48
Title: And the road a-winding goes
Fandom: Super Junior
Rating: Light R
Pairing: SiHanBum (and all combinations thereof)
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: The apartment the three of you share is one big room, all bare floors and high vaulted ceilings.
Notes: Second person. Long, wtf, 6,020 words. Wonky timeline. Random and not so random angst. AU. Yes.
The apartment the three of you share is one big room, all bare floors and high vaulted ceilings. A wall of windows looking out into the city, and even if some of them don’t close all the way, the view is enough to make it worth it. You don’t have much furniture, a couch and a bed and the remnants of a kitchen table. No TV, air conditioning in the winter and heat in the summer, but it’s enough. It’s yours, all of yours, and that’s what matters the most. It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. It doesn’t, because you wake up to already brewed coffee and bleary half-closed eyes and a lumpy mattress full of warm human limbs.
When you moved in, you brought the bed from your last apartment, and Siwon stole his parent's couch. Hankyung had nothing, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you minded, but when you decided to get another mattress, he insisted on paying for it.
It’s been eight months, but you haven’t gotten any new furniture, and you don’t think you ever will.
In the beginning, you took turns with the bed, two sleeping on the rough sheets, one exiled to the mattress you’d left on the floor in the corner, because the bed just wasn’t made for three. It was barely even meant for two, worn queen-sized mattress on a double-sized frame, and it came with a headboard, but none of you liked it, so you stuffed it in a closet somewhere. It’s probably rotting and warped, but you keep it because you think maybe now Hankyung can use it, can make something with it.
In the beginning, you took turns. But you don’t anymore, not since that night six months ago when everything changed. Not since the afternoon two months later that shook everything you thought you knew - about yourself, about love, about them. You still don’t have everything sorted out (who loves who and who’s not sure and who can’t do what and who doesn’t want to), but that’s okay. You’re working on it.
None of you can ask for anything more.
“Kibum?” Hankyung’s voice in the darkness, from somewhere behind your left ear, breath whispering through your hair.
“Yeah?” Your voice is deep and rusty, half exhausted and half alert and a little bit amused. Lips against the back of your neck, and an arm winding around your waist. Siwon’s shoulder blade pressed against your nose and his back against your chest, and your favorite place to be is the middle. Even if Siwon’s the one who started there.
“When was the last time I said I was sorry?” A note of something in his voice, not quite anxiety and not quite apology. You shiver at the hum of words on your skin, and you smile.
“Yesterday,” you say, “when we were reading on the couch.” You feel him open his mouth against the back of your neck, but if he’s going to kiss you or talk you don’t know. “You don’t have to apologize anymore, you know. I get it, you’re sorry, it’s okay.”
“I know, but -” his words are soft, and you’ve never been terribly patient.
“If you hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t be here. Okay? I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
“I just want to make sure you don’t forget,” he says, his voice almost tentative but there’s steel running through it, and you know you’ll be having this conversation again. You cover his hand with yours, where it’s pressed against the bare skin of your stomach, and you wind your fingers in with his, and you wish you could smell them, because you know if you did you’d smell the paint he forgets to wash off every night.
You remember being six and your first day of first grade. The sun shining so bright it hurt your eyes and Siwon meeting you on the front walk, backpack resting on the ground by his feet, one strap held tightly in his right hand. You looked over your shoulder at your mother, waving at you from the doorway and everything in that moment is perfect and exactly how you want it to be.
Even if, after that, nothing was ever so perfect, that’s okay.
Even if, after that, you came home with a cut lip and a black eye, that’s okay.
Even if, after that, school never seemed quite so promising, that’s okay.
You have your one perfect moment, and that’s more than most people get in their whole lives.
The first time you see Hankyung, he’s standing on the green outside the library. What you notice about him, your first and most lasting impression, is the way that he holds himself. He’s filled with an unconscious grace, something not quite tangible, but it isn’t quite as unconscious as it first appears; the straight back and shoulders trained from a young age. Still, that doesn’t even really matter. When he smiles, with his paint-stained and ripped clothing, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t seem gentle and even soft.
It isn’t until later that you really know appearances are almost never what you think they are.
You wave at him, but you don’t really know why, and he pauses, hesitant, before smiling and waving back. You want to know him, inside and out, with an intensity that doesn’t make sense. It scares you a little, but you’re okay with that.
When you’re out at class, some lecture you need to graduate, Hankyung paints, collages, changes the walls of your bare apartment and makes them beautiful. Everyday the mural changes, glued doodles from your idle time in the back row, and the thick lines of Siwon’s words arranged in poetry above the swirling colors and vivid patterns that crawl over your walls and doors and just touch the ceiling. Computerized images and photographs pasted almost haphazard and almost ordered, but not quite either.
You think that you can tell how he’s feeling just by what he paints, the colors and the edges and images coming together to form a picture of the inside of his head. Anger is jagged edges and black and red, ripped paper and splattered paint. Pain is blank and white and cold, numb faces and empty houses. Broken glass, empty bottles. Happiness is trees and air, gloriously bright colors and growth. You can trace his year with the palm of your hand.
You like being able to tell what he’s thinking, because what rarely shows on his face makes it into his art in an almost helpless way.
Sometimes you catch Siwon running his fingers over the joints in the glue and the paper and the paint, and you know that he feels that same.
You see Hankyung around campus a few times before you actually approach him. He’s talking to a girl you don’t know, but you only have four minutes to get to class, so you tap him on the shoulder. He cuts off mid sentence and turns around, smiling that slightly hesitant smile when he catches your eyes.
“Want to meet me for coffee later?” you ask, and you were never very good at tact. What is on your mind invariably makes it out of your mouth, and you’re fine with that. You like being bold and you like his smile.
“Oh, uh. Okay,” he says, and his smile turns into a grin, and you write your number on the inside of his wrist before rushing off to class.
When you see Siwon later, back at the room you both share, he asks you what you’re so happy about, but you just shake your head. You don’t feel like telling him.
You think that you’ve always loved Siwon. You think this, and you know it, and you feel it in your gut.
Sometimes, you wonder what would’ve happened if you actually kissed him in middle school like you always wanted to. Would he have kissed you back? Would you still be friends? Would it have ruined everything? You don’t know. You don’t regret not doing it, though, because at least, now, you know what you’re getting into. At least, now, you don’t have to worry so much about phases and changes and growing bodies. At least, now, you’ve already lived it, and you know how it ends, and you know that now is not that bad.
You’re friends with Hankyung for three or four months before he meets Siwon, and when you look back, you know that you kept them apart for a reason, because you were afraid of what would happen when they met.
Hankyung is helping you study your English when Siwon walks in, drops his bag on the floor by the door and wanders over to the fridge in the corner. Your small dorm room can barely hold the two of you, so you aren’t sure how Siwon managed to fit the fridge in as well, but it is useful to have. Siwon pulls out a water bottle and holds it to his forehead before turning around and grinning at you. You know the exact moment he notices Hankyung, because his grin turns into something else, something more predatory and less comfortable.
“Hi,” he says, voice holding a question something like who are you and why are you here?, but not in any menacing or threatened way. You wonder how he manages that as Hankyung smiles back, that gentle smile of his crossing his face.
“Hi, I’m Hankyung. You’re Siwon, then?” he asks, and Siwon just nods in return, smirks, and shrugs, asks Hankyung a question you don’t want to hear. You turn back to your books and tune them out, because you know Siwon and you know that look on his face, and you don’t want to deal with it.
You pretend you don’t know why you even bothered to try and keep them apart, but you do. Because you know both of them, and you know yourself. You’re willing to lose to make them happy, and the thought hurts, even if it hasn’t happened yet, so you concentrate as hard as you can on the words on the page, and try not to hear their laughter.
You let Hankyung paint your portrait on the wall in the kitchen, sitting on the counter in your jeans and a tank top, Siwon typing on his laptop in the far corner, some novella that came to him in the night. You think you are the only one who will make money after you graduate, and you think that you are the least creative, and you think that it doesn’t matter as long as you are all happy, and you just hope that happens.
Hankyung tells you to smile, and you do, you were always good at that. No matter what you’re thinking, you can smile. It just takes a fine tuned eye to know if it’s fake or not.
It takes them a summer vacation at least, and sometime less than two months rooming in an apartment, the apartment, with the three of you before they start having sex. They don’t tell you when it happens.
You come back after your writing class, open the door, and find them fucking on the couch. Hankyung’s head thrown back over the arm, neck exposed, and Siwon’s flexing shoulder blades, the sweaty line of his spine are all you see before you back out of the doorway and shut the door. You say nothing, but lean back against the cool metal of the closed door and shut your eyes. You can’t breathe for almost fifteen minutes and you let your eyes blur as you rush out of the building. You know that you knew it was coming but that doesn’t mean that you were prepared. You don’t go back until the next day, sleeping in the library and missing your early politics class. You don’t care that you didn’t do your homework, for once, because you can’t stop seeing them on the sofa, twined together like they were meant to be.
They aren’t there when you get back, so you sit on the floor in the middle of the room and look around. You wonder if you should move out. If you should tell them. If they would care.
You stare at the mussed sheets on the bed, at the sagging cushions on the couch, and imagine how they looked when you walked in. They were perfect without you and you knew that’s how it would be. You bite hard into the heel of your hand and suck in a quick breath and close your eyes.
You just wish you could decide who you were more jealous of.
Your life becomes a mess of fake smiles and excuses to let them share the bed. It’s weeks before they notice anything is wrong, with you, with the situation, and the only reason they ever do, you think, is because you tell them. You thought Siwon, at least, has known you since kindergarten, and he’d be able to tell when you’re so desperately unhappy, but he’s too busy basking in Hankyung’s smile and Hankyung’s body to notice the bags under your eyes and the nubs of your fingernails and the way you twist your lips between your fingers like you wish they’d just rip off. You blame stress and exams and hard classes and get no skepticism from either of them. Somehow that hurts more even than the fact that they haven’t yet told you they’re fucking or dating or whatever it is they’re doing.
You suppose it’s too much to ask really, too much to expect them to be paying close attention to you; you just wish that you mattered as much to them as they do to each other. And all that thought makes you feel is selfish.
As it is, you try your best to stay out of the apartment as much as possible. You stay late in the library studying, you sit out on the green at night with a book, you go to dumb parties just so you don’t feel so fucking alone.
You hate it when you get home and they’re asleep next to each other, curled up tight and fully clothed. That makes it worse, the pain that doesn’t quite leave the pit of your stomach, because not only are they hiding it from you, but they like each other enough that it’s not about the sex. It’s about them. You miss them, desperately, but there’s not much you can do. You go to bed quietly, and you pretend to be normal in the morning.
It’s three AM when you get home, more than slightly tipsy, but you still try your best to be quiet. Don’t want to wake up the fucking lovebirds, and you try not to be bitter, and you try not to be clumsy, but all these shoes get in the way, and you almost fall over. You bite your lip to keep from giggling too loudly, and your head feels all floaty and kind of nice, and you like not feeling completely shitty for the first time in three or four weeks. It takes you a few minutes to notice that the lights are still on, and when you look at the couch they’re both sitting there, looking at you. You snort out inappropriate laughter at the expressions on their faces, and collapse onto your mattress.
“You do know we were supposed to go out tonight, right?” Siwon’s voice is dark and angry and while it doesn’t sober you up, exactly, it makes you much less giddy. You’d forgotten actually, that you had plans with them to see a movie, but you don’t really know what the big deal is.
“Yeah, but I figured you could go without me. What’s the big deal?” You shrug and struggle to pull off your shoes, which you’d forgotten to toe off at the door. You look up when Hankyung starts talking, his voice filled with vague anxiety and half-formed threads of anger.
“Didn’t you think we’d be worried when you said you’d meet up with us at eight and here it is three AM and you’re just getting home?” This makes you pause, not because you agree, even though you can see the point, just because this is a funny time to start caring about what you do.
“No, I didn’t, actually. I didn’t even think that you’d notice, much less think about where I might be or why I was there.” You think it comes out more bitter than it should, you voice half-angry and half-wounded, and you know that if you were sober you’d agree and apologize and keep quiet but you don’t fucking want to. Hankyung looks away, and Siwon makes some angry noise in the back of his throat.
“What, you just decided not to tell us? How hard is it to use a phone and cancel, Kibum?” And you feel the anger flare up in you again at his words, because how dare he even talk about that? You hurl your shoes in the direction of the door, and clench your hands into fists at your sides.
“You want to talk about not telling? How about the fact that you two have been fucking for at least two months, maybe three, and you still haven’t seen fit to tell me? Not only do I live with you, but I thought you were my fucking friends. Cut me some slack, huh? Whatever. Fuck you.” You're going to regret this later, but for right now you’re too angry to care, angry that they care that you stayed out late and blew them off, but that they haven’t cared enough in the past month to notice anything.
You shuck off your pants and throw them in the direction of your closet, pulling your covers up over you and turning away, determined to sleep and not say another word to them. You wonder if you hurt their feelings, you wonder if they feel at all guilty, you wonder if they understand even a little bit how you feel.
Siwon comes home to you and Hankyung kissing on the bed, and the gas stove on. Your legs are tangled up with Hankyung’s and he has one hand woven into your hair, and the other up under your shirt in the back, short nails scratching over your skin. You think you could kiss forever and you barely hear Siwon call across the apartment.
“Hey, idiots, if you’re going to get distracted, at least turn of the stove first. I’d rather not come home to a burning apartment and two dead roommates.”
You laugh against Hankyung’s mouth, and meet his amused eyes, because you both know that Siwon’s right, but neither of you can manage to work up enough energy to care much at all. You’d much rather just enjoy the lazy afternoon, kissing and touching on the bed that the three of you share. You disentangle one of your hands from the sheets and beckon Siwon over, clasping his hand when he grabs yours, and gasping when his lips find your spine. You press your face into the crook of Hankyung’s neck and breathe against his skin. Siwon’s fingers smooth over your ribs as he pushes your shirt up. You want to stay like this forever.
You don’t talk to them the next morning, but you wake up with a slight hangover, and Hankyung is sending you worried glances, which you wish he’d just stop. You go to class without saying a word, because you’re still a little angry and you don’t know what else to say.
You come home to Hankyung painting, shades of white and black and grey, sharp lines and pieces of broken glass. Ruined buildings with empty windows, and numb white skies. You know then that you either hurt him or he feels guilty, and you wonder what the discussion you’re sure he and Siwon had after you left solved. You shouldn’t have said anything. You’re just so tired of self-pity, tired of feeling left out.
You sit cross-legged on your mattress in the corner, and put your head in your hands. It’ll be awhile before you have enough money to move out, and until then you’re stuck living here when you probably aren’t wanted anymore, if, by any chance, you were still wanted before you spilled your guts and pissed everyone off. You’re not so sure about that. You don’t want to do it, you don’t want to leave, but you don’t know what else there is to do. You sigh and rub your face with your hands, wondering how you managed to screw everything up so very badly.
You feel the mattress shift, and you look up to Hankyung sitting next to you, his face blank. He doesn’t look at you.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” his voice is soft, but almost emotionless. When he paints, it’s almost like all the emotion drains out of him. Ultimate catharsis. You chuckle humorlessly and wind your fingers up into your hair. You restrain yourself from biting your nails, instead settling on biting your lip.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, Hankyung, how was your day? Oh, by the way, earlier I walked in on you and Siwon fucking on the couch. What’s up with that?’ I think not.” You let your fingers dig into your thighs and you try not to sound hurt or angry. Instead, everything you say comes out bleak and exhausted and that’s essentially how you feel.
You feel his hand on the back of your neck, fingers sifting through the short hair there, and you shiver and resist the urge to shrug him off.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and leans forward to kiss your forehead. You feel his lips against your skin and are reminded of every secret you ever told Siwon.
You look up from your algebra homework at the sound of feet on the steps. Your mother works late in the evenings and your father doesn’t live with you anymore, so there are few people it could be. Siwon pushes open the door to your bedroom, and grins at you, sitting cross-legged on the floor by your pile of open books and papers.
“You said at school that you had something to tell me, right?” He doesn’t look that worried, and you wish that he’d forgotten about that. Because you know that you have to tell him sometime, but why couldn’t sometime be, well, later?
“Er,” you say, and trail off. He raises an eyebrow at you.
“What is it, Kibum? Spit it out.” You think you’re making him a little anxious with your stalling; you’re never one to pull your punches or hold things back. You take a deep breath, and you stare at your hands clasped in your lap.
“I’m pretty sure I’m bi. Sexual, I mean. More than pretty sure.” You stop before you get the chance to start babbling.
“Really?” he asks, voice some combination between curious and relieved, but you don’t know why and you don’t look at him. You nod wordlessly, and hope he doesn’t decide to get angry. Instead you feel his fingers warm on your chin, and he’s grinning when you look at him. “It’s okay,” he says, “’cause I’m gay, and I’d be a hypocrite if I hated you for being more normal than I am.” He pauses. “Don’t tell my mom, though.”
“Ugh,” you say, suddenly relieved and elated, feeling like your heart might just fly out of your chest if you don’t smile that much wider, “no telling parents until we’re in college, at least. I’d rather not have to live with her after she finds out. Knowing my mom, all she’ll do for a week is clean.”
“Hey,” Siwon says, finally letting go of your chin, “at least you have the possibility of falling in love with a woman and having a million tiny Kibum babies.” You start laughing at that, and Siwon gives you an offended look. “What? It could happen. Hey, Kibum! It could!”
But you can’t stop laughing even to answer.
You dread talking to Siwon more than anything else. It has to happen, you know it does, but you love him more than almost anyone in the world, maybe even more than your mother, and there is so much that could ruin everything. You’re afraid you don’t care. You’re afraid that you’re too angry to and you’ll just make things worse.
When he gets home you’re curled up on top of your sheets with your politics textbook, only half-absorbing the words you’re reading. You hear him sigh, but you don’t look up until he sits on the floor in front of you, and even that is only a glance.
“Hi,” he says, and you can’t tell anything from his voice. You have no idea what this conversation is going to be like. You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, staring at the brightly colored chapter heading in your textbook.
“Do you want me to move out?” you ask, and your voice is softer than you’d like, tentative, almost, and you hate that. You wish you’d never said anything, not last night, not just now. You hate being vulnerable. You hate how you always are with him. “It might take me awhile to get my own place, but I’m sure I could find a couch to crash on if you want me out faster than that.”
“What? What are you talking about?” He sounds genuinely confused, and you don’t let yourself acknowledge the thrill of hope you feel at that.
“I’m talking about whether or not I should start looking for a new place.” Your voice is calm, calmer than you’d thought possible, but still too soft, and you still haven’t looked at him.
“Why would you do that?” he asks, voice still filled with confusion, coupled with a note of anxiety just under it. You know his moods, but you almost never see this one. He hardly ever cares enough to be worried. You’re glad you still matter that much, at least.
“To get out of your way. Give you some privacy. That kind of stuff.” You shrug and are about as vague as possible. You can hear him shifting.
“You’re not in the way,” he says, and you think yeah fucking right but you say nothing. “You’re my best friend, of course I don’t want you to move out.” You just shrug again, because, whatever. Could’ve fooled you. “Kibum, look at me,” his voice is more worried and less controlled and you don’t want to. “Kibum!” and it’s not like you can’t hear him, but you just shake your head and dig your fingernails into your palms. You only look up when his fingers on your chin force you to and it’s déjà vu.
“You didn’t tell me, you didn’t fucking tell me anything. You said you’d tell me everything, and you didn’t fucking tell me. Keeping anything else a secret? Huh? And if you really were my best friend,” you pause, try to keep your voice from breaking, shake your head, “if you really were my best friend you’d fucking - you know what, never mind. Just, forget I said anything.” You can’t say you’d fucking notice when I’m miserable and you can’t say I just want to get out of here so you don’t hurt me anymore and you can’t say I need to stay because I’m afraid of what will happen if I leave you two here so you just fall silent. You look away, even with the warm fingers on your chin.
“Kibum,” he says again, and you meet his eyes. He looks upset; worried and scared and on edge. You hate it when he looks like that, you hate that you made him that way, and you think you’ve only seen him like this twice in your whole life; once when he came out to his parents and the other when the principal came to your class and told him his father had gotten in a car accident. You don’t want it to be like that, but you just can’t help it. You’re silent, both of you, and you listen to the sound of his not-quite-even breath, and when you finally talk you don’t know why you’re saying what you’re saying.
“I hate it, I hate it. I hate feeling invisible and unnoticed and extra. I hate feeling out of place in my own apartment, and I hate that you’re so wrapped up in your life that you ignore what it’s doing to me,” you push his hand away and you pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your hands around your thighs. You really want to go to sleep and never wake up. You are so tired, so very, very tired. Exhausted and internally bruised and totally unjustified.
People fall in love, and you may hate it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re just going to have to accept that.
Your life becomes class and work and sleep. You talk to them enough to say that you’ve run out of milk and need to go shopping, or to relay phone messages to Hankyung, or to ask how much longer Siwon’s going to be in the bathroom. Nothing more than that. You don’t know if they’re still having sex or not, but you don’t really care. They still share the bed and you still crash on the mattress. No days are notable, none are fun, none are interesting, and you move through life like a zombie or a cancer patient waiting to die.
Sometimes you come home to them sitting on their bed together, apartment filled with new silence, and you know they’ve been talking about you. You don’t know what they’ve been saying, and you miss being able to ask, but maybe things are better this way. Maybe.
Then you come home from your psych class and Hankyung pushes you back against the wet paint covering the wall. You open your mouth to gasp or yell or say something, but he just glares at you, and you realize that you’ve never seen him angry before. Your can feel the fabric of your tank top sticking to the wall and the wet paint against your bare shoulders. Hankyung wraps his fingers in your shirt and leans in close, eyes narrowed and suddenly extremely close.
“I know that we were wrong and I know that we hurt you, and I’ll be sorry until the day I die, I swear I will, but you can’t keep this up, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep detaching yourself, not forever. Can’t you see what you’re doing to us? To yourself?” he pauses and watches you for a second before continuing. “Are you really that blind? I’ve always thought you were many things, Kibum, but stupid was not one of them, and weak was not another.” He pushes you against the wall with every emphatic word, closing in until you can feel the rise of his chest against yours and the back of your head is against the wall, and you know you’ll have paint in your hair whenever he decides to let you go. You know he’s right, but all you want is to kiss him. He’s so very close, pressed up against you, but you’re not disloyal and you’re not that selfish, so you just flinch back and suck in a quick breath and restrain yourself from closing your eyes.
“What do you want me to do, exactly?” Looking at his mouth and not his eyes, voice soft. “I’m tryi-” and then he kisses you. Hand fisted in your shirt, and mouth harsh and hard against yours. Teeth on your lower lip and you’re not sure what to do with your hands, exactly, so you press them back against the wet wall. This is so wrong, and you pull away, surprised at your own will power. “No, don’t, Hankyung. Stop, it’s not right.” And you’re panting for breath, and you wish he wasn’t standing so close. He leans over, brushes his lips against your ear as he talks.
“We both want you, we’ve talked about it. We could make it work. Stop making everyone involved miserable and make up your mind.” He lets go of you and is out the door before you can even process what he’s said. You let yourself slide to the floor, leaving a smear of red and black and white paint as you do.
It’s not a relationship that always works. Sometimes one of you feels left out or gets jealous or crowded. There are fights; there are more broken dishes than easily imaginable. There are times when you yearn for the simplicity of just two bodies. Of always knowing what comes next and who goes where.
Mostly, though, you think it’s worth it.
When you come home from your early politics class later in the week, you walk in on them making out. Hankyung is sitting on the edge of the bed and Siwon is leaning over him, in-between his spread thighs, and they are kissing. You can hear the sound of their lips pressing, the rustling of sheets under Hankyung’s legs and all the emotion in your chest curls up into a ball, weighing heavily against your lungs. You are going to just back out and leave them alone, ignoring the twisting in your stomach, but the door opens too far and hits the wall and Siwon turns to look at you.
It’s like a moment frozen in time, Siwon half turned and staring at you, Hankyung looking over his shoulder, thighs spread, hands on Siwon’s shoulders.
And then Siwon holds out his hand and says nothing. Holds out his hand for you to take, and you look over your shoulder at the hallway and you bite your fingernails and you think about leaving.
But Siwon’s still holding out his hand, and Hankyung is still staring at you, challenging you. You don’t even really decide, you don’t remember moving from the doorway, you just grab his hand, and then he’s kissing you. His hand is in your hair, and Hankyung’s lips are on the side of his neck, hands under his shirt, pushing it up. You meet Hankyung’s eyes; watch him smile against Siwon’s skin.
“What is this?” you ask, pulling back, slightly, as Siwon moves to your jaw and over your neck. You can’t help but tilt your head to the side to give him more access.
“Whatever you want it to be,” he replies, words whispered against your slightly wet skin. And then he bites at your neck and you feel the heels of Hankyung’s feet against the backs of your thighs.
And that’s how it starts.
“Mmph,” Siwon says, and you squeeze Hankyung’s hand and grin. “Will you two please be quiet? Some of us’re trying to sleep.” He shifts, settling back against you, and you nudge him with your nose.
“Well, some of us weren’t up until four AM or whatever it was writing,” you say, but you’re not really serious.
“The sun’s not even up yet, and I’m still tired, so be quiet,” his voice is slightly slurred with sleep, and mostly petulant.
“Sorry, you’re majesty, we’ll be completely silent, promise,” Hankyung says, mouth still against the back of your neck.
“Mmm, thanks,” he says, words more breath than syllable, but he shifts a little again, onto his back, and looks at you. You can see one of his eyes in the darkness. “Kibum? ‘M sorry too, ‘kay?” And he turns back onto his side and closes his eyes. You sigh and roll yours, even though no one can see, and Hankyung laughs softly behind you.
“Fine, whatever. Apology accepted. Will you guys leave it alone now?” Your voice is exasperated, even if most of it is a show. Hankyung tightens his hold on your waist before replying.
“No. Now go back to sleep.”
End Notes: Well. This is the longest thing I've written in awhile. AND THE ONLY THREESOME FIC I'VE WRITTEN, EVER. I liked the beginning much more than I like the ending, but er. Comments?
Fandom: Super Junior
Rating: Light R
Pairing: SiHanBum (and all combinations thereof)
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: The apartment the three of you share is one big room, all bare floors and high vaulted ceilings.
Notes: Second person. Long, wtf, 6,020 words. Wonky timeline. Random and not so random angst. AU. Yes.
The apartment the three of you share is one big room, all bare floors and high vaulted ceilings. A wall of windows looking out into the city, and even if some of them don’t close all the way, the view is enough to make it worth it. You don’t have much furniture, a couch and a bed and the remnants of a kitchen table. No TV, air conditioning in the winter and heat in the summer, but it’s enough. It’s yours, all of yours, and that’s what matters the most. It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. It doesn’t, because you wake up to already brewed coffee and bleary half-closed eyes and a lumpy mattress full of warm human limbs.
When you moved in, you brought the bed from your last apartment, and Siwon stole his parent's couch. Hankyung had nothing, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you minded, but when you decided to get another mattress, he insisted on paying for it.
It’s been eight months, but you haven’t gotten any new furniture, and you don’t think you ever will.
In the beginning, you took turns with the bed, two sleeping on the rough sheets, one exiled to the mattress you’d left on the floor in the corner, because the bed just wasn’t made for three. It was barely even meant for two, worn queen-sized mattress on a double-sized frame, and it came with a headboard, but none of you liked it, so you stuffed it in a closet somewhere. It’s probably rotting and warped, but you keep it because you think maybe now Hankyung can use it, can make something with it.
In the beginning, you took turns. But you don’t anymore, not since that night six months ago when everything changed. Not since the afternoon two months later that shook everything you thought you knew - about yourself, about love, about them. You still don’t have everything sorted out (who loves who and who’s not sure and who can’t do what and who doesn’t want to), but that’s okay. You’re working on it.
None of you can ask for anything more.
“Kibum?” Hankyung’s voice in the darkness, from somewhere behind your left ear, breath whispering through your hair.
“Yeah?” Your voice is deep and rusty, half exhausted and half alert and a little bit amused. Lips against the back of your neck, and an arm winding around your waist. Siwon’s shoulder blade pressed against your nose and his back against your chest, and your favorite place to be is the middle. Even if Siwon’s the one who started there.
“When was the last time I said I was sorry?” A note of something in his voice, not quite anxiety and not quite apology. You shiver at the hum of words on your skin, and you smile.
“Yesterday,” you say, “when we were reading on the couch.” You feel him open his mouth against the back of your neck, but if he’s going to kiss you or talk you don’t know. “You don’t have to apologize anymore, you know. I get it, you’re sorry, it’s okay.”
“I know, but -” his words are soft, and you’ve never been terribly patient.
“If you hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t be here. Okay? I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
“I just want to make sure you don’t forget,” he says, his voice almost tentative but there’s steel running through it, and you know you’ll be having this conversation again. You cover his hand with yours, where it’s pressed against the bare skin of your stomach, and you wind your fingers in with his, and you wish you could smell them, because you know if you did you’d smell the paint he forgets to wash off every night.
You remember being six and your first day of first grade. The sun shining so bright it hurt your eyes and Siwon meeting you on the front walk, backpack resting on the ground by his feet, one strap held tightly in his right hand. You looked over your shoulder at your mother, waving at you from the doorway and everything in that moment is perfect and exactly how you want it to be.
Even if, after that, nothing was ever so perfect, that’s okay.
Even if, after that, you came home with a cut lip and a black eye, that’s okay.
Even if, after that, school never seemed quite so promising, that’s okay.
You have your one perfect moment, and that’s more than most people get in their whole lives.
The first time you see Hankyung, he’s standing on the green outside the library. What you notice about him, your first and most lasting impression, is the way that he holds himself. He’s filled with an unconscious grace, something not quite tangible, but it isn’t quite as unconscious as it first appears; the straight back and shoulders trained from a young age. Still, that doesn’t even really matter. When he smiles, with his paint-stained and ripped clothing, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t seem gentle and even soft.
It isn’t until later that you really know appearances are almost never what you think they are.
You wave at him, but you don’t really know why, and he pauses, hesitant, before smiling and waving back. You want to know him, inside and out, with an intensity that doesn’t make sense. It scares you a little, but you’re okay with that.
When you’re out at class, some lecture you need to graduate, Hankyung paints, collages, changes the walls of your bare apartment and makes them beautiful. Everyday the mural changes, glued doodles from your idle time in the back row, and the thick lines of Siwon’s words arranged in poetry above the swirling colors and vivid patterns that crawl over your walls and doors and just touch the ceiling. Computerized images and photographs pasted almost haphazard and almost ordered, but not quite either.
You think that you can tell how he’s feeling just by what he paints, the colors and the edges and images coming together to form a picture of the inside of his head. Anger is jagged edges and black and red, ripped paper and splattered paint. Pain is blank and white and cold, numb faces and empty houses. Broken glass, empty bottles. Happiness is trees and air, gloriously bright colors and growth. You can trace his year with the palm of your hand.
You like being able to tell what he’s thinking, because what rarely shows on his face makes it into his art in an almost helpless way.
Sometimes you catch Siwon running his fingers over the joints in the glue and the paper and the paint, and you know that he feels that same.
You see Hankyung around campus a few times before you actually approach him. He’s talking to a girl you don’t know, but you only have four minutes to get to class, so you tap him on the shoulder. He cuts off mid sentence and turns around, smiling that slightly hesitant smile when he catches your eyes.
“Want to meet me for coffee later?” you ask, and you were never very good at tact. What is on your mind invariably makes it out of your mouth, and you’re fine with that. You like being bold and you like his smile.
“Oh, uh. Okay,” he says, and his smile turns into a grin, and you write your number on the inside of his wrist before rushing off to class.
When you see Siwon later, back at the room you both share, he asks you what you’re so happy about, but you just shake your head. You don’t feel like telling him.
You think that you’ve always loved Siwon. You think this, and you know it, and you feel it in your gut.
Sometimes, you wonder what would’ve happened if you actually kissed him in middle school like you always wanted to. Would he have kissed you back? Would you still be friends? Would it have ruined everything? You don’t know. You don’t regret not doing it, though, because at least, now, you know what you’re getting into. At least, now, you don’t have to worry so much about phases and changes and growing bodies. At least, now, you’ve already lived it, and you know how it ends, and you know that now is not that bad.
You’re friends with Hankyung for three or four months before he meets Siwon, and when you look back, you know that you kept them apart for a reason, because you were afraid of what would happen when they met.
Hankyung is helping you study your English when Siwon walks in, drops his bag on the floor by the door and wanders over to the fridge in the corner. Your small dorm room can barely hold the two of you, so you aren’t sure how Siwon managed to fit the fridge in as well, but it is useful to have. Siwon pulls out a water bottle and holds it to his forehead before turning around and grinning at you. You know the exact moment he notices Hankyung, because his grin turns into something else, something more predatory and less comfortable.
“Hi,” he says, voice holding a question something like who are you and why are you here?, but not in any menacing or threatened way. You wonder how he manages that as Hankyung smiles back, that gentle smile of his crossing his face.
“Hi, I’m Hankyung. You’re Siwon, then?” he asks, and Siwon just nods in return, smirks, and shrugs, asks Hankyung a question you don’t want to hear. You turn back to your books and tune them out, because you know Siwon and you know that look on his face, and you don’t want to deal with it.
You pretend you don’t know why you even bothered to try and keep them apart, but you do. Because you know both of them, and you know yourself. You’re willing to lose to make them happy, and the thought hurts, even if it hasn’t happened yet, so you concentrate as hard as you can on the words on the page, and try not to hear their laughter.
You let Hankyung paint your portrait on the wall in the kitchen, sitting on the counter in your jeans and a tank top, Siwon typing on his laptop in the far corner, some novella that came to him in the night. You think you are the only one who will make money after you graduate, and you think that you are the least creative, and you think that it doesn’t matter as long as you are all happy, and you just hope that happens.
Hankyung tells you to smile, and you do, you were always good at that. No matter what you’re thinking, you can smile. It just takes a fine tuned eye to know if it’s fake or not.
It takes them a summer vacation at least, and sometime less than two months rooming in an apartment, the apartment, with the three of you before they start having sex. They don’t tell you when it happens.
You come back after your writing class, open the door, and find them fucking on the couch. Hankyung’s head thrown back over the arm, neck exposed, and Siwon’s flexing shoulder blades, the sweaty line of his spine are all you see before you back out of the doorway and shut the door. You say nothing, but lean back against the cool metal of the closed door and shut your eyes. You can’t breathe for almost fifteen minutes and you let your eyes blur as you rush out of the building. You know that you knew it was coming but that doesn’t mean that you were prepared. You don’t go back until the next day, sleeping in the library and missing your early politics class. You don’t care that you didn’t do your homework, for once, because you can’t stop seeing them on the sofa, twined together like they were meant to be.
They aren’t there when you get back, so you sit on the floor in the middle of the room and look around. You wonder if you should move out. If you should tell them. If they would care.
You stare at the mussed sheets on the bed, at the sagging cushions on the couch, and imagine how they looked when you walked in. They were perfect without you and you knew that’s how it would be. You bite hard into the heel of your hand and suck in a quick breath and close your eyes.
You just wish you could decide who you were more jealous of.
Your life becomes a mess of fake smiles and excuses to let them share the bed. It’s weeks before they notice anything is wrong, with you, with the situation, and the only reason they ever do, you think, is because you tell them. You thought Siwon, at least, has known you since kindergarten, and he’d be able to tell when you’re so desperately unhappy, but he’s too busy basking in Hankyung’s smile and Hankyung’s body to notice the bags under your eyes and the nubs of your fingernails and the way you twist your lips between your fingers like you wish they’d just rip off. You blame stress and exams and hard classes and get no skepticism from either of them. Somehow that hurts more even than the fact that they haven’t yet told you they’re fucking or dating or whatever it is they’re doing.
You suppose it’s too much to ask really, too much to expect them to be paying close attention to you; you just wish that you mattered as much to them as they do to each other. And all that thought makes you feel is selfish.
As it is, you try your best to stay out of the apartment as much as possible. You stay late in the library studying, you sit out on the green at night with a book, you go to dumb parties just so you don’t feel so fucking alone.
You hate it when you get home and they’re asleep next to each other, curled up tight and fully clothed. That makes it worse, the pain that doesn’t quite leave the pit of your stomach, because not only are they hiding it from you, but they like each other enough that it’s not about the sex. It’s about them. You miss them, desperately, but there’s not much you can do. You go to bed quietly, and you pretend to be normal in the morning.
It’s three AM when you get home, more than slightly tipsy, but you still try your best to be quiet. Don’t want to wake up the fucking lovebirds, and you try not to be bitter, and you try not to be clumsy, but all these shoes get in the way, and you almost fall over. You bite your lip to keep from giggling too loudly, and your head feels all floaty and kind of nice, and you like not feeling completely shitty for the first time in three or four weeks. It takes you a few minutes to notice that the lights are still on, and when you look at the couch they’re both sitting there, looking at you. You snort out inappropriate laughter at the expressions on their faces, and collapse onto your mattress.
“You do know we were supposed to go out tonight, right?” Siwon’s voice is dark and angry and while it doesn’t sober you up, exactly, it makes you much less giddy. You’d forgotten actually, that you had plans with them to see a movie, but you don’t really know what the big deal is.
“Yeah, but I figured you could go without me. What’s the big deal?” You shrug and struggle to pull off your shoes, which you’d forgotten to toe off at the door. You look up when Hankyung starts talking, his voice filled with vague anxiety and half-formed threads of anger.
“Didn’t you think we’d be worried when you said you’d meet up with us at eight and here it is three AM and you’re just getting home?” This makes you pause, not because you agree, even though you can see the point, just because this is a funny time to start caring about what you do.
“No, I didn’t, actually. I didn’t even think that you’d notice, much less think about where I might be or why I was there.” You think it comes out more bitter than it should, you voice half-angry and half-wounded, and you know that if you were sober you’d agree and apologize and keep quiet but you don’t fucking want to. Hankyung looks away, and Siwon makes some angry noise in the back of his throat.
“What, you just decided not to tell us? How hard is it to use a phone and cancel, Kibum?” And you feel the anger flare up in you again at his words, because how dare he even talk about that? You hurl your shoes in the direction of the door, and clench your hands into fists at your sides.
“You want to talk about not telling? How about the fact that you two have been fucking for at least two months, maybe three, and you still haven’t seen fit to tell me? Not only do I live with you, but I thought you were my fucking friends. Cut me some slack, huh? Whatever. Fuck you.” You're going to regret this later, but for right now you’re too angry to care, angry that they care that you stayed out late and blew them off, but that they haven’t cared enough in the past month to notice anything.
You shuck off your pants and throw them in the direction of your closet, pulling your covers up over you and turning away, determined to sleep and not say another word to them. You wonder if you hurt their feelings, you wonder if they feel at all guilty, you wonder if they understand even a little bit how you feel.
Siwon comes home to you and Hankyung kissing on the bed, and the gas stove on. Your legs are tangled up with Hankyung’s and he has one hand woven into your hair, and the other up under your shirt in the back, short nails scratching over your skin. You think you could kiss forever and you barely hear Siwon call across the apartment.
“Hey, idiots, if you’re going to get distracted, at least turn of the stove first. I’d rather not come home to a burning apartment and two dead roommates.”
You laugh against Hankyung’s mouth, and meet his amused eyes, because you both know that Siwon’s right, but neither of you can manage to work up enough energy to care much at all. You’d much rather just enjoy the lazy afternoon, kissing and touching on the bed that the three of you share. You disentangle one of your hands from the sheets and beckon Siwon over, clasping his hand when he grabs yours, and gasping when his lips find your spine. You press your face into the crook of Hankyung’s neck and breathe against his skin. Siwon’s fingers smooth over your ribs as he pushes your shirt up. You want to stay like this forever.
You don’t talk to them the next morning, but you wake up with a slight hangover, and Hankyung is sending you worried glances, which you wish he’d just stop. You go to class without saying a word, because you’re still a little angry and you don’t know what else to say.
You come home to Hankyung painting, shades of white and black and grey, sharp lines and pieces of broken glass. Ruined buildings with empty windows, and numb white skies. You know then that you either hurt him or he feels guilty, and you wonder what the discussion you’re sure he and Siwon had after you left solved. You shouldn’t have said anything. You’re just so tired of self-pity, tired of feeling left out.
You sit cross-legged on your mattress in the corner, and put your head in your hands. It’ll be awhile before you have enough money to move out, and until then you’re stuck living here when you probably aren’t wanted anymore, if, by any chance, you were still wanted before you spilled your guts and pissed everyone off. You’re not so sure about that. You don’t want to do it, you don’t want to leave, but you don’t know what else there is to do. You sigh and rub your face with your hands, wondering how you managed to screw everything up so very badly.
You feel the mattress shift, and you look up to Hankyung sitting next to you, his face blank. He doesn’t look at you.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” his voice is soft, but almost emotionless. When he paints, it’s almost like all the emotion drains out of him. Ultimate catharsis. You chuckle humorlessly and wind your fingers up into your hair. You restrain yourself from biting your nails, instead settling on biting your lip.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, Hankyung, how was your day? Oh, by the way, earlier I walked in on you and Siwon fucking on the couch. What’s up with that?’ I think not.” You let your fingers dig into your thighs and you try not to sound hurt or angry. Instead, everything you say comes out bleak and exhausted and that’s essentially how you feel.
You feel his hand on the back of your neck, fingers sifting through the short hair there, and you shiver and resist the urge to shrug him off.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and leans forward to kiss your forehead. You feel his lips against your skin and are reminded of every secret you ever told Siwon.
You look up from your algebra homework at the sound of feet on the steps. Your mother works late in the evenings and your father doesn’t live with you anymore, so there are few people it could be. Siwon pushes open the door to your bedroom, and grins at you, sitting cross-legged on the floor by your pile of open books and papers.
“You said at school that you had something to tell me, right?” He doesn’t look that worried, and you wish that he’d forgotten about that. Because you know that you have to tell him sometime, but why couldn’t sometime be, well, later?
“Er,” you say, and trail off. He raises an eyebrow at you.
“What is it, Kibum? Spit it out.” You think you’re making him a little anxious with your stalling; you’re never one to pull your punches or hold things back. You take a deep breath, and you stare at your hands clasped in your lap.
“I’m pretty sure I’m bi. Sexual, I mean. More than pretty sure.” You stop before you get the chance to start babbling.
“Really?” he asks, voice some combination between curious and relieved, but you don’t know why and you don’t look at him. You nod wordlessly, and hope he doesn’t decide to get angry. Instead you feel his fingers warm on your chin, and he’s grinning when you look at him. “It’s okay,” he says, “’cause I’m gay, and I’d be a hypocrite if I hated you for being more normal than I am.” He pauses. “Don’t tell my mom, though.”
“Ugh,” you say, suddenly relieved and elated, feeling like your heart might just fly out of your chest if you don’t smile that much wider, “no telling parents until we’re in college, at least. I’d rather not have to live with her after she finds out. Knowing my mom, all she’ll do for a week is clean.”
“Hey,” Siwon says, finally letting go of your chin, “at least you have the possibility of falling in love with a woman and having a million tiny Kibum babies.” You start laughing at that, and Siwon gives you an offended look. “What? It could happen. Hey, Kibum! It could!”
But you can’t stop laughing even to answer.
You dread talking to Siwon more than anything else. It has to happen, you know it does, but you love him more than almost anyone in the world, maybe even more than your mother, and there is so much that could ruin everything. You’re afraid you don’t care. You’re afraid that you’re too angry to and you’ll just make things worse.
When he gets home you’re curled up on top of your sheets with your politics textbook, only half-absorbing the words you’re reading. You hear him sigh, but you don’t look up until he sits on the floor in front of you, and even that is only a glance.
“Hi,” he says, and you can’t tell anything from his voice. You have no idea what this conversation is going to be like. You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, staring at the brightly colored chapter heading in your textbook.
“Do you want me to move out?” you ask, and your voice is softer than you’d like, tentative, almost, and you hate that. You wish you’d never said anything, not last night, not just now. You hate being vulnerable. You hate how you always are with him. “It might take me awhile to get my own place, but I’m sure I could find a couch to crash on if you want me out faster than that.”
“What? What are you talking about?” He sounds genuinely confused, and you don’t let yourself acknowledge the thrill of hope you feel at that.
“I’m talking about whether or not I should start looking for a new place.” Your voice is calm, calmer than you’d thought possible, but still too soft, and you still haven’t looked at him.
“Why would you do that?” he asks, voice still filled with confusion, coupled with a note of anxiety just under it. You know his moods, but you almost never see this one. He hardly ever cares enough to be worried. You’re glad you still matter that much, at least.
“To get out of your way. Give you some privacy. That kind of stuff.” You shrug and are about as vague as possible. You can hear him shifting.
“You’re not in the way,” he says, and you think yeah fucking right but you say nothing. “You’re my best friend, of course I don’t want you to move out.” You just shrug again, because, whatever. Could’ve fooled you. “Kibum, look at me,” his voice is more worried and less controlled and you don’t want to. “Kibum!” and it’s not like you can’t hear him, but you just shake your head and dig your fingernails into your palms. You only look up when his fingers on your chin force you to and it’s déjà vu.
“You didn’t tell me, you didn’t fucking tell me anything. You said you’d tell me everything, and you didn’t fucking tell me. Keeping anything else a secret? Huh? And if you really were my best friend,” you pause, try to keep your voice from breaking, shake your head, “if you really were my best friend you’d fucking - you know what, never mind. Just, forget I said anything.” You can’t say you’d fucking notice when I’m miserable and you can’t say I just want to get out of here so you don’t hurt me anymore and you can’t say I need to stay because I’m afraid of what will happen if I leave you two here so you just fall silent. You look away, even with the warm fingers on your chin.
“Kibum,” he says again, and you meet his eyes. He looks upset; worried and scared and on edge. You hate it when he looks like that, you hate that you made him that way, and you think you’ve only seen him like this twice in your whole life; once when he came out to his parents and the other when the principal came to your class and told him his father had gotten in a car accident. You don’t want it to be like that, but you just can’t help it. You’re silent, both of you, and you listen to the sound of his not-quite-even breath, and when you finally talk you don’t know why you’re saying what you’re saying.
“I hate it, I hate it. I hate feeling invisible and unnoticed and extra. I hate feeling out of place in my own apartment, and I hate that you’re so wrapped up in your life that you ignore what it’s doing to me,” you push his hand away and you pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your hands around your thighs. You really want to go to sleep and never wake up. You are so tired, so very, very tired. Exhausted and internally bruised and totally unjustified.
People fall in love, and you may hate it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re just going to have to accept that.
Your life becomes class and work and sleep. You talk to them enough to say that you’ve run out of milk and need to go shopping, or to relay phone messages to Hankyung, or to ask how much longer Siwon’s going to be in the bathroom. Nothing more than that. You don’t know if they’re still having sex or not, but you don’t really care. They still share the bed and you still crash on the mattress. No days are notable, none are fun, none are interesting, and you move through life like a zombie or a cancer patient waiting to die.
Sometimes you come home to them sitting on their bed together, apartment filled with new silence, and you know they’ve been talking about you. You don’t know what they’ve been saying, and you miss being able to ask, but maybe things are better this way. Maybe.
Then you come home from your psych class and Hankyung pushes you back against the wet paint covering the wall. You open your mouth to gasp or yell or say something, but he just glares at you, and you realize that you’ve never seen him angry before. Your can feel the fabric of your tank top sticking to the wall and the wet paint against your bare shoulders. Hankyung wraps his fingers in your shirt and leans in close, eyes narrowed and suddenly extremely close.
“I know that we were wrong and I know that we hurt you, and I’ll be sorry until the day I die, I swear I will, but you can’t keep this up, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep detaching yourself, not forever. Can’t you see what you’re doing to us? To yourself?” he pauses and watches you for a second before continuing. “Are you really that blind? I’ve always thought you were many things, Kibum, but stupid was not one of them, and weak was not another.” He pushes you against the wall with every emphatic word, closing in until you can feel the rise of his chest against yours and the back of your head is against the wall, and you know you’ll have paint in your hair whenever he decides to let you go. You know he’s right, but all you want is to kiss him. He’s so very close, pressed up against you, but you’re not disloyal and you’re not that selfish, so you just flinch back and suck in a quick breath and restrain yourself from closing your eyes.
“What do you want me to do, exactly?” Looking at his mouth and not his eyes, voice soft. “I’m tryi-” and then he kisses you. Hand fisted in your shirt, and mouth harsh and hard against yours. Teeth on your lower lip and you’re not sure what to do with your hands, exactly, so you press them back against the wet wall. This is so wrong, and you pull away, surprised at your own will power. “No, don’t, Hankyung. Stop, it’s not right.” And you’re panting for breath, and you wish he wasn’t standing so close. He leans over, brushes his lips against your ear as he talks.
“We both want you, we’ve talked about it. We could make it work. Stop making everyone involved miserable and make up your mind.” He lets go of you and is out the door before you can even process what he’s said. You let yourself slide to the floor, leaving a smear of red and black and white paint as you do.
It’s not a relationship that always works. Sometimes one of you feels left out or gets jealous or crowded. There are fights; there are more broken dishes than easily imaginable. There are times when you yearn for the simplicity of just two bodies. Of always knowing what comes next and who goes where.
Mostly, though, you think it’s worth it.
When you come home from your early politics class later in the week, you walk in on them making out. Hankyung is sitting on the edge of the bed and Siwon is leaning over him, in-between his spread thighs, and they are kissing. You can hear the sound of their lips pressing, the rustling of sheets under Hankyung’s legs and all the emotion in your chest curls up into a ball, weighing heavily against your lungs. You are going to just back out and leave them alone, ignoring the twisting in your stomach, but the door opens too far and hits the wall and Siwon turns to look at you.
It’s like a moment frozen in time, Siwon half turned and staring at you, Hankyung looking over his shoulder, thighs spread, hands on Siwon’s shoulders.
And then Siwon holds out his hand and says nothing. Holds out his hand for you to take, and you look over your shoulder at the hallway and you bite your fingernails and you think about leaving.
But Siwon’s still holding out his hand, and Hankyung is still staring at you, challenging you. You don’t even really decide, you don’t remember moving from the doorway, you just grab his hand, and then he’s kissing you. His hand is in your hair, and Hankyung’s lips are on the side of his neck, hands under his shirt, pushing it up. You meet Hankyung’s eyes; watch him smile against Siwon’s skin.
“What is this?” you ask, pulling back, slightly, as Siwon moves to your jaw and over your neck. You can’t help but tilt your head to the side to give him more access.
“Whatever you want it to be,” he replies, words whispered against your slightly wet skin. And then he bites at your neck and you feel the heels of Hankyung’s feet against the backs of your thighs.
And that’s how it starts.
“Mmph,” Siwon says, and you squeeze Hankyung’s hand and grin. “Will you two please be quiet? Some of us’re trying to sleep.” He shifts, settling back against you, and you nudge him with your nose.
“Well, some of us weren’t up until four AM or whatever it was writing,” you say, but you’re not really serious.
“The sun’s not even up yet, and I’m still tired, so be quiet,” his voice is slightly slurred with sleep, and mostly petulant.
“Sorry, you’re majesty, we’ll be completely silent, promise,” Hankyung says, mouth still against the back of your neck.
“Mmm, thanks,” he says, words more breath than syllable, but he shifts a little again, onto his back, and looks at you. You can see one of his eyes in the darkness. “Kibum? ‘M sorry too, ‘kay?” And he turns back onto his side and closes his eyes. You sigh and roll yours, even though no one can see, and Hankyung laughs softly behind you.
“Fine, whatever. Apology accepted. Will you guys leave it alone now?” Your voice is exasperated, even if most of it is a show. Hankyung tightens his hold on your waist before replying.
“No. Now go back to sleep.”
End Notes: Well. This is the longest thing I've written in awhile. AND THE ONLY THREESOME FIC I'VE WRITTEN, EVER. I liked the beginning much more than I like the ending, but er. Comments?