[gyujong] only cotton
only cotton
sungjong/sunggyu | r | 660 words
warning for potentially triggering content
There's something strangely calming, Sungjong thinks, about being fucked facedown, limbs sprawled haphazardly, breathing in the salty humidity of his own tears that have permeated through the cotton sheets. It's like he can't feel anything anymore, except the fine white fabric sliding against his skin, soft and smooth and almost cool, almost, almost, because there seems to be a chill in the air and it makes the sweat on his skin-half his and half not-vaporize and leave him with a clamminess that gets transferred down to the sheets beneath him. Almost.
It's like he's died and nothing's left but cotton and softness. Almost.
When it's over, when Sunggyu has come and collapsed against Sungjong's back and then gotten up again and pulled out and lit a cigarette, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Sungjong, “No one will believe you if you tell them,” because he's already said it, five times, ten times, enough times that he never has to say it anymore. Instead, he just pulls one leg up and splays the other out in front of him, leans one elbow on his knee as he breathes out warm acrid smoke. Sungjong wrinkles his nose. He doesn't cough, but he turns his head away, and that makes Sunggyu laugh, just a little, a low rumble that's more breath than sound.
No one will believe you if you tell them. Sunggyu doesn't say it anymore, but Sungjong hears the whispered words anyway.
Sungjong's not stupid. He knows what he looks like, has always known, and has always known that was the reason other boys thought it okay to treat him like he was less than them. But somehow, he'd thought that after he debuted, after he was famous, that wouldn't matter anymore. He'd thought the bullying, the harassment, that everything would stop.
It doesn't: it gets worse.
The really unbearable part is the letdown, the disappointment of it all. He'd expected things to change, and they didn't, and that's the part he hates the most.
“Come for me,” Sunggyu says, sometimes, when he remembers. “Come for me,” he says, and Sungjong does, because Sunggyu won't stop until he does.
“See,” says Sunggyu, after, “it's good for you too. You like this too.”
Sungjong feels like he's supposed to say something to that, like Sunggyu wants him to say something, but he doesn't want to lie, and the thing is, he doesn't even know which would be the lie: confirming or denying. So he doesn't say anything, and Sunggyu takes that to mean he's right.
Hoya and Sungjong are the last two to leave the dressing room. Just before they file out after the others, Hoya puts a hand on Sungjong's shoulder. Sungjong wants to shrug away from the horrible gentleness of it; he freezes in place, tenses every muscle so that he won't. Hoya feels it, can't not, and squeezes on the tight, slight muscle of Sungjong's shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, and Sungjong almost cries. “Are you okay?”
Sungjong forces himself to smile. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn't I be?”
Hoya looks at him a long moment. Sungjong's not stupid. He knows he's not fooling Hoya, but as long as Hoya doesn't call him out on it, he doesn't care.
Hoya doesn't call him out on it, this time. Sungjong knew he wouldn't, but he also knows that it's only a matter of time until Hoya says something more.
It's Hoya and Myungsoo both, when it happens. They get him alone in the living room, sit him down on the couch, and ask him if anything's happened, anything bad.
“It's just, you look so sad lately,” says Hoya, and Myungsoo nods his agreement.
Sungjong doesn't look at either of them when he answers. Instead, he looks over their shoulders, at Sunggyu standing just beyond the doorway of the kitchen, meeting his gaze with a steady yet indifferent look.
“I'm not,” Sungjong says. “I'm happy.”
a/n: been a while since I've written any fic. I've been writing a lot, but only things for school, poetry and fiction classes and whatnot. It's gotten pretty stressful lately though, not in workload, but just like, writing about the same things all the time (we have to follow a theme for the semester), so i've decided i'm going to start writing a short drabbly fic whenever I get in the mood for it.
sungjong/sunggyu | r | 660 words
warning for potentially triggering content
There's something strangely calming, Sungjong thinks, about being fucked facedown, limbs sprawled haphazardly, breathing in the salty humidity of his own tears that have permeated through the cotton sheets. It's like he can't feel anything anymore, except the fine white fabric sliding against his skin, soft and smooth and almost cool, almost, almost, because there seems to be a chill in the air and it makes the sweat on his skin-half his and half not-vaporize and leave him with a clamminess that gets transferred down to the sheets beneath him. Almost.
It's like he's died and nothing's left but cotton and softness. Almost.
When it's over, when Sunggyu has come and collapsed against Sungjong's back and then gotten up again and pulled out and lit a cigarette, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Sungjong, “No one will believe you if you tell them,” because he's already said it, five times, ten times, enough times that he never has to say it anymore. Instead, he just pulls one leg up and splays the other out in front of him, leans one elbow on his knee as he breathes out warm acrid smoke. Sungjong wrinkles his nose. He doesn't cough, but he turns his head away, and that makes Sunggyu laugh, just a little, a low rumble that's more breath than sound.
No one will believe you if you tell them. Sunggyu doesn't say it anymore, but Sungjong hears the whispered words anyway.
Sungjong's not stupid. He knows what he looks like, has always known, and has always known that was the reason other boys thought it okay to treat him like he was less than them. But somehow, he'd thought that after he debuted, after he was famous, that wouldn't matter anymore. He'd thought the bullying, the harassment, that everything would stop.
It doesn't: it gets worse.
The really unbearable part is the letdown, the disappointment of it all. He'd expected things to change, and they didn't, and that's the part he hates the most.
“Come for me,” Sunggyu says, sometimes, when he remembers. “Come for me,” he says, and Sungjong does, because Sunggyu won't stop until he does.
“See,” says Sunggyu, after, “it's good for you too. You like this too.”
Sungjong feels like he's supposed to say something to that, like Sunggyu wants him to say something, but he doesn't want to lie, and the thing is, he doesn't even know which would be the lie: confirming or denying. So he doesn't say anything, and Sunggyu takes that to mean he's right.
Hoya and Sungjong are the last two to leave the dressing room. Just before they file out after the others, Hoya puts a hand on Sungjong's shoulder. Sungjong wants to shrug away from the horrible gentleness of it; he freezes in place, tenses every muscle so that he won't. Hoya feels it, can't not, and squeezes on the tight, slight muscle of Sungjong's shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, and Sungjong almost cries. “Are you okay?”
Sungjong forces himself to smile. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn't I be?”
Hoya looks at him a long moment. Sungjong's not stupid. He knows he's not fooling Hoya, but as long as Hoya doesn't call him out on it, he doesn't care.
Hoya doesn't call him out on it, this time. Sungjong knew he wouldn't, but he also knows that it's only a matter of time until Hoya says something more.
It's Hoya and Myungsoo both, when it happens. They get him alone in the living room, sit him down on the couch, and ask him if anything's happened, anything bad.
“It's just, you look so sad lately,” says Hoya, and Myungsoo nods his agreement.
Sungjong doesn't look at either of them when he answers. Instead, he looks over their shoulders, at Sunggyu standing just beyond the doorway of the kitchen, meeting his gaze with a steady yet indifferent look.
“I'm not,” Sungjong says. “I'm happy.”
a/n: been a while since I've written any fic. I've been writing a lot, but only things for school, poetry and fiction classes and whatnot. It's gotten pretty stressful lately though, not in workload, but just like, writing about the same things all the time (we have to follow a theme for the semester), so i've decided i'm going to start writing a short drabbly fic whenever I get in the mood for it.