if you do me right i'm gonna do right by you
Recklessly, Headlessly
Yonghwa/Jonghyun
PG-13
760 words
“I can’t believe,” Yonghwa says when they’ve both stripped down to just their boxers. “I just.” He starts laughing, like a slow clap, waiting for Jonghyun to join in, but Jonghyun seems even more nervous than he feels, under that wobbly grin.
“We’re both so pale.”
Yonghwa watches Jonghyun’s eyes trail down his shoulders past his stomach and stop at the waistband of his underwear before darting back up. It’s like they’re both wondering, What now?
“I have a confession,” Yonghwa starts. He walks back a few steps and sits down on the bed. His legs close to make an inverted V, culminating in two yellowing baseball socks. As if by instinct, Jonghyun follows him. The mattress springs sigh a little with the added weight. Heat blows off Jonghyun’s skin onto Yonghwa’s, but they are careful not to touch. Not yet.
“Yeah?” Jonghyun turns his head. In the darkening room his hair is Indian black; his eyes unfathomable. Yonghwa isn’t used to the mystery usually reserved for fans and strangers. He feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Well.” Yonghwa clears his throat, directing his attention toward the veins on Jonghyun’s strumming hand. Artistry veins, they called them before, in half-mockery and some seriousness, some grudging pride. They were products of age and labor, a kind of “fuck you” to anyone who’d ever doubted them, including the past themselves. Reminding them of how they got here and the road they had left to go. Abandoning thought, Yonghwa opens his palm and places it under Jonghyun’s, their fingers clumsily aligned. “Damn, that doesn’t feel right,” he says, because it doesn’t. Jonghyun’s hand is too big and not at all soft. But he doesn’t let go.
“What are you doing?” Jonghyun is kind of laughing, probably because he knows the answer to the question, which is obvious. He isn’t moving either.
“If I close my fingers right now, it’ll be like we’re holding hands,” Yonghwa says.
Jonghyun doesn’t say anything. Then he folds his fingers, and Yonghwa folds his. Under Yonghwa’s fingertips are the uneven bumps of Jonghyun’s thin artistry veins.
“What’s the confession?” Jonghyun asks.
“I’ve never held hands with a guy before,” Yonghwa says.
“Damn lie.”
“Not like this.”
The light in Jonghyun’s smile makes him more readable. His hair is getting long, starting to curl behind his ears. “Me neither,” he says. “And now I know why. It’s uncomfortable.”
“You have to get used to it,” Yonghwa says. “Probably.”
“I don’t think I can,” Jonghyun says.
“You punk,” Yonghwa says. “At least use some hand lotion from now on.”
Jonghyun ducks his head to avoid Yonghwa’s right fist, but their other hands are still clasped together.
“This is awkward,” Yonghwa says first. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jonghyun shrugs in silent agreement.
It’s not entirely true. Yonghwa knows how he feels, from a fundamentally male perspective, the blood rush he gets now from just the way Jonghyun looks at him sometimes. It’s like his blood splits into two separate streams, one due north and the other-it’s unnatural. He feels sick thinking about it, but even the nausea plays into the feedback loop of attraction and physical want. Yonghwa’s never been good at drawing the line between love and sex, because it’s always been a given that one comes with the other. He’s a romantic, he’ll admit it. He can’t want someone that badly, to be with them without wanting to wake up next to them, without wanting the sweaty mess of sex and bedsheets. The way his pillows will smell like her the next day, and she’ll walk around in one of his concert t-shirts just barely covering her thin panties, and the way her hipbones jut when he hugs her from behind, his arms easily wrapping around her birdlike waist. He’s got a lot of fantasies, and lived through just as many realities, but they’ve always, without fail, involved a girl.
So yeah, it’s his first time.
He’s still thinking when Jonghyun leans in and kisses him, experimentally. Later his hand comes up to caress below Yonghwa’s jaw. It’s sweaty. Yonghwa lets his lips part and waits for the nausea. It doesn’t come, but the blood’s running again. Running low, running down. Jonghyun doesn’t really taste like anything besides his usual flavorless chapstick and the heady heat between them. Yonghwa shifts his legs, and pulls away. Jonghyun looks at him carefully, probingly. Yonghwa curses in his mind and then aloud. “I want this,” he says.
“Stop talking,” Jonghyun tells him, and from there it gets easier.
Yonghwa/Jonghyun
PG-13
760 words
“I can’t believe,” Yonghwa says when they’ve both stripped down to just their boxers. “I just.” He starts laughing, like a slow clap, waiting for Jonghyun to join in, but Jonghyun seems even more nervous than he feels, under that wobbly grin.
“We’re both so pale.”
Yonghwa watches Jonghyun’s eyes trail down his shoulders past his stomach and stop at the waistband of his underwear before darting back up. It’s like they’re both wondering, What now?
“I have a confession,” Yonghwa starts. He walks back a few steps and sits down on the bed. His legs close to make an inverted V, culminating in two yellowing baseball socks. As if by instinct, Jonghyun follows him. The mattress springs sigh a little with the added weight. Heat blows off Jonghyun’s skin onto Yonghwa’s, but they are careful not to touch. Not yet.
“Yeah?” Jonghyun turns his head. In the darkening room his hair is Indian black; his eyes unfathomable. Yonghwa isn’t used to the mystery usually reserved for fans and strangers. He feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Well.” Yonghwa clears his throat, directing his attention toward the veins on Jonghyun’s strumming hand. Artistry veins, they called them before, in half-mockery and some seriousness, some grudging pride. They were products of age and labor, a kind of “fuck you” to anyone who’d ever doubted them, including the past themselves. Reminding them of how they got here and the road they had left to go. Abandoning thought, Yonghwa opens his palm and places it under Jonghyun’s, their fingers clumsily aligned. “Damn, that doesn’t feel right,” he says, because it doesn’t. Jonghyun’s hand is too big and not at all soft. But he doesn’t let go.
“What are you doing?” Jonghyun is kind of laughing, probably because he knows the answer to the question, which is obvious. He isn’t moving either.
“If I close my fingers right now, it’ll be like we’re holding hands,” Yonghwa says.
Jonghyun doesn’t say anything. Then he folds his fingers, and Yonghwa folds his. Under Yonghwa’s fingertips are the uneven bumps of Jonghyun’s thin artistry veins.
“What’s the confession?” Jonghyun asks.
“I’ve never held hands with a guy before,” Yonghwa says.
“Damn lie.”
“Not like this.”
The light in Jonghyun’s smile makes him more readable. His hair is getting long, starting to curl behind his ears. “Me neither,” he says. “And now I know why. It’s uncomfortable.”
“You have to get used to it,” Yonghwa says. “Probably.”
“I don’t think I can,” Jonghyun says.
“You punk,” Yonghwa says. “At least use some hand lotion from now on.”
Jonghyun ducks his head to avoid Yonghwa’s right fist, but their other hands are still clasped together.
“This is awkward,” Yonghwa says first. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jonghyun shrugs in silent agreement.
It’s not entirely true. Yonghwa knows how he feels, from a fundamentally male perspective, the blood rush he gets now from just the way Jonghyun looks at him sometimes. It’s like his blood splits into two separate streams, one due north and the other-it’s unnatural. He feels sick thinking about it, but even the nausea plays into the feedback loop of attraction and physical want. Yonghwa’s never been good at drawing the line between love and sex, because it’s always been a given that one comes with the other. He’s a romantic, he’ll admit it. He can’t want someone that badly, to be with them without wanting to wake up next to them, without wanting the sweaty mess of sex and bedsheets. The way his pillows will smell like her the next day, and she’ll walk around in one of his concert t-shirts just barely covering her thin panties, and the way her hipbones jut when he hugs her from behind, his arms easily wrapping around her birdlike waist. He’s got a lot of fantasies, and lived through just as many realities, but they’ve always, without fail, involved a girl.
So yeah, it’s his first time.
He’s still thinking when Jonghyun leans in and kisses him, experimentally. Later his hand comes up to caress below Yonghwa’s jaw. It’s sweaty. Yonghwa lets his lips part and waits for the nausea. It doesn’t come, but the blood’s running again. Running low, running down. Jonghyun doesn’t really taste like anything besides his usual flavorless chapstick and the heady heat between them. Yonghwa shifts his legs, and pulls away. Jonghyun looks at him carefully, probingly. Yonghwa curses in his mind and then aloud. “I want this,” he says.
“Stop talking,” Jonghyun tells him, and from there it gets easier.