(for zyxisagod) Deep Breath
For: zyxisagod
By: Anonymous until reveals
Title: Deep Breath
Rating NC-17
Length: 3412
Notes: I'm sorry this is a bit rushed and flies off the prompt a little (a lot) I hope you still find it enjoyable. xo
Summary: Inspiration comes in the strangest forms, in the strangest people, but Jongin is willing to let himself be figured out.
The secluded run down studio in the basement of Exo academy is usually Jongin’s favourite place to be. Shitty sound system, dim lighting, warped floor; no one wants to dance down here. But Jongin does. He loves the decay, loves the uniqueness of the studio, loves getting lost, twirling, jumping, rolling, completely alone, completely unbothered. Jongin isn’t a people person per say, isn’t the type to go out partying like the rest of the elite dance team, isn’t the type to constantly be surrounded by people.
He prefers being on his own, in his own element, showing off his years of professional training, his fine tuned finesse to his own mirror to his own audience of one, a sleek dslr, sat atop a tripod. His videos come out discoloured, shadowy, and Jongin likes it like that. Feels it gives his videos a kind of art, a kind of difference to them.
This studio is usually Jongin’s favourite place, his haven, but not tonight. Tonight Jongin is struggling, and he’s not happy. His final project is due in two months time, and Jongin’s choreography is sloppy, and none of his takes are coming out right and he wants to slump against the cracked mirror and cry. Jongin has a reputation as the best dancer in the academy but it’s about to go down the drain because he can’t even choreograph a routine for his final and it’s so important and worth basically all of his schooling, but no amount of professional training can spark his creativity, and Jongin is stuck.
Jongin needs a muse, a spark, something, but he definitely isn’t going to find it in a school of ballerinas and stuck-up contemporary dancers. Jongin wants something interesting, something that stands out, and he’s pulling at his hair, forlornly deleting video footage that he can’t keep, going over mediocre steps that he can’t seem to make quite right.
Jongin knows he shouldn’t be this stressed, knows that even his worst work could get him a passing grade, but impressing, and being known is important to him, he doesn’t want to just scrape by, he doesn’t want to just be some average choreographer. Jongin wants his name to be known, wants to be remembered as someone of importance at the academy.
So Jongin wanders, always searching for that inspiration to hit, for that moment when his brain will signal something and he’ll rush to the studio camera in hand, ready to record.
Jongin wants to portray something that will make an impact, something that will differ from the posh outfits and perfectly executed moves. He wants something gritty - something that will let him feel the music, the emotion, the drive- and it frustrates him that he hasn’t reached it, hasn’t felt that drive, that want, and he screams into his pillow in frustration, the sound echoing off the hollow, empty walls.
Jongin finds his inspiration in the least likely of places, in the least likely of people. He’s walking to school, duffel bag slung hastily over his shoulder, having rushed out of the house before his mother could lecture him about walking about town and how its not good to the Kim name to have their son being seen doing normal people things Jongin likes doing normal people things, likes walking around, catching the subway, buying ice cream from street stands.
Jongin is enthralled, enticed by groups of boys hanging out at the park, and girls huddled together in groups, snapping photos. Jongin wants to be one of them, wants to kick around a soccer ball, wants to eat food with his friends. But Jongin has no friends, has no one he really talks to, and his mother worries, tells him to go out and find people.
Jongin doesn’t care about any of this. Yes maybe he’s a little lonely, and maybe he could use someone to ease his worries, to place light kisses on his mouth, someone beautiful, yet masculine. But all Jongin wants to do is dance, and film, and become one with music, one with the reflection he sees in the cracked mirrors of the basement studio. Jongin wants to be-
That street dancer right there.
Jongin pauses, entranced, drawn in, by the sharp movements, the pure raw energy of the dancer, as he drops, turns, does moves Jongin doesn’t even know the name of, and Jongin feels it, he feels the tug in his chest, the inspiration and Jongin knows what he wants to do for his project, knows that he needs this dancer right here.
What Jongin notices first about the dancer is that he dances out of time, offbeat, as if the music pouring out of his speakers doesn’t reach his ears, but somehow it works. He’s fluid, but sharp, hitting calculated moves with the precision of someone learned, but there’s something raw about the way the dancer moves, and Jongin’s breath hitches because he’s beautiful.
When the dancer finishes the crowd applauds and disperses, but Jongin just stands there watching curiously as the dancer packs away his stuff, and Jongin definitely checks out his ass as he leans over.
The dancer has a good body, lean in all the right places, tank top showing off his toned arms, and Jongin probably drools a little as he hesitates, wondering what he should say to convince this kid to help him out.
Jongin’s words catch when the dancer turns around and he gets a good look at what’s in front of him, and Jongin stutters, wrings his hands together.
The boy in front of him is, well, really fucking hot hair falling into his face, eyes far-away but piercing, mouth quirked up into a small smile as he surveys Jongin curiously.
“Um hi-I’m - I just wanted to say - I mean ask.” Jongin sputters out, self confidence being drained by the gorgeously amazing dancer in front of him, and he mentally slaps himself for his behaviour, flushing a bright red.
“My name is Yixing, and yes I choreographed that myself, if that’s what you’re trying to get out.”
Yixing’s voice is attractive, and he sounds teasing, in a playful way, and it makes Jongin relax a little, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in.
“I just - you’re amazing - and this is going to be a weird question, but can you help me?” Jongin rushes his words out, knowing that Yixing - this dancer - is the inspiration he’s been looking for, and he can’t miss this chance.
Yixing doesn’t answer, continues packing his speakers into his bag, but he motions for Jongin to continue, looking mildly amused.
“I go to the academy around the corner; the-the dance one, and we have a final project due soon, and I’ve been super trapped, and I could really use the inspiration of a new choreographer other than myself.”
The dancer looks Jongin up and down, obviously checking him out, and Jongin squirms under the attention, breathing shallowly, waiting for an answer.
“I’ll help.”
“Seriously?” Jongin is in shock, confused by the dancer’s answer, but he grins excitedly, and takes a couple of steps forward.
“On one condition.”
Jongin stops midstep, and his face falls. Yixing doesn’t want to help him, doesn’t even know his name. He’s probably just looking for money, probably knows Jongin is rich because of his school. He resigns himself to whatever Yixing is going to ask of him, because he’s desperate for something new. Jongin isn’t expecting the next few words to fall out of the good-looking dancer’s mouth.
“Go on a date with me.”
“What?” Jongin says, completely taken aback by the sudden turn of events, mind going in circles. “I just-you don’t- you don’t even know my name?”
“Judging from the way you were staring at me I kind of figured I would want to know your name.” Yixing says, smiling softly, and Jongin swoons when the cutest dimple he’s ever seen emerges on the boys face.
“Im-um-okay?” Jongin scratches the back of his neck, looking at the ground, jumping back when he feels fingers curl around his wrist, and looks up to see the boy grinning at him.
“You said you needed help with your project? I don’t have anything to do today. First date in your studio?”
“Isn’t that a little forward?” Jongin blurts out, feeling his cheeks heat up.
Yixing laughs, throwing his bag over his shoulder, and tugs on Jongin’s wrist. “I don’t know how to be anything but forward. You’re cute, I like to take chances. Let’s go.”
Jongin isn’t sure why he follows him. He doesn’t know the guy - it usually takes him ages to become comfortable around anyone - but it could be the way he feels like he could already know the boy, still entranced by his dance. Jongin also finds himself staring at the dancer’s ass as he walks behind him.
Later, when Yixing learns Jongin’s name, and then watches him dance, Jongin can see his lips curl up into a gorgeous smile, and his enthusiasm picks up with each piece of praise thrown his way.
Over the days of them learning together, being together, wandering around the city together, Jongin learns that Yixing compliments him surprisingly well, and a feeling of serenity washes over him. He’s finally got his inspiration, finally found something right, as weird as their meeting was, as random.
Jongin thinks one night, while they sit, both exhausted on the studio floor, dim lights flickering above, that maybe what he was looking for wasn’t dancing inspiration, but real life inspiration. Yixing is unlike anyone’s ever met before.
This night Yixing tells Jongin about China and about growing up, tells him about how he came to Korea to find himself, to learn and live. He looks at Jongin with an unreadable face, and tells him that he’s glad he came here, glad he met him.
Jongin smiles shyly, still enamoured by Yixing, still jittery. Jongin really likes him. A lot. Likes the way he speaks, and the way he laughs. He likes the way Yixing holds his waist when he’s guiding him through new choreography, and he especially likes the way Yixing brushes a thumb across his lip before kissing him; slow, deep, passionate.
Jongin begins to worry less about his final project, and more about the future he hopes to have with the strange boy who dances like water but talks like air.
Their relationship escalates pretty quickly, down in Jongin’s studio, light, lustful, humourous. Yixing continues to be forward with him, and it’s refreshing. Jongin is forever shy, stumbling over steps when Yixing’s hand wanders too low on his waist, blushing when Yixing grips his hand in public, glancing around apprehensively to see if anyone notices.
Yixing, Jongin learns is obsessed with weird out of the way places, and wonky music stores, dragging Jongin around everywhere, shoving strange hats on his head, and earphones over his ears, filling them with the oddest collection of electronic music.
Jongin, Yixing learns is slightly more reserved, wary of large crowds, but he relaxes at the gentle squeeze of Yixing’s fingers, the gentle brush of skin when they bump into each other. Yixing is calm, comfortable, and Jongin hopes what they have is special, hopes that Yixing won’t get bored of him like he gets bored of the little cafes they go to, or like he gets bored with a certain style of dance, hopping from one to another.
(Just last week Yixing had insisted on teaching Jongin New Jack Swing, but two days later had decided that they would be doing House instead.)
The night before Jongin’s performance of his dance, a contemporary piece that depicts Jongin, barefoot and clad in white, distressing and rolling and feeling, Yixing asks for a private performance, lips quirking into a smirk that Jongin hasn’t seen yet in their relationship, isn’t used to, but Jongin knows what it means, is aware of what’s going on in Yixing’s mind.
So Jongin performs, skittering fingers over his back, splaying himself on a chair, writhing on the floor, displaying the perfect emotion, the perfect finesse, and Yixing watches the art he’s created, watches with a need, a hunger, a kind of satisfaction that calls for more.
When Jongin finishes, he slumps against the mirror, draining a bottle of water, pleased with his routine- their routine, and he falls into Yixing, lets himself be cradled by the older boy, glancing into the glass, taking in the view of Yixing threading fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft lips to the crook of his neck.
Jongin is full of thoughts, full of questions, full of wonder, but he doesn’t ask, just leans back, let’s his boyfriend envelope him, sighing in contentment.
“This mirror has seen a lot you know.” Jongin says, voice hushed, tired almost. “Tears, anger, frustration, failure. But now it’s seeing something new.”
“Mhmm.” Yixing sounds distracted, and Jongin turns to him to pout and is instead met with gentle, but insistent lips against his own, impossibly soft, yet impossibly hot, engulfing his senses until he feels like he could drown, neck stinging from the angle. Jongin twists himself in Yixing’s lap, wrapping his legs around his waist, leaning in to place a tender kiss to the corner of Yixing’s mouth, and the other curls fingers into hair, lips leaving a trail from Jongin’s jaw to his ear, and his voice is low, husky, laced with promise.
“Wanna show the mirror something, yeah?”
Yixing bites down on Jongin’s earlobe as he says this, drawing a full body shiver from the other, and Jongin whimpers a little in anticipation, putty in Yixing’s practiced familiar hands. They’ve done this before, been intimate before but not here; never here. Being in Jongin’s little beat down studio in the school feels more intimate, more real than anywhere else they’ve done this.
This is Jongin’s place, and he’s let someone in, and he’s blown his own mind with his project, video footage littered with him and Yixing, dance perfect, and Jongin knows it couldn’t be anyone else but Yixing.
Jongin is brought back to reality by Yixing adjusting him in his lap, so that Jongin faces the mirror, murmuring into his ear that he should watch himself, watch them,and Jongin’s breath hitches as Yixing nips and soothes his way down Jongin’s neck, hands slipping down his chest to pull up his shirt, teasing at his waistband.
Jongin is embarrassed by his swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and willingly spread legs, but also incredibly turned on watching Yixing make his way down his neck, sucking on a sensitive spot like a teething vampire, fingers continuing to tease, dipping below, pressing harshly into hips.
Their eyes meet in the mirror as Yixing stops assaulting Jongin’s neck, finally slipping down his sweatpants and boxers, taking Jongin in his hand after what feels like years, whispering in his ear, and Jongin sees himself, mouth falling open and head rolling slightly back when Yixing gives his first tug, pushing a thumb down onto the tip.
Yixing continues this pattern, lightly stroking up his shaft and rolling around the tip, spreading precome with his fingers, treating Jongin’s cock like a rare diamond, just enough for Jongin to buck up into his grasp, just enough for him to lax in Yixing’s arms, falling back into his lap, knees brought up to his chest.
Jongin whines, tries to thrust up into Yixing’s fingers, to ease the throb, to ease the want, and Yixing gives him a sly grin through the mirror, hoisting Jongin off the ground and further into his lap, pausing his ministrations to lean over to his bag, Jongin drooling at the stretch of his muscles and curve of his hips as the older boy fishes for a bottle.
Jongin gasps when Yixing gives his cock a harsh tug, and he’s momentarily distracted when he feels something cold and wet press against his asscrack, and he violently jerks in shock, trying to pull back to look at Yixing, but finds his jaw being quietly guided back towards the mirror, and he has no choice but to watch himself be fucked open by the soft working pads of Yixing’s fingers - devastating, beautiful, deep.
Yixing goes slow, and Jongin struggles to keep his eyes open, struggles to stay coherent with Yixing’s fingers up his ass, and his hand around his cock, and it’s strangely arousing to see his reflection writhe, to see Yixing’s fingers at work, and he moans loudly when the spot is hit, coming unexpectedly over Yixing’s hand and onto the mirror collapsing forward.
Yixing catches him, pulls up his pants for him, tucks his cock back in, pats it like a little friend, and Jongin groans because now he feels disgusting, and in need of a shower, but he pillows himself around Yixing, hands clutched to his shirt, breathing still heavy.
Yixing kisses him, a slow, possessive capture of his lips that leaves Jongin feeling woozy, faint, and he sighs, tangling his fingers in Yixing’s hair, rolling his too sensitive hips because he knows Yixing is affected by this, needs release too. But Yixing stops him, pushes him gently off, and gets to his feet, ignoring the obvious problem straining against his too-tight jeans, and pulls Jongin up with him.
“Why don’t we continue this at my place where I can fuck you properly into the mattress.” Yixing whispers, voice seductive, inviting, and Jongin couldn’t be quicker with agreeing, scrambling to follow his boyfriend home.
The day of Jongin’s final show, a presentation of sorts, to show his worth in the academy has him panicking, hands dragging through his styled hair, eyes darting back and forth, waiting. To say he’s nervous is an understatement, and he peeks around the curtain, heart beating wildly at the table of the top teachers, the judges. Performing is nothing new for Jongin, but this, this could make or break his entire grade, put his graduation on the line, and he’s scared.
But Yixing is right there with him, rubbing circles into his back, knocking their foreheads together affectionately. “You’ll be fine Jongin. Deep breaths, okay?”
And maybe Yixing is right that he’ll be fine, when he sends Jongin out, stage outfit crooked from the effort of Yixing’s special idea of “calming Jongin’s nerves”.
The moment the lights go out, and Jongin seats himself in his throne, he feels all his worries, all his past jitters disappear, float away, whispering tendrils bursting when the lights come on, when he focuses his glare on the audience, hearing the familiar narration of the piece start.
He dances just as good, if not better, than he had for Yixing the day prior, effortless, gliding, bleeding distress, tearing his mouth open with fingers in a silent plea for help. The audience is entranced, lost in Jongin in the same way that he’d found himself lost in Yixing a month prior. Jongin becomes the stage, movements fluid but precise, style becoming a blend of his and Yixing’s, the choreographer’s small touches laid here and there.
Yixing is waiting backstage, grin plastered across his face, dimple glaring and eyes twinkling when Jongin throws himself into his arms, matching goofy grin on his features, and he grabs Yixing’s face, smashes their mouths together, not caring about who’s watching, not caring about the consequences because Jongin has only him to thank for this, has to get his energy out.
Yixing pulls back alarmed, but laughing, the sound like bells, like music to Jongin’s still ringing ears, and he pecks Jongin on the cheek, murmuring words of congratulations, eyes darker, promising a different kind of celebration later that comes in the form of travelling hands and quiet noises.
Jongin is happy, happy he’s found his inspiration, happy he decided to take a walk that day, and they may have gone through it in a quick whirlwind of what-the-hell, but Yixing is unlike any other human being and Jongin is glad.
He thinks he may love Yixing, and he thinks Yixing may love him back, but they have time for that later, amidst the scattered clothing and silky sheets and Yixing buried deep inside him, filling him to a kind of completion he’s only ever felt on the stage.
The run-down studio is forgotten in moments like these, moments when Jongin is sure that Yixing’s arms are definitely his favourite place to be.
By: Anonymous until reveals
Title: Deep Breath
Rating NC-17
Length: 3412
Notes: I'm sorry this is a bit rushed and flies off the prompt a little (a lot) I hope you still find it enjoyable. xo
Summary: Inspiration comes in the strangest forms, in the strangest people, but Jongin is willing to let himself be figured out.
The secluded run down studio in the basement of Exo academy is usually Jongin’s favourite place to be. Shitty sound system, dim lighting, warped floor; no one wants to dance down here. But Jongin does. He loves the decay, loves the uniqueness of the studio, loves getting lost, twirling, jumping, rolling, completely alone, completely unbothered. Jongin isn’t a people person per say, isn’t the type to go out partying like the rest of the elite dance team, isn’t the type to constantly be surrounded by people.
He prefers being on his own, in his own element, showing off his years of professional training, his fine tuned finesse to his own mirror to his own audience of one, a sleek dslr, sat atop a tripod. His videos come out discoloured, shadowy, and Jongin likes it like that. Feels it gives his videos a kind of art, a kind of difference to them.
This studio is usually Jongin’s favourite place, his haven, but not tonight. Tonight Jongin is struggling, and he’s not happy. His final project is due in two months time, and Jongin’s choreography is sloppy, and none of his takes are coming out right and he wants to slump against the cracked mirror and cry. Jongin has a reputation as the best dancer in the academy but it’s about to go down the drain because he can’t even choreograph a routine for his final and it’s so important and worth basically all of his schooling, but no amount of professional training can spark his creativity, and Jongin is stuck.
Jongin needs a muse, a spark, something, but he definitely isn’t going to find it in a school of ballerinas and stuck-up contemporary dancers. Jongin wants something interesting, something that stands out, and he’s pulling at his hair, forlornly deleting video footage that he can’t keep, going over mediocre steps that he can’t seem to make quite right.
Jongin knows he shouldn’t be this stressed, knows that even his worst work could get him a passing grade, but impressing, and being known is important to him, he doesn’t want to just scrape by, he doesn’t want to just be some average choreographer. Jongin wants his name to be known, wants to be remembered as someone of importance at the academy.
So Jongin wanders, always searching for that inspiration to hit, for that moment when his brain will signal something and he’ll rush to the studio camera in hand, ready to record.
Jongin wants to portray something that will make an impact, something that will differ from the posh outfits and perfectly executed moves. He wants something gritty - something that will let him feel the music, the emotion, the drive- and it frustrates him that he hasn’t reached it, hasn’t felt that drive, that want, and he screams into his pillow in frustration, the sound echoing off the hollow, empty walls.
Jongin finds his inspiration in the least likely of places, in the least likely of people. He’s walking to school, duffel bag slung hastily over his shoulder, having rushed out of the house before his mother could lecture him about walking about town and how its not good to the Kim name to have their son being seen doing normal people things Jongin likes doing normal people things, likes walking around, catching the subway, buying ice cream from street stands.
Jongin is enthralled, enticed by groups of boys hanging out at the park, and girls huddled together in groups, snapping photos. Jongin wants to be one of them, wants to kick around a soccer ball, wants to eat food with his friends. But Jongin has no friends, has no one he really talks to, and his mother worries, tells him to go out and find people.
Jongin doesn’t care about any of this. Yes maybe he’s a little lonely, and maybe he could use someone to ease his worries, to place light kisses on his mouth, someone beautiful, yet masculine. But all Jongin wants to do is dance, and film, and become one with music, one with the reflection he sees in the cracked mirrors of the basement studio. Jongin wants to be-
That street dancer right there.
Jongin pauses, entranced, drawn in, by the sharp movements, the pure raw energy of the dancer, as he drops, turns, does moves Jongin doesn’t even know the name of, and Jongin feels it, he feels the tug in his chest, the inspiration and Jongin knows what he wants to do for his project, knows that he needs this dancer right here.
What Jongin notices first about the dancer is that he dances out of time, offbeat, as if the music pouring out of his speakers doesn’t reach his ears, but somehow it works. He’s fluid, but sharp, hitting calculated moves with the precision of someone learned, but there’s something raw about the way the dancer moves, and Jongin’s breath hitches because he’s beautiful.
When the dancer finishes the crowd applauds and disperses, but Jongin just stands there watching curiously as the dancer packs away his stuff, and Jongin definitely checks out his ass as he leans over.
The dancer has a good body, lean in all the right places, tank top showing off his toned arms, and Jongin probably drools a little as he hesitates, wondering what he should say to convince this kid to help him out.
Jongin’s words catch when the dancer turns around and he gets a good look at what’s in front of him, and Jongin stutters, wrings his hands together.
The boy in front of him is, well, really fucking hot hair falling into his face, eyes far-away but piercing, mouth quirked up into a small smile as he surveys Jongin curiously.
“Um hi-I’m - I just wanted to say - I mean ask.” Jongin sputters out, self confidence being drained by the gorgeously amazing dancer in front of him, and he mentally slaps himself for his behaviour, flushing a bright red.
“My name is Yixing, and yes I choreographed that myself, if that’s what you’re trying to get out.”
Yixing’s voice is attractive, and he sounds teasing, in a playful way, and it makes Jongin relax a little, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in.
“I just - you’re amazing - and this is going to be a weird question, but can you help me?” Jongin rushes his words out, knowing that Yixing - this dancer - is the inspiration he’s been looking for, and he can’t miss this chance.
Yixing doesn’t answer, continues packing his speakers into his bag, but he motions for Jongin to continue, looking mildly amused.
“I go to the academy around the corner; the-the dance one, and we have a final project due soon, and I’ve been super trapped, and I could really use the inspiration of a new choreographer other than myself.”
The dancer looks Jongin up and down, obviously checking him out, and Jongin squirms under the attention, breathing shallowly, waiting for an answer.
“I’ll help.”
“Seriously?” Jongin is in shock, confused by the dancer’s answer, but he grins excitedly, and takes a couple of steps forward.
“On one condition.”
Jongin stops midstep, and his face falls. Yixing doesn’t want to help him, doesn’t even know his name. He’s probably just looking for money, probably knows Jongin is rich because of his school. He resigns himself to whatever Yixing is going to ask of him, because he’s desperate for something new. Jongin isn’t expecting the next few words to fall out of the good-looking dancer’s mouth.
“Go on a date with me.”
“What?” Jongin says, completely taken aback by the sudden turn of events, mind going in circles. “I just-you don’t- you don’t even know my name?”
“Judging from the way you were staring at me I kind of figured I would want to know your name.” Yixing says, smiling softly, and Jongin swoons when the cutest dimple he’s ever seen emerges on the boys face.
“Im-um-okay?” Jongin scratches the back of his neck, looking at the ground, jumping back when he feels fingers curl around his wrist, and looks up to see the boy grinning at him.
“You said you needed help with your project? I don’t have anything to do today. First date in your studio?”
“Isn’t that a little forward?” Jongin blurts out, feeling his cheeks heat up.
Yixing laughs, throwing his bag over his shoulder, and tugs on Jongin’s wrist. “I don’t know how to be anything but forward. You’re cute, I like to take chances. Let’s go.”
Jongin isn’t sure why he follows him. He doesn’t know the guy - it usually takes him ages to become comfortable around anyone - but it could be the way he feels like he could already know the boy, still entranced by his dance. Jongin also finds himself staring at the dancer’s ass as he walks behind him.
Later, when Yixing learns Jongin’s name, and then watches him dance, Jongin can see his lips curl up into a gorgeous smile, and his enthusiasm picks up with each piece of praise thrown his way.
Over the days of them learning together, being together, wandering around the city together, Jongin learns that Yixing compliments him surprisingly well, and a feeling of serenity washes over him. He’s finally got his inspiration, finally found something right, as weird as their meeting was, as random.
Jongin thinks one night, while they sit, both exhausted on the studio floor, dim lights flickering above, that maybe what he was looking for wasn’t dancing inspiration, but real life inspiration. Yixing is unlike anyone’s ever met before.
This night Yixing tells Jongin about China and about growing up, tells him about how he came to Korea to find himself, to learn and live. He looks at Jongin with an unreadable face, and tells him that he’s glad he came here, glad he met him.
Jongin smiles shyly, still enamoured by Yixing, still jittery. Jongin really likes him. A lot. Likes the way he speaks, and the way he laughs. He likes the way Yixing holds his waist when he’s guiding him through new choreography, and he especially likes the way Yixing brushes a thumb across his lip before kissing him; slow, deep, passionate.
Jongin begins to worry less about his final project, and more about the future he hopes to have with the strange boy who dances like water but talks like air.
Their relationship escalates pretty quickly, down in Jongin’s studio, light, lustful, humourous. Yixing continues to be forward with him, and it’s refreshing. Jongin is forever shy, stumbling over steps when Yixing’s hand wanders too low on his waist, blushing when Yixing grips his hand in public, glancing around apprehensively to see if anyone notices.
Yixing, Jongin learns is obsessed with weird out of the way places, and wonky music stores, dragging Jongin around everywhere, shoving strange hats on his head, and earphones over his ears, filling them with the oddest collection of electronic music.
Jongin, Yixing learns is slightly more reserved, wary of large crowds, but he relaxes at the gentle squeeze of Yixing’s fingers, the gentle brush of skin when they bump into each other. Yixing is calm, comfortable, and Jongin hopes what they have is special, hopes that Yixing won’t get bored of him like he gets bored of the little cafes they go to, or like he gets bored with a certain style of dance, hopping from one to another.
(Just last week Yixing had insisted on teaching Jongin New Jack Swing, but two days later had decided that they would be doing House instead.)
The night before Jongin’s performance of his dance, a contemporary piece that depicts Jongin, barefoot and clad in white, distressing and rolling and feeling, Yixing asks for a private performance, lips quirking into a smirk that Jongin hasn’t seen yet in their relationship, isn’t used to, but Jongin knows what it means, is aware of what’s going on in Yixing’s mind.
So Jongin performs, skittering fingers over his back, splaying himself on a chair, writhing on the floor, displaying the perfect emotion, the perfect finesse, and Yixing watches the art he’s created, watches with a need, a hunger, a kind of satisfaction that calls for more.
When Jongin finishes, he slumps against the mirror, draining a bottle of water, pleased with his routine- their routine, and he falls into Yixing, lets himself be cradled by the older boy, glancing into the glass, taking in the view of Yixing threading fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft lips to the crook of his neck.
Jongin is full of thoughts, full of questions, full of wonder, but he doesn’t ask, just leans back, let’s his boyfriend envelope him, sighing in contentment.
“This mirror has seen a lot you know.” Jongin says, voice hushed, tired almost. “Tears, anger, frustration, failure. But now it’s seeing something new.”
“Mhmm.” Yixing sounds distracted, and Jongin turns to him to pout and is instead met with gentle, but insistent lips against his own, impossibly soft, yet impossibly hot, engulfing his senses until he feels like he could drown, neck stinging from the angle. Jongin twists himself in Yixing’s lap, wrapping his legs around his waist, leaning in to place a tender kiss to the corner of Yixing’s mouth, and the other curls fingers into hair, lips leaving a trail from Jongin’s jaw to his ear, and his voice is low, husky, laced with promise.
“Wanna show the mirror something, yeah?”
Yixing bites down on Jongin’s earlobe as he says this, drawing a full body shiver from the other, and Jongin whimpers a little in anticipation, putty in Yixing’s practiced familiar hands. They’ve done this before, been intimate before but not here; never here. Being in Jongin’s little beat down studio in the school feels more intimate, more real than anywhere else they’ve done this.
This is Jongin’s place, and he’s let someone in, and he’s blown his own mind with his project, video footage littered with him and Yixing, dance perfect, and Jongin knows it couldn’t be anyone else but Yixing.
Jongin is brought back to reality by Yixing adjusting him in his lap, so that Jongin faces the mirror, murmuring into his ear that he should watch himself, watch them,and Jongin’s breath hitches as Yixing nips and soothes his way down Jongin’s neck, hands slipping down his chest to pull up his shirt, teasing at his waistband.
Jongin is embarrassed by his swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and willingly spread legs, but also incredibly turned on watching Yixing make his way down his neck, sucking on a sensitive spot like a teething vampire, fingers continuing to tease, dipping below, pressing harshly into hips.
Their eyes meet in the mirror as Yixing stops assaulting Jongin’s neck, finally slipping down his sweatpants and boxers, taking Jongin in his hand after what feels like years, whispering in his ear, and Jongin sees himself, mouth falling open and head rolling slightly back when Yixing gives his first tug, pushing a thumb down onto the tip.
Yixing continues this pattern, lightly stroking up his shaft and rolling around the tip, spreading precome with his fingers, treating Jongin’s cock like a rare diamond, just enough for Jongin to buck up into his grasp, just enough for him to lax in Yixing’s arms, falling back into his lap, knees brought up to his chest.
Jongin whines, tries to thrust up into Yixing’s fingers, to ease the throb, to ease the want, and Yixing gives him a sly grin through the mirror, hoisting Jongin off the ground and further into his lap, pausing his ministrations to lean over to his bag, Jongin drooling at the stretch of his muscles and curve of his hips as the older boy fishes for a bottle.
Jongin gasps when Yixing gives his cock a harsh tug, and he’s momentarily distracted when he feels something cold and wet press against his asscrack, and he violently jerks in shock, trying to pull back to look at Yixing, but finds his jaw being quietly guided back towards the mirror, and he has no choice but to watch himself be fucked open by the soft working pads of Yixing’s fingers - devastating, beautiful, deep.
Yixing goes slow, and Jongin struggles to keep his eyes open, struggles to stay coherent with Yixing’s fingers up his ass, and his hand around his cock, and it’s strangely arousing to see his reflection writhe, to see Yixing’s fingers at work, and he moans loudly when the spot is hit, coming unexpectedly over Yixing’s hand and onto the mirror collapsing forward.
Yixing catches him, pulls up his pants for him, tucks his cock back in, pats it like a little friend, and Jongin groans because now he feels disgusting, and in need of a shower, but he pillows himself around Yixing, hands clutched to his shirt, breathing still heavy.
Yixing kisses him, a slow, possessive capture of his lips that leaves Jongin feeling woozy, faint, and he sighs, tangling his fingers in Yixing’s hair, rolling his too sensitive hips because he knows Yixing is affected by this, needs release too. But Yixing stops him, pushes him gently off, and gets to his feet, ignoring the obvious problem straining against his too-tight jeans, and pulls Jongin up with him.
“Why don’t we continue this at my place where I can fuck you properly into the mattress.” Yixing whispers, voice seductive, inviting, and Jongin couldn’t be quicker with agreeing, scrambling to follow his boyfriend home.
The day of Jongin’s final show, a presentation of sorts, to show his worth in the academy has him panicking, hands dragging through his styled hair, eyes darting back and forth, waiting. To say he’s nervous is an understatement, and he peeks around the curtain, heart beating wildly at the table of the top teachers, the judges. Performing is nothing new for Jongin, but this, this could make or break his entire grade, put his graduation on the line, and he’s scared.
But Yixing is right there with him, rubbing circles into his back, knocking their foreheads together affectionately. “You’ll be fine Jongin. Deep breaths, okay?”
And maybe Yixing is right that he’ll be fine, when he sends Jongin out, stage outfit crooked from the effort of Yixing’s special idea of “calming Jongin’s nerves”.
The moment the lights go out, and Jongin seats himself in his throne, he feels all his worries, all his past jitters disappear, float away, whispering tendrils bursting when the lights come on, when he focuses his glare on the audience, hearing the familiar narration of the piece start.
He dances just as good, if not better, than he had for Yixing the day prior, effortless, gliding, bleeding distress, tearing his mouth open with fingers in a silent plea for help. The audience is entranced, lost in Jongin in the same way that he’d found himself lost in Yixing a month prior. Jongin becomes the stage, movements fluid but precise, style becoming a blend of his and Yixing’s, the choreographer’s small touches laid here and there.
Yixing is waiting backstage, grin plastered across his face, dimple glaring and eyes twinkling when Jongin throws himself into his arms, matching goofy grin on his features, and he grabs Yixing’s face, smashes their mouths together, not caring about who’s watching, not caring about the consequences because Jongin has only him to thank for this, has to get his energy out.
Yixing pulls back alarmed, but laughing, the sound like bells, like music to Jongin’s still ringing ears, and he pecks Jongin on the cheek, murmuring words of congratulations, eyes darker, promising a different kind of celebration later that comes in the form of travelling hands and quiet noises.
Jongin is happy, happy he’s found his inspiration, happy he decided to take a walk that day, and they may have gone through it in a quick whirlwind of what-the-hell, but Yixing is unlike any other human being and Jongin is glad.
He thinks he may love Yixing, and he thinks Yixing may love him back, but they have time for that later, amidst the scattered clothing and silky sheets and Yixing buried deep inside him, filling him to a kind of completion he’s only ever felt on the stage.
The run-down studio is forgotten in moments like these, moments when Jongin is sure that Yixing’s arms are definitely his favourite place to be.