donghae thinks. He grips Hyukjae a little tighter and presses forward a little too fast. Hyukjae's shoulders jump and a drop of ash lands splat on the floor. Eyes wide, they wait for an explosion, for the room to self combust. All that happens is an ugly scorch mark on wood among sneaker scratches and ripped black tape.

"Now look what you did. They're going to kills us."

Donghae puts out his cigarette in an empty water bottle. It fizzles for a second then dies out. He takes Hyukjae's from his listless fingers and does the same. "They will not. They won't even know it's us."

"Management is going to be so disappointed."

"Lee Hyukjae you are such a good boy."

"Shut up. I am not."

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

"Prove it. Show me you're not a good boy."

Nostrils flaring, Hyukjae wrinkles the front of Donghae's shirt with his sweaty hands, jerks him forward and kisses him. Finally.

He pulls away almost instantly. "You taste like an ash tray."

"Sorry to break it to you but you don't exactly taste like candy right now."

"Oh. Right. Umm."

Donghae pushes their mouths together again. It's worse than clammy hands and frost bitten lips but Hyukjae opens his mouth up beneath Donghae's anyways, and it sends the heat crawling down Donghae's veins through his muscles and his bones, everywhere and it burns. His fingers find Hyukjae's neck and he's every bit as warm as Donghae knew he'd be.

And this is good, kissing is always good, but Donghae wants to lift Hyukjae's shirt up and feel his abdomen contract sharply, wants to shove both their sweats down so they can touch and press everywhere, quench that burn Donghae knows Hyukjae has to be feeling too. Even though Hyukjae is tugging on Donghae's lower lip and he's got his fingers gripping his shoulder and he's making these sounds in the back of his throat that have Donghae on edge, Hyukjae has this habit of teaching Donghae patience at the worst times possible.

"Wait. We should- Not here. In the. Come on."

The walk to the bathroom is almost unbearable but it's a single cubicle and no one is around when they both slip inside.

Then Hyukjae has him up against the wall, lips sliding and pulling each others' mouths apart as their hips rock. Biting bones and slippery skin, fingers grasping for purchase and slipping along gawky limbs instead. There is no need for coordination, no eight counts, just movement, raw and honest. These days, it's Donghae's favorite kind of dance. It must be Hyukjae's too because when Donghae moves to kiss his neck, Hyukjae's pulse is as erratic as his, hair sticking up and breath shallow. Donghae likes that in this dance, they are equals.

Hyukjae arches into Donghae's mouth, his voice shaky, "We're supposed to be practicing, not, not-"

The slow fire growing from Donghae's insides and reaching his bones simmers for a moment. His intentions aren't purely selfless in wanting Hyukjae to relax but Hyukjae is burning heat against him and it feels so good to have hands tugging at his hair and lips demanding his, so he pushes away any remorse, pulls Hyukjae's skin closer. You're allowed to be a little selfish with your best friend.

Hyukjae's worries are unwarranted because the heat swells inside of Donghae right there and he comes, fingers pressing into the edges of Hyukjae's hips. Hyukjae whines and Donghae bites down on his neck, ignores how he still feels his skin on fire and cups Hyukjae through his underwear as Hyukjae wraps his leg around his thigh and ruts against Donghae's slumped form.

Hyukjae's hair slides wet between Donghae's fingers, the lazy smile he presses to his jaw matches his own. "Now I remember why I listen to you."

Donghae snorts and shoves him back, laughing.

They run their soiled hands beneath the tap and huddle against the door. This time Hyukjae holds the flame and Donghae watches the smoke flood the room, swarming above their heads to the ceiling until it overflows and the smoke detector goes off. Donghae's fingers are hasty as he puts out the fire, stay long enough to discard the evidence, swearing no one will trace them back to the crime. He grips Hyukjae's wrist tight and they fly down hallways and narrow staircases to freedom, to the laughter Donghae breathes into Hyukjae's mouth three blocks away where it's safe.

There is no burn and all they taste is freedom.

***

D-day comes and goes. Things don't change much except cameras seem to follow wherever they go, women with eye liner and powder pads chase them up and down studio lots, eyes watching them everywhere.

There's no space for freedom, no place for mouth on mouth and skin on skin, no smoke to fog up the mirrors killing their secrets before they spill from their lips.

They try to tell them to sit up straighter, smile more, smile brighter, be brighter, livelier, wittier, funnier. Be more alert, be more yourself and if that doesn't work be someone else.

"I thought I was here to be a singer. And main dancer."

"Lead dancer. I'm main dancer remember, Donghae?"

"Right. Same thing more or less."

"More less than more."

"No, seriously. Can anyone tell the difference?"

"Anyways," Leeteuk interjects. Dinner has been stale, both conversation wise and meal wise. They're tired and have been up since before sun broke horizon. You can always trust Leeteuk to nip it in the bud and put a safe end to it. "No one buys records just for the songs. They buy the faces on the covers."

Conversation trails off from there, backstage gossip exchanged and bowls toppling off the table surface. The noise drowns around Donghae, his side prickling uncomfortably, Hyukjae's foot nudging his under the table.

"You're sleeping here again?" Kangin asks when he walks in on Donghae taking up most of Hyukjae's bed.

Donghae frowns. "Heechul kicked me out again."

Kangin wheezes a laugh. "I swear no one makes him as happy and as annoyed as you do." His face toughens. "If you start sleep talking I'll stuff my socks down your throat."

"I told you that was Hyukjae not me!"

"Can we shut up and go to sleep?" Hyukjae mumbles from where he's squared up in the corner of his bed, sheets already kicked off. Hyukjae always does this, complains about the mutilating heat only to wake Donghae up in the middle of the night with his freezing feet tucked between his shins.

The pestering in Donghae's side persists so tonight he beats Hyukjae to it somewhere near midnight.

"Hyukjae."

"No, Donghae, no one can tell the difference, okay?" Hyukjae moans into his pillow, grumbling when Donghae rolls on to his side, voice hushed.

"Wasn't gonna ask about that."
"What is it then?"

Donghae smiles briefly at the irritation in Hyukjae's voice. Serious, he says, "That stuff Leeteuk said earlier. I guess it's true but I don't know. Is it silly to think we should be enough? The real us.”

The real us. The real us is Donghae's bed ridden eyes and Hyukjae's knife cut ambition. It's dirty jokes told in lewd voices, laughter deep and eyes dancing along dim computer screen lights. Sweat stench clothes, passing out from the strain of how much they want this because they do, I want this so bad, I'll give up my childhood, hand in my adulthood before I learn what the word even means, just please, please make me a star, I'll sing and dance until my lungs give in and my name is burned in the sky.

Hyukjae scrambles for words, bitten bottom lip and clenched fingers. "Maybe. It's not about being someone else but who you wish you could be."

"I'd still want to be me," Donghae says without missing a beat.

Hyukjae's laugh sounds like hard candy cracking milk teeth. The bed springs squeak as he mimics Donghae's position, his back brushing Donghae's chest. More than a few beats an entire composition sings by before he whispers, "Not everyone would choose the same."

Metal breaks through cotton and stabs Donghae's side, catches him in the lung, makes it hard to breathe. He grabs for Hyukjae's waist seeking solace in the rise of his chest. If Hyukjae can breathe it means Donghae will find air again. He has to. Hyukjae breathes out. Donghae breathes in. This is how it is. This is how it always will be.

When he wakes the next morning, he thinks he should have told Hyukjae: I'll always choose the real you. Something like that. But the moment passes like smoke, thin between his fingers like Hyukjae’s smile at jokes he doesn’t find funny but laughs louder than anyone else.

*

The real us is their mouths touching sometimes. Too many times to keep track, to backtrack and say we started here and we'll end here. They are protected by their boyhood, the shelter of opening fire and dodging every punishment thrown their way in the aftermath.

The camera rolls and Donghae is whichever part of himself, real or made up, will keep him safe.

*

They ride the subway all the way to Incheon in November.

Sleep crusted eyes and caps pulled down low, they look more like teenage delinquents than pop stars avoiding screams and blinding flash. Maybe it's the cold end of autumn keeping prying eyes away.

The funeral was on a warm day in August. It had felt like the dead of winter compared to tonight's freezing midnight.

The airport is deserted. Sporadic passengers stumble past the rental car stations. All the lights are white except the fluorescent blue and red announcing arrivals and departures.

Donghae counts the number of suitcases rolling by with his knees pulled up, forces pressure on his chest to keep it from caving in.

The layover from China is delayed and the eight hour flight to Stockholm will be arriving ten minutes early. Hyukjae watches the numbers flicker, shoulders fallen and fingers curled around the cigarette they pass back and forth.

"Pick a flight."

"Anywhere?"

"Yeah."

"Tokyo? Paris. LA. No... Paris. You?"

"Don't know. Do any of the planes turn into time machines? I think I'd like to go back to when I was a kid. Or maybe just a year ago and not have to come back."

Hyukjae's shoulders seem shoved down by Donghae's words, by the weight of not knowing what to say when there is nothing to say. For months no one has known what to say to Donghae.

But Donghae doesn't want this. Doesn't want a crushed Hyukjae tiptoeing around him second guessing his words. Anyone, anyone, but Hyukjae.

"I'm sorry."

Hyukjae swallows like stomaching a punch. His eyes are as hollow as Donghae feels and his hand is icy when it lets go of fabric and finds Donghae's fist around the cigarette, coaxing it open for his fingers to fit. Autumn in Seoul is freezing but warmth melts between their palms.

"I wish we could go anywhere. Anywhere because there's all this noise in my head and it feels like it's never going to go away."

There's not enough room in Seoul, too many people, too many dreams, too many broken hearts, and there is nowhere to heal or breathe.
It's not until he's leaning in that he realizes Hyukjae meets him half way, the visors on their caps bumping like their noses used to. Their lips are cold, cold and unwelcoming but Donghae needs this. He needs this, needs Hyukjae, even though it is foolish and stupid, but so are they so it doesn't really matter.

What's one more crime when you've already committed a dozen?

Nothing because the station's bathrooms are empty, more than enough space for Hyukjae's knees to hit the floor, his fingers almost liquid as they work Donghae to a place where pain can be forgotten, where loneliness can be ignored. His lungs feels heavy with smoke so the sound gets caught in his throat when Hyukjae opens up around him, none of the nervousness or distaste that should be there. There is enough space for Donghae to let go, for his chest to cave in, for the warmth of Hyukjae's mouth, the slide of lips around Donghae's skin. All the noise in Donghae's head dies out with his chest heaving at each thick lungful of air he takes and slips out in the sound of Hyukjae's voice, humming low like white noise.

All he feels is the burn.

*

Time is supposed to heal.

There are three hundred and sixty five days in a year. Each one is a push forward, another excuse to linger back.
Donghae learns to ignore when the camera is off or on and finds that it gets a little easier to laugh around the apartment and the sound stage alike.

He smokes his way through December and January until he can't stand the taste of his own mouth.

*

She stands them up the third time and Sungmin becomes suspicious.

"I'm not making her up," Hyukjae protests, half chewed noodles peeking out of his mouth. Donghae stuffs a napkin in his face.

"I have to side with him on this one. Hyukjae can't lie."

Sungmin rolls his eyes. "You always side with him."

"You guys," Hyukjae interjects impatiently. No one knows how to push Hyukjae's buttons like Sungmin does except maybe Junsu. He shoots Sungmin a glare. "She's worried about the fans finding out. It's tough being a rookie and dating a successful idol."

Donghae snorts a mouthful of soup and Hyukjae mumbles, "Jerks," under his breath.

"We're just curious," Sungmin appeases. "She's the first girlfriend you've told us about in years."
There's a tilt of something in Sungmin's voice. Donghae wants to call it jealousy. Being an idol means you lose your right to publicly love anyone who isn't a fan, it means secluded rendezvous and lies and relationships built around phone calls and insecurity instead of kisses and trust.

Donghae could muster up the energy for jealousy if he hadn't been so crushed down by grief, the memory of his father, his muffled weeping mother on wired lines, starring in his first movie, finding sleep whenever it appears. He wonders where Hyukjae finds the time.

On their way home Sungmin stops at a convenience mart for boba tea. The neighborhood is quiet and fans don't bother them or stalk them around these streets. Donghae likes that he can fit his fingers in Hyukjae's coat pocket and no one says a thing.

"Hey," Hyukjae says, following the small tug Donghae gives. "This isn't weird, right?"

"What? The fact that there's a girl willing to date you?"

Hyukjae punches his shoulder. He goes to say something else but thinks it better.

Donghae smiles, a flash of teeth beneath street light. "Have you kissed her?"

"Now it's weird."

"Why?" Thumb nail hooking on a loose string, Donghae pulls. Girls have always been a part of the picture. Dressed in white, christenings, joint retirement plans, all in the distant future. The longer the stage lights blur their eyes the more saturated the picture becomes until Donghae's unsure what he's seeing any more. He knows it's what he's supposed to want.

Hyukjae's breath fogs in the cold, his shoulder brushing Donghae's. Donghae wonders when spring will come.

"It just is."
"As long as you don't tell her you kiss your band mates I don't see why."

Hyukjae doesn't laugh at the joke. Donghae only half expected him to.

Sungmin slides up to them, drink in hand, complaining about cost hikes and asking if they have boba on whatever planet Hyukjae's girlfriend comes from. Hyukjae ignores the jabs and the quiet consumes him on the walk back home, shoulders squared away from Donghae's.

Others might get to him but Donghae is the only one tactful enough to get under Hyukjae's skin.

*

Hyukjae finds him in the garage with fire in his hands.

"You're going to get caught one day," he says but takes the lighter and holds it up to Donghae's mouth.

The car park is underground; surveillance doesn't reach the wall across the maintenance storage. It's safe enough.

"I don't make out with my band mates."

Outbursts. Hyukjae doesn't have them often. Donghae stares at him unblinking through smoke.

"You made it sound like...and it's not like that. I'm not like that. It's just."

It was just a joke, Donghae thinks to say. This, everything, you and me, it's just a joke. Is that what you want me to say? Donghae takes a drag, takes it down deep until his chest feels bounded by wire cutting into his skin. He wonders if what Hyukjae meant to say is It's just you.

Hyukjae's thumb continuously flickers and extinguishes tiny flames from the lighter, his eyes trained on the light; his other hand wringing his jeans. All this nervous electricity around Hyukjae, Donghae wonders if he'll bring the building down in flames, all of them desperately down to their knees for him. Hyukjae could. If any of them could, it would be Hyukjae.

Donghae sighs and forks over his cigarette but Hyukjae bypasses it entirely, his teeth closing over Donghae's lower lip instead.

Donghae grins, swears he hears Hyukjae mumble "shut up," against his mouth, and he should be able to hear it, they're so close he should be able to feel every sound Hyukjae makes from his voice to his beating heart, but all he can sense is the slide of skin on his and the fact that Hyukjae still tastes better than smoke, still disintegrates the wire with the swipe of tongue and a smile against his mouth.

*

She's pretty the way few idols are off screen, her hair prim and face polished. Donghae wonders. What she's like with her hair mussed, lipstick smudged. Wonders if Hyukjae knows.

She laughs at all the right intervals, smiles whenever eyes meet her's, doesn't seem perturbed by the embarrassing stories Sungmin bombards her with, reassuring pat to Hyukjae's hand when his cheeks redden in mortification.

When Donghae thinks of the perfect girl for Hyukjae, when he lets himself think about her, he thinks of boisterous laughter, of teasing jabs and the kind of smarts that most boys think girls can't have. She's cool in a way that doesn't threaten him, brings his ego back to earth when he's halfway to Jupiter. She's Hyukjae's girl.

Sungmin makes another joke and she laughs, her manicured hand covering her glossy lips as demure giggles trickle from her throat.

"Hyukjae oppa said I should be careful around you," she confides in him later, a conspiratorial whisper Sungmin and Hyukjae can't catch over the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. "Says you know all his secrets."

Donghae smiles back, eyes dancing but tight lipped.

He wonders if she knows. He wonders how she can't.

*

Dependency is the kinder word for addiction. It's the socially acceptable version for the weakness inside of people, the thing they crave without restraint, without reason.

Donghae can go for days without a cigarette, weeks without a kiss. Doesn't bring on numbing headaches and shaky hands, a control he can't get his grip on. He can live without it, breathe just fine.

But sometimes. Sometimes he needs it and need is more terrorizing than want can ever hope to be.

"Ma-maybe we should. Umm. We shoul- Donghae. Wait."

The only thing more frustrating than an uncooperative Hyukjae is a reasoning Hyukjae. Even with his back against the wall and Donghae's mouth pressed to his. Donghae would find the stuttering endearing if he weren't so desperate.

"Donghae." Hyukjae's voice is sharp, a tug to Donghae's hair for emphasis.

"What? Are you scared they'll catch us? No one's home."

Hyukjae's breath is heavy, heavy like his chest, like the flush in his cheeks. His lips are already bruised and they've barely kissed. He should watch it with the teeth but Donghae likes his scars on Hyukjae's skin too much to stop.

Donghae knows he's caught Hyukjae off guard. He knows an ambush when he sees one and he takes a moment, a breather, because he doesn't like this feeling eating at him. The hunter and the prey. Hyukjae, wide eyed and trembling in his bones, and Donghae, teeth bared and the hunger burning in his abdomen. That he doesn't feel ashamed. That he doesn't feel sorry.

Except. Except Hyukjae isn't scared shitless or shaking in his fear ridden boots. His hands aren't pushing away and offense doesn't color cheeks or strain pants tight against inseams and touching thighs.

Donghae's palms itch, they shake and now he's the one trembling because Hyukjae is doubting, he is apprehensive and Donghae can almost see it, the we shouldn't do this anymore, trapped in his eyes.
Hyukjae draws a breath and the palms flat on Donghae's chest turn into a grip, into a pull, into his mouth, gentle and giving, on Donghae's.

Sometimes Donghae thinks he can give a name to this. This is safety. This is a mouth who won't say no to him, hands that won't turn him away, a laugh that's always real, resounding and sweet on his tongue. If Donghae could put all his money, all his cards on one bet he'd put it all here, on the slide of Hyukjae's lips along his.
The air starts swimming in his lungs and that itch, that familiar itch for Hyukjae's skin, starts feeling like pain, like his lungs are shutting down on him because a part of him knows Hyukjae should be pushing him away, that he has every right and excuse to. Childish games and boyish pacts lose weight the more adulthood scratches and rips at their skin.

When he can't take it anymore, he slides his lips down Hyukjae's chin, hands skimming down every beat and slope inside Hyukjae's chest, and the sound of his knees hitting the floor is swallowed by the carpet, by the flames licking at his insides.

Hyukjae groans, this desperate little noise that makes the heat pound inside of him, but Donghae ignore it, ignores the slick leather and bite of metal on his fingers, ignores the discomfort to his knees, the impending pain in his jaw. Hyukjae is hard in his hands, his underwear damp and tight over his upper thighs.
Donghae isn't sure he'll get used to this. The weight of another boy in his mouth. Isn't sure how he'll allow himself to feel about it. But he loves what it does to Hyukjae. Loves how Hyukjae tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls and soothes, loves the shake and strain in Hyukjae's thighs, loves the embarrassment in Hyukjae's eyes when Donghae looks up at him. Loves how Hyukjae can't make himself look away.

More than anything, Donghae loves how Hyukjae can't say no to him, not even with a pretty voice on the other end of every single one of his midnight phone calls.

*

She gets the hand holding and the premeditated declarations of love. She gets the reassurance over the phone line, the pressure, the insecurity.

Donghae gets to blow his smoke inside Hyukjae's mouth.

So it's fair. This is fair.

The taste of bitterness starts settling on the underside of his tongue with each cigarette. It starts tasting like something safety isn't supposed to make him feel. Guilt.

*

"I'm sorry," Hyukjae says the fourth time he blows him off. They've been planning to see this movie for weeks. Usually, they don't plan anything, their lives don't allow for plans or future checklists, but they'd both anticipated this release for months. Donghae should have listened to his instincts, to the past.

Donghae sits on Hyukjae's bed, watches him cover his hair with a beanie. Donghae's. The hole at the back is a dead give away. That's mine, he wants to say, yank it off Hyukjae's head and ball his fists inside to feel the warmth. He says, "You know just because you have a girlfriend it doesn't mean your friends don't matter."

Hyukjae's face falls a little more. "I told you I was sorry. But this is the only time she has free. I'll make it up to you."
Donghae scoffs. "At least fess up to it and stop making half-assed promises."

"Why are you being like this?" Hyukjae asks, brow wrinkled and frown deep. They've both had girlfriends in high school and smiled and flirted and laughed with female trainees and there was that one who saw the moon and stars in Donghae's eyes or something. Hyukjae never admitted it but he'd been a bit more cutting with her, like ice. I don't like American girls, that's all, he'd insist but he'd smile and flirt and laugh with Tiffany just fine.

The smoke must be taking its toll on him because Donghae has to force his voice over the lump in his throat, sounding hoarse and spent. "Because it's different this time."

Hyukjae's mouth twitches and it makes Donghae think of smoking in bathroom stalls, wrapping his fingers around Hyukjae's wrist and running for their while the fire threatened to burn the building down.

"It isn't. Really," Hyukjae says eventually, all sorts of appeasing and comforting. Donghae wants to force it right back inside Hyukjae's mouth, force it down his throat until he chokes on it, chokes on it the fact that Hyukjae feels the need to lie, feels the need to hide his feelings from Donghae, him above all people.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't need to say it's different.

Donghae can see it in the way Hyukjae lights up when she smiles at him more than just fine.

*

Beijing has smoke trapped in its lungs.

Donghae sees everything in gray, inhales it on every laugh and silent scream trapped in his chest

Home is hundreds of miles away, might be in wrinkled smiles and broken dreams whispered slowly against his neck, but for the first time in months, Donghae breathes.

*

It isn't different this time.

It isn't different because just like the others it ends.

It is different.

It's different because it ends with an I love you that was meant for someone else, it ends with a fist and smashed glass, it ends with a mangled heart.

*

"He hasn't come out of his room much and he barely sleeps. I can tell. But it was like this before the break up."

Donghae feels his heart drop, a harsh squeeze behind his lungs like strangulation. He wonders if that's possible. For your own heart to try and strangle you. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said," Leeteuk says calmly. "He's been like this for weeks. We never get much sleep but it's different. He's miserable."
We're all miserable, Donghae almost says. He hangs up with Leeteuk and dials another number instead.

*

Static is the only sign they haven’t hung up.

Seoul is still Seoul. Donghae still barely understands a lick of Chinese.

"Donghae-"

"There will be other girls. Lots of them until all this stops and you'll pick one and she'll love you forever."

Hyukjae sighs. He sounds so tired Donghae wishes he could knock him out through the phone and make him sleep until he's back home to make sure Hyukjae doesn't do anything this stupid.

When he speaks again Donghae has to strain his ears to catch it. "Why don't you just tell me what you want to say? For once."

Donghae doesn't have to be asked twice. "You're an idiot for hitting your hand. You're an idiot for hurting yourself over something that wasn't worth it. You're an idiot for not sleeping and. And you're...you're just an idiot."

Donghae bites his tongue. Wishes he'd done it before.

Hyukjae lets out a chuckle, brittle and short. It's the warmest sound Donghae has heard from him in a while.

"Yeah well. You know what they say. If your best friend is an idiot there's a pretty good chance you are too."

No one says that but it makes Donghae smile regardless.

*

Pajama party is the most ridiculous choreography Donghae has ever seen. More ridiculous than Disco Drive or anyone believing Changmin is the maknae of TVXQ. But he gets up on stage and does the dance anyway, Hyukjae's stupid pajama pants making him laugh until his stomach hurts, let him make believe they're still a bunch of kids fooling around smearing red fingerprints around each others' mouths.

After, they hide beneath Hyukjae's blankets, smiles stretched and eyes lazy with a claiming sleep they stubbornly push away. Hyukjae's legs are still unnaturally hairy, he still has the softest knees Donghae has ever knocked his up against, still lets Donghae run his index fingers up and down the lines in his palms.

"I missed this," Donghae admits.

"Oh, me too." Hyukjae's grin turns devious. Donghae's fingers tighten on the sides of his t-shirt, breath caught in his throat. "I missed being pushed out of my own bed so so much."
Donghae narrows his eyes. He fits his legs between Hyukjae's, hooks their ankles together, one wrong move and they both plummet over the edge, smack aging the unforgiving floor.

"Happy?" Donghae asks, nose purposely bumping against Hyukjae's.

"Almost," Hyukjae says right before bumping back and making their mouths meet.

Kisses can be practiced. Kisses can mean nothing. Kisses can mean everything.

Kisses tend to leave Donghae's mind blank with want, with comfort, with lust. Hyukjae mouth on an endless loop of skin molding with skin, Hyukjae's mouth being whatever Donghae wants, whatever he needs. He hopes his mouth does the same for Hyukjae always.

"How about now?" Donghae asks when their hips are pressing, his back against the bed and the strength of Hyukjae's fingers pressing his shoulders into the mattress.
Hyukjae's lips curl into a smile. "Ecstatic."

*

Concerts spur love-hate relationships. They drag on for hours feeling like forever, like forever never comes but it sends him on a high so humbling he tries clutching onto forever only to have it slip through the slits in his hands.

Forever always ends. It dies in the dimming lights, in the elevator ride up to borrowed beds and hot showers.
"When's the last time we shared a room?" Hyukjae asks as tosses the room key on the nightstand, bed springs squeaky as he sits.

Donghae shrugs. He pulls at his soppy t-shirt, dying for a bath but too lazy to do so. He topples onto Hyukjae's pillows, laughing when Hyukjae tries pushing him off.

"Get your wet butt off my pillows."

"You're wet too."

"Yeah but they're my pillows."

"What's mine is yours," Donghae says after Hyukjae has wrestled him on to the sheets, legs twisted and laughter breathless.

"How long do you think that excuse will last you?" Hyukjae asks quietly, stretches it over the spaces between them.

"Until it stops being true," Donghae answers, doesn't leave space for more questions and hides the promise inside Hyukjae's mouth with his own.

Their damp skin brushes harshly so they pull away, peel off their wet clothes and search for whatever warmth is left in their shivering skin.

There is this familiarity whenever they kiss, in the exhilarated touch of hips, the wet heat of their mouths. Donghae waits for the game to turn lackluster, the kisses stale and the heat to burn from the freeze.
Hyukjae maps out the lines in Donghae's face and neck like he hasn't done it a thousand times before, laughs against his lips when Donghae skims his hands up his sides, when he pushes him down on his back and memorizes the ridges in hipbones with his tongue. His muscles are harder, shoulders wider, jaw sharpened in ways Donghae never imagined, not much of the knobby kneed boy Donghae kissed as a joke, as a dare with himself, as a question.

"I think I want to try something," Donghae says, knees digging into the mattress. His voice wobbles as much as his legs do but he pushes through, swallows any doubt, any regret. "But you're going to have to trust me."

Hyukjae sits up, rests his weight on his elbows. The lamp throws shadows across his face, makes lights dance on his skin Donghae aches to trace with his fingertips. "You do know that's what people say before really bad ideas, right?"
Donghae rolls his eyes and delivers a halfhearted jab to Hyukjae's stomach. He moves away from the heat of Hyukjae's body, rifles through his bag and tosses a bottle on the bed.

He stands at the edge of the bed, a part of him wishing he'd thought of this when he was wearing pants, when this want wasn't so blatant and open for Hyukjae to turn away from.

"I knew there was a reason you wouldn't let me near your bag earlier," Hyukjae says, amused. He sounds as on edge as Donghae feels and when he looks at him, he forces Donghae to see the same want, the same need, makes him choke on it. And when Donghae crawls back on the bed Hyukjae meets him halfway, bends his knees for him and kisses him with reassurance, kisses him until the erratic pulse in his veins meets Donghae's beat for beat.

"I trust you," Hyukjae says and Donghae already knows, has always known, but it's the push he needs, the push to send him near the edge. To kiss the inside of Hyukjae's thighs. To take Hyukjae inside his mouth. To slick his fingers, fill his hands with curve of Hyukjae's back and press his fingers between.
He always thought that he knew Hyukjae inside and out. What it takes to make him angry and the words to put the flames out. What brings him to tears and how to have him laughing until his sides ache. But this; this is knowing someone inside and out in the most physical way possible.

He waits until Hyukjae draws a shaky breath, their hips aligned and the tight pull of Hyukjae's body threatens to leave him wrung out. It's hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the heat, but the bend of Hyukjae's body helps him there, takes him exactly where Hyukjae needs it, and he zones in on that, teeth gritting as he hopes he can keep the presence of mind to focus on the pleasure that twists up in Hyukjae's face with each rightful aim of Donghae's hips. And it's hard, Hyukjae makes it near impossible with the way he clutches at Donghae's skin, the way his muscles ripple and crumble right before Donghae's greedy eyes. Just when Donghae swears his lungs will give out, when he'll drown in all of this, Hyukjae's mouth gives a different relief than any cigarette or numbing burn.

Their fingers tangle above Hyukjae's head, a mess of sweaty needy skin just like the rest of them and Donghae lets Hyukjae drain the energy from him, cut his circulation short, rip him up in pieces if that's what he needs. Donghae would be okay. Hyukjae could piece him back together after.

He won't need to. Hands gripping Hyukjae's hips, he pulls back, shifts and snaps forward fast. Hyukjae's back tenses almost to the breaking point, a loud groan ripping from his throat as his body tenses around Donghae's. His hips jerk off the mattress and his nails scrabble at Donghae's wrists, tiny angry marks Donghae will hide later but secretly trace with his fingers, and it all pulls the orgasm from Donghae's body, muscles rigid as they both come undone with Donghae's forehead against Hyukjae's temple and Hyukjae bruising his mouth on a sharp collarbone.

The silence feels heavy like their sweat in the aftermath. There's a protocol for this they don't know, haven't had to learn or use, but Hyukjae still feels good with his thighs holding Donghae's hips and his fingers combing through the wet hair plastered on his nape, Donghae thinks he could stay like this for a while, longer than a while, maybe.

They pull on their boxers and half dry shirts on and fit themselves on the tiny balcony. The lights are blinding but they burn it all up, turn it into splinter and smoke with a quick flick of the wheel. Hyukjae lights up first. Donghae holds the cigarette with the edge of his lips and he lowers his mouth to steal from Hyukjae's light. He takes a hit and it goes to his head as he breathes out, vision still swirling but his skin doused in a quiet hum.

Hyukjae stares off, gets lost in the ant world bellow them and Donghae fights the urge to grip the tail of his shirt and pull him back.

He says, "Let's make this the last time."

Hyukjae pulls the cigarette from his mouth. He looks at Donghae and his smile is disfigured, a city through smoke.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean it's stupid. It's always been stupid. You were right."

"I'm always right."

"About some things," Donghae concedes, laughs when Hyukjae punches his arm. They go quiet and he finishes, "We're not kids any more."

Hyukjae ducks his head and he shakes in dusk's cold. It's always colder in a city that's not your own. "No. No, I guess we're not."

He sounds so small to Donghae now, quieted by the loss of something they know they can't get back, and it's a different kind of vulnerability but it panics Donghae in the same way and he wants to destroy anything that can hurt Hyukjae, hurt them, even if the culprit is himself.

Taking his cigarette, Donghae stretches his arm back, as far as it can go, and chucks it over the balcony's edge.

"Donghae! You asshole!"

Donghae gives him a devious grin, eyebrows wriggling.

"You could've hurt someone."

"From the 20th floor?"

"As a matter of-"

"I swear sometimes you're worse than Leeteuk and Heechul combined."

"You take that back. Take it back right now, Lee Donghae."

"It's true."

"I swear to- if you don't."

"Make me. Make me take it back."

Hyukjae practically growls in irritation and Donghae waits for Hyukjae to call him out, you can't play these games anymore Donghae, you said it yourself we're not kids, leave him out in the cold in favor of sleep or push Donghae off the ledge.

He mutters something under his breath, stubs the cigarette out in a potted plant, and shuts Donghae up with his mouth on his.

"You taste disgusting," Hyukjae says when he pulls away, mouths still touching like it's a secret.

Donghae smiles. "You don't taste too good either, darling."

But he kisses Hyukjae again anyways.

***

The ending to this was written first which shaped this fic and the writing process itself in a very different way than what I'm used to. It's been a very long while since I've completed anything and this fic is something I've been wanting to write for a long time. Title credits go to the album of the same name by Art-School and thank you to Dani for the spell check, she is awesome for muddling through this for me.