[oneshot] you can't dance and stay uptight
Title: you can't dance and stay uptight
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: slice-of-life, mild romance
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: melon music awards aftermath because i can't help myself, ever u__u a really terrible photo for your reference. 2,010 words.
The after-party's at some swanky hotel in Gangnam, a fifteen-minute van ride from the arena. Jongin registers everything through the blur of his filmy contacts. There's alcohol. There's always alcohol at these things, and really expensive finger food, and a lot of people shouting over each other just to be heard. The damp fabric underneath his armpits drags uncomfortably as he wades through the crowd. Someone he edges past is using one of the trophies as a microphone and going around pretending to interview people. Baekhyun, probably. The music in the place reverberates through his ribcage, plays his chest like a timpani.
When Jongin sees him again, Taemin's face is starting to swell a little from the tears, the thin skin beneath his eyes pink and puffy. He smiles, flicking his sweaty fringe out of his eyes, and pushes a hand into Jongin's chest.
"Why are you still crying?" he says, an echo of the question he'd asked an hour earlier as the stage lights burned hot against the crown of Jongin's head. "You didn't win artist of the year, idiot," as if he has no idea that Jongin's the worst sympathetic crier he knows.
Jongin leans in and pretends to mull it over. His heart feels like it could burst open at any moment-which might just be because the DJ's switched now to something with a killer bass line. He taps his foot in time with the downbeat. "Can't help it," Jongin returns, rubbing his chin and grinning. "All I can think about is how ugly you look when you cry."
Taemin's eyes flash. Jongin expects the punch. He tries to sidestep it when it comes but miscalculates and nearly mows one of the Sistar girls down as Taemin sinks his knuckles into Jongin's arm. By the time he finishes apologizing Taemin's laughing, the runny bits of his makeup scrunching at the corners of his eyes.
Behind Taemin, Jonghyun's sitting in the booth SHINee's taken over and staring at the trophy, like it'll disappear if he so much as bats an eyelash. Kibum's whispering rapid-fire into his ear as Minho draws circles into Jinki's back with the tip of his index finger.
"I'm going home," Taemin announces. Jongin turns back toward him, eyebrows raised. "Manager-hyung's letting me leave for the night."
"Home. Like the dorm?"
"No." Taemin tilts his head. "Cheongdam." He doesn't say come with me, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he breezes past Jongin, and his hand rests briefly at the crook of Jongin's elbow.
He finds Seunghwan in the lobby of the hotel speaking with Taemin's manager. One of the hotel staff brings Jongin his coat. "I'm gonna," Jongin says, and jerks his thumb toward the double doors as his throat clenches.
Seunghwan gives him a quick onceover before waving him out. "Zip your jacket," he calls, and Jongin swallows a laugh.
Taemin's waiting for him in the van. Jongin slides into the back seat with him, their knees knocking together, jostling for more leg space at every sharp turn. Jongin remembers nights spent like this in rickety subway cars after practice, riding all the way to Taemin's old house in Banghak, and climbing rickety stairs to finally land in Taemin's rickety bed. They'd stare up at the cracks in the ceiling and listen to music, Usher and Justin Timberlake and Beyonce, the Top 40, the latest releases on Melon, anything that came on the radio with a beat good enough to dance to.
It's half past midnight when the van stops at the curb. They buzz into the apartment building and take the elevator to the eleventh floor. Taemin fumbles the key in his pocket. He's still trying to jiggle it into the lock when the door swings open. Jongin squeezes his eyes shut against the light.
"Thought you went to bed already," he hears Taemin saying. His mom laughs, soft and lilting.
"Hi, ahjumma," Jongin says, bowing dutifully. His eyes are still closed. "Long time no see."
"Oh, please," she says, and tugs him over the threshold and into her arms. A hand reaches up to pat the back of his head. "How have you been, Jonginnie?"
"Good," he says into her hair. Taemin's already toed his shoes off and disappeared into what's presumably his room. Jongin looks around as Taemin's mother lets go. "Um, this is a really nice place-"
"Go," she says, rolling her eyes.
Jongin gets a faceful of shirt as he walks into Taemin's room. He catches it before it tumbles to the ground. "What's this?"
"Your clothes are gross," Taemin says, wrinkling his nose. "Change." He pulls his own shirt off and drops in it on the bed, hair sticking up in the back from residual gel.
Jongin sighs and starts stripping. Taemin's shirt smells faintly of laundry detergent and mothballs when he tucks it over his head. It's big enough that it falls to mid-thigh, like he's playing dress-up with his dad's clothes.
Taemin's faceplanted in his mattress by the time Jongin's worked his pants off and slung them over the back of his desk chair. Jongin turns the light off and slides in beneath the top sheet, tries to ignore the way his skin sticks. "When do you have to be up?" Taemin grunts.
"Seven? Eight?" Jongin chews on a fingernail, tastes the faint salt from the pad on the tip of his tongue. "Fuck."
"What?"
"No contact solution," he says, blinking rapidly. Taemin lifts his head to peer at his face, eyes glittering in the dark. "Gonna be blind tomorrow."
Taemin laughs. He's close enough that the huff of air skates underneath Jongin's collar.
Jongin exhales. At the foot of the bed, the heater whirs into high gear. Taemin squirms against the sheets, restless as usual. Their elbows bump companionably. "Congratulations, by the way," Jongin says, shutting his eyes. "I never got to say it to you personally. I mean, there was everyone else, and then everyone was crying, and then-"
"I know," Taemin says. He sounds amused. "I was there."
"I should've filmed you." He yelps when Taemin pinches his side. "What? It's only the payback you deserve." He grins. "But that's okay. I bet there are a hundred fancams online already. SHINee World does all my work for me."
"Shut up," Taemin grumbles.
He slaps Jongin's stomach hard enough to force half the air out of his lungs. Jongin groans and bats Taemin's hand away, and then there's hair tickling the crook of Jongin's neck, where the wide collar dips below his collarbone. When Jongin opens his eyes again, Taemin's curled on his side, head resting against Jongin's chest. He focuses on the gentle rise and fall of Taemin's back, the bumps of his spine through his thin sleep shirt.
"Hey," Taemin continues after a minute. "You did good, too."
Jongin snorts, jostling Taemin's head with his shoulder. "Is that a compliment?"
"Just a comment," Taemin counters, and the hand that came down to smack him before reaches out now to brush slowly against Jongin's abdomen. Jongin's belly gives a little lurch. His head digs deeper into Taemin's pillows.
It isn't only the matter of the win. SHINee's won before. They'll win again. Their first daesang, sure, but Jongin had cried because he remembered, as the five of them walked on stage with the tumultuous applause sweeping at their feet, every painstaking detail that led right to this: collapsing boneless on the studio floor after ten hours of dancing, the pain of separation after Taemin debuted first, Taemin's new choreography leeching down into his muscle memory year after year. Because of course Jongin'd practiced it, even if the song would never be his.
The heater splutters again, like the rattle of a subway car screeching down the rails, and he rides the sound back half a decade, to-Welcome to Banghak Station. Please mind the gap. Two boys sweating through their baggy clothing at one corner of the platform, dancing to the music blaring from an iPod as evening commuters boarded their trains.
Jongin yawns. Stares at the fuzzy outline of Taemin's head, eyelids drooping until they're all the way closed, and croaks, "Do you remember-?"
"Yeah," comes Taemin's disembodied voice in the dark. "Yeah, I remember."
At twelve, Jongin walked into the SM building as a trainee for the first time and watched someone else move his body in ways he'd never even imagined. And he'd wanted that. Please, please, he thought. Let me have that.
And the other boy had come over afterward, beads of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose, stretched out his hand, and said, "Hello, I'm Lee Taemin."
The alarm goes off at five. Jongin cracks an eye open and mumbles, "Can't see for shit right now," the entire room awash with blocky color, and then an arm curls around his shoulders and yanks him in.
Taemin's mouth tastes like a hangover, like three hours of sleep, warm and stale and sour. They're both sticky and gross with sleep sweat, running on fumes, but Taemin's quicker to move than Jongin is, especially in the mornings. He slots his leg in between Jongin's before he can really process what's happening.
When it clicks, though, Jongin's hands fall naturally to Taemin's waist, fingers bunching in the material of his shirt. He bites back a groan as Taemin grinds a thigh against his morning erection and slides his tongue across the roof of Jongin's mouth. Jongin can feel something hard rubbing at his hip and gropes around blindly until he finds the hem of Taemin's boxers, thrusts his hand down and wraps his hand around Taemin's dick.
Taemin's head pulls back sharply. There's a small gasp from somewhere above him. Jongin grins. "This counts as celebration sex, right? Even if it isn't happening on the same day?"
"Does it matter?" Taemin mutters. He moves his mouth back down Jongin's jaw and sucks hard at the soft skin beneath his ear. "Stop talking and jerk me off."
"So romantic," Jongin says. He squeezes.
Taemin's breath hitches. He bucks into Jongin's fingers. "Stop talking and-jerk me off, please?"
"Ah, chivalry isn't dead," Jongin says, and drags his hand up as he rolls his hips against Taemin's leg.
The bed creaks beneath them. Jongin tries not to move too much, doesn't want to wake the rest of the house-and he isn't going to last that long, anyway. His thumb rubs just beneath the head of Taemin's dick, slow and steady pressure applied as the rest of his hand twists around the rest of it. Taemin bears down on him, one hand scratching up Jongin's ribs and the other diving past his waistband, pulls at Jongin's dick so fast Jongin sits halfway up because his abdomen clenches so hard.
"Slow down," Jongin says, laughing into his mouth.
"Hurry up," Taemin insists. Jongin rolls his eyes, mouth sliding down to kiss Taemin's neck. He flicks his wrist twice. Taemin comes with a sigh, and then his fingers wring Jongin's orgasm out of him, too, pleasure uncoiling from his stomach and fizzing down to his toes.
Jongin's van comes to collect in the middle of breakfast. "We're practicing for the MAMAs today," he says around a mouthful of toast, trying to comb his hair with his fingers and hop into his shoes at the same time.
"Music Bank goodbye stage," Taemin offers. He grabs Jongin's coat and tosses it at him.
"Don't cry too much while I'm gone," he says, wriggling into his jacket. Taemin makes a face so dour that Jongin chokes on his bread laughing.
His contacts fucking shrivel up and fall out of his eyes on the ride back to the dorm, but there's a KKT message waiting for him at the end of it. It's a link from Taemin. Youtube video of Jongin crying from like, five different angles, with bonus slomo of the end. crybaby ^^, Taemin says.
i hate you, Jongin returns, and tucks his phone back in his pocket.
fin
A/N: title from "dancing in the moonlight" by king harvest.
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: slice-of-life, mild romance
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: melon music awards aftermath because i can't help myself, ever u__u a really terrible photo for your reference. 2,010 words.
The after-party's at some swanky hotel in Gangnam, a fifteen-minute van ride from the arena. Jongin registers everything through the blur of his filmy contacts. There's alcohol. There's always alcohol at these things, and really expensive finger food, and a lot of people shouting over each other just to be heard. The damp fabric underneath his armpits drags uncomfortably as he wades through the crowd. Someone he edges past is using one of the trophies as a microphone and going around pretending to interview people. Baekhyun, probably. The music in the place reverberates through his ribcage, plays his chest like a timpani.
When Jongin sees him again, Taemin's face is starting to swell a little from the tears, the thin skin beneath his eyes pink and puffy. He smiles, flicking his sweaty fringe out of his eyes, and pushes a hand into Jongin's chest.
"Why are you still crying?" he says, an echo of the question he'd asked an hour earlier as the stage lights burned hot against the crown of Jongin's head. "You didn't win artist of the year, idiot," as if he has no idea that Jongin's the worst sympathetic crier he knows.
Jongin leans in and pretends to mull it over. His heart feels like it could burst open at any moment-which might just be because the DJ's switched now to something with a killer bass line. He taps his foot in time with the downbeat. "Can't help it," Jongin returns, rubbing his chin and grinning. "All I can think about is how ugly you look when you cry."
Taemin's eyes flash. Jongin expects the punch. He tries to sidestep it when it comes but miscalculates and nearly mows one of the Sistar girls down as Taemin sinks his knuckles into Jongin's arm. By the time he finishes apologizing Taemin's laughing, the runny bits of his makeup scrunching at the corners of his eyes.
Behind Taemin, Jonghyun's sitting in the booth SHINee's taken over and staring at the trophy, like it'll disappear if he so much as bats an eyelash. Kibum's whispering rapid-fire into his ear as Minho draws circles into Jinki's back with the tip of his index finger.
"I'm going home," Taemin announces. Jongin turns back toward him, eyebrows raised. "Manager-hyung's letting me leave for the night."
"Home. Like the dorm?"
"No." Taemin tilts his head. "Cheongdam." He doesn't say come with me, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he breezes past Jongin, and his hand rests briefly at the crook of Jongin's elbow.
He finds Seunghwan in the lobby of the hotel speaking with Taemin's manager. One of the hotel staff brings Jongin his coat. "I'm gonna," Jongin says, and jerks his thumb toward the double doors as his throat clenches.
Seunghwan gives him a quick onceover before waving him out. "Zip your jacket," he calls, and Jongin swallows a laugh.
Taemin's waiting for him in the van. Jongin slides into the back seat with him, their knees knocking together, jostling for more leg space at every sharp turn. Jongin remembers nights spent like this in rickety subway cars after practice, riding all the way to Taemin's old house in Banghak, and climbing rickety stairs to finally land in Taemin's rickety bed. They'd stare up at the cracks in the ceiling and listen to music, Usher and Justin Timberlake and Beyonce, the Top 40, the latest releases on Melon, anything that came on the radio with a beat good enough to dance to.
It's half past midnight when the van stops at the curb. They buzz into the apartment building and take the elevator to the eleventh floor. Taemin fumbles the key in his pocket. He's still trying to jiggle it into the lock when the door swings open. Jongin squeezes his eyes shut against the light.
"Thought you went to bed already," he hears Taemin saying. His mom laughs, soft and lilting.
"Hi, ahjumma," Jongin says, bowing dutifully. His eyes are still closed. "Long time no see."
"Oh, please," she says, and tugs him over the threshold and into her arms. A hand reaches up to pat the back of his head. "How have you been, Jonginnie?"
"Good," he says into her hair. Taemin's already toed his shoes off and disappeared into what's presumably his room. Jongin looks around as Taemin's mother lets go. "Um, this is a really nice place-"
"Go," she says, rolling her eyes.
Jongin gets a faceful of shirt as he walks into Taemin's room. He catches it before it tumbles to the ground. "What's this?"
"Your clothes are gross," Taemin says, wrinkling his nose. "Change." He pulls his own shirt off and drops in it on the bed, hair sticking up in the back from residual gel.
Jongin sighs and starts stripping. Taemin's shirt smells faintly of laundry detergent and mothballs when he tucks it over his head. It's big enough that it falls to mid-thigh, like he's playing dress-up with his dad's clothes.
Taemin's faceplanted in his mattress by the time Jongin's worked his pants off and slung them over the back of his desk chair. Jongin turns the light off and slides in beneath the top sheet, tries to ignore the way his skin sticks. "When do you have to be up?" Taemin grunts.
"Seven? Eight?" Jongin chews on a fingernail, tastes the faint salt from the pad on the tip of his tongue. "Fuck."
"What?"
"No contact solution," he says, blinking rapidly. Taemin lifts his head to peer at his face, eyes glittering in the dark. "Gonna be blind tomorrow."
Taemin laughs. He's close enough that the huff of air skates underneath Jongin's collar.
Jongin exhales. At the foot of the bed, the heater whirs into high gear. Taemin squirms against the sheets, restless as usual. Their elbows bump companionably. "Congratulations, by the way," Jongin says, shutting his eyes. "I never got to say it to you personally. I mean, there was everyone else, and then everyone was crying, and then-"
"I know," Taemin says. He sounds amused. "I was there."
"I should've filmed you." He yelps when Taemin pinches his side. "What? It's only the payback you deserve." He grins. "But that's okay. I bet there are a hundred fancams online already. SHINee World does all my work for me."
"Shut up," Taemin grumbles.
He slaps Jongin's stomach hard enough to force half the air out of his lungs. Jongin groans and bats Taemin's hand away, and then there's hair tickling the crook of Jongin's neck, where the wide collar dips below his collarbone. When Jongin opens his eyes again, Taemin's curled on his side, head resting against Jongin's chest. He focuses on the gentle rise and fall of Taemin's back, the bumps of his spine through his thin sleep shirt.
"Hey," Taemin continues after a minute. "You did good, too."
Jongin snorts, jostling Taemin's head with his shoulder. "Is that a compliment?"
"Just a comment," Taemin counters, and the hand that came down to smack him before reaches out now to brush slowly against Jongin's abdomen. Jongin's belly gives a little lurch. His head digs deeper into Taemin's pillows.
It isn't only the matter of the win. SHINee's won before. They'll win again. Their first daesang, sure, but Jongin had cried because he remembered, as the five of them walked on stage with the tumultuous applause sweeping at their feet, every painstaking detail that led right to this: collapsing boneless on the studio floor after ten hours of dancing, the pain of separation after Taemin debuted first, Taemin's new choreography leeching down into his muscle memory year after year. Because of course Jongin'd practiced it, even if the song would never be his.
The heater splutters again, like the rattle of a subway car screeching down the rails, and he rides the sound back half a decade, to-Welcome to Banghak Station. Please mind the gap. Two boys sweating through their baggy clothing at one corner of the platform, dancing to the music blaring from an iPod as evening commuters boarded their trains.
Jongin yawns. Stares at the fuzzy outline of Taemin's head, eyelids drooping until they're all the way closed, and croaks, "Do you remember-?"
"Yeah," comes Taemin's disembodied voice in the dark. "Yeah, I remember."
At twelve, Jongin walked into the SM building as a trainee for the first time and watched someone else move his body in ways he'd never even imagined. And he'd wanted that. Please, please, he thought. Let me have that.
And the other boy had come over afterward, beads of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose, stretched out his hand, and said, "Hello, I'm Lee Taemin."
The alarm goes off at five. Jongin cracks an eye open and mumbles, "Can't see for shit right now," the entire room awash with blocky color, and then an arm curls around his shoulders and yanks him in.
Taemin's mouth tastes like a hangover, like three hours of sleep, warm and stale and sour. They're both sticky and gross with sleep sweat, running on fumes, but Taemin's quicker to move than Jongin is, especially in the mornings. He slots his leg in between Jongin's before he can really process what's happening.
When it clicks, though, Jongin's hands fall naturally to Taemin's waist, fingers bunching in the material of his shirt. He bites back a groan as Taemin grinds a thigh against his morning erection and slides his tongue across the roof of Jongin's mouth. Jongin can feel something hard rubbing at his hip and gropes around blindly until he finds the hem of Taemin's boxers, thrusts his hand down and wraps his hand around Taemin's dick.
Taemin's head pulls back sharply. There's a small gasp from somewhere above him. Jongin grins. "This counts as celebration sex, right? Even if it isn't happening on the same day?"
"Does it matter?" Taemin mutters. He moves his mouth back down Jongin's jaw and sucks hard at the soft skin beneath his ear. "Stop talking and jerk me off."
"So romantic," Jongin says. He squeezes.
Taemin's breath hitches. He bucks into Jongin's fingers. "Stop talking and-jerk me off, please?"
"Ah, chivalry isn't dead," Jongin says, and drags his hand up as he rolls his hips against Taemin's leg.
The bed creaks beneath them. Jongin tries not to move too much, doesn't want to wake the rest of the house-and he isn't going to last that long, anyway. His thumb rubs just beneath the head of Taemin's dick, slow and steady pressure applied as the rest of his hand twists around the rest of it. Taemin bears down on him, one hand scratching up Jongin's ribs and the other diving past his waistband, pulls at Jongin's dick so fast Jongin sits halfway up because his abdomen clenches so hard.
"Slow down," Jongin says, laughing into his mouth.
"Hurry up," Taemin insists. Jongin rolls his eyes, mouth sliding down to kiss Taemin's neck. He flicks his wrist twice. Taemin comes with a sigh, and then his fingers wring Jongin's orgasm out of him, too, pleasure uncoiling from his stomach and fizzing down to his toes.
Jongin's van comes to collect in the middle of breakfast. "We're practicing for the MAMAs today," he says around a mouthful of toast, trying to comb his hair with his fingers and hop into his shoes at the same time.
"Music Bank goodbye stage," Taemin offers. He grabs Jongin's coat and tosses it at him.
"Don't cry too much while I'm gone," he says, wriggling into his jacket. Taemin makes a face so dour that Jongin chokes on his bread laughing.
His contacts fucking shrivel up and fall out of his eyes on the ride back to the dorm, but there's a KKT message waiting for him at the end of it. It's a link from Taemin. Youtube video of Jongin crying from like, five different angles, with bonus slomo of the end. crybaby ^^, Taemin says.
i hate you, Jongin returns, and tucks his phone back in his pocket.
fin
A/N: title from "dancing in the moonlight" by king harvest.