Words Unspoken- Drabble Dump
Kai/Lay
“Do you hate me?”
The words are oddly loud in wake of the reverberating music that had just been blasting from the radio, echoing across the room. Yixing’s fingers still around his water bottle for a moment before untwisting the cap and taking a small measured sip from it. Drinking too much water immediately after strenuous exercise isn’t good.
Setting the bottle down, Yixing walks over to the middle of the practice room where Jongin is sprawled out on the floor. Acutely aware of the way Jongin is watching him, Yixing lowers himself into a cross-legged position next to the other boy.
Jongin immediately shifts so his head is pillowed on Yixing’s thigh. It is uncomfortable, the muscles in the older’s leg not providing much cushioning, but Jongin doesn’t move. Yixing reaches down and absentmindedly pushes Jongin’s damp bangs out of his eyes, fingers playing with the sweaty strands.
They are oddly bright, Jongin’s eyes, reflecting the fluorescent lights of the practice room. Yixing stares down at them and muses that he can’t really see much else in them. He cards his fingers through Jongin’s hair once more, repeating the action until their harsh breaths are almost inaudible.
“No,” Yixing says evenly.
The artificial light reflected in Jongin’s eyes disappears as Jongin lowers his eyelids, eyelashes not quite brushing his cheek. He turns his head away from Yixing, but Yixing can still see the twist in Jongin’s smile in the mirror across from them.
“You don’t have to lie and spare my feelings or anything,” Jongin tells Yixing’s knee.
Yixing’s fingers, tangled in Jongin’s hair, tighten until his nails dig painfully into his palm. Jongin doesn’t react.
Chen/Lay
Jongdae chews on the end of his pen agitatedly as he glances between the glaring numbers displayed on his calculator and the wildly different ones scrawled on his homework assignment. He rubs his eyes and attempts to blink the tired prickles away in hopes that, by doing so, the enigmatic math problem before him would somehow magically solve itself.
It doesn’t work. Jongdae sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. He viciously punches the Clear button on his calculator. Setting his pen down, Jongdae stretches as much as the little café table allows him to and yawns widely in a way that must be wildly unattractive, but at this point, Jongdae is too tired and fed up to care.
Jongdae reaches for his cup of coffee, but to his dismay, there is none of his life’s elixir left. Jongdae represses the urge to flip a metaphoric table (as flipping the actual table would be rude and give the workers more to clean up) as he stares mournfully at the empty cup and, not for the first time, wonders why this is his life.
Suddenly, a new cup of steaming coffee is placed in front of him. Jongdae takes in the elaborate heart decorating the top of the drink, feeling his own melt, and nods up at the waiter in thanks. The waiter inclines his head in the direction of the register. Jongdae’s gaze slides over that way to the person leaning on the counter watching him, an involuntary grin breaking out.
Yixing meets Jongdae’s grin with a dimpled smile of his own and mouths, Fighting. Jongdae bites his lips to keep his smile from reaching creepy levels and, reluctant as he is to ruin the pretty design, takes a sip of his coffee. He wonders what kind of expression he made while drinking it because when he looks back, Yixing is laughing, amusement written all over his face.
Jongdae sticks his tongue out at the older. Yixing’s eyes are alight with mirth, and he blows a kiss at Jongdae. Jongdae mimes catching the kiss and puts his hand to his heart. Taking one last lingering look at Yixing, Jongdae turns back to his homework with renewed energy, the warmth of his coffee and Yixing spreading and filling him up in a way that nothing else can.
Kris/Tao
As soon as the horn sounds, contestant number ten, a young boy with messy black hair, gets punched square in the jaw by contestant number seventeen, who is the current champion of the pit by sheer power and brutality. Ten’s head snaps violently to the side, and by the time he turns back slowly, a hand rubbing his jaw, Seventeen has already reached down and scooped up a staff. Kris, struggling not to yawn, takes a measured sip of his wine. These vicious one-sided fights between Seventeen and whatever poor number is up for the day have ceased being amusing and are starting to bore. Perhaps Kris should just throw Seventeen in the pit with a lion tomorrow. That ought to be entertaining…
Seventeen swings the staff over his head, and suddenly, he’s stumbling backwards. Kris blinks. What?
Seventeen charges forward again with the staff, this time aiming for the knees. Ten reacts at the very last second, throwing his body into an aerial spin as the staff uselessly swishes through thin air beneath him. He lands on one leg and kicks Seventeen’s fingers with deadly precision with the other. There is a soft crack, and judging by the way the staff hits the ground and Seventeen lets out a pained cry, several digits are broken. Unconsciously, Kris leans forward, his attention captured.
Nursing the hand with broken fingers, Seventeen reaches back and grabs a knife. He waves the weapon threateningly at Ten. Ten circles him, eyeing the pointed tip warily. Seventeen lashes out, the blade deadly as it swings through the air. Ten throws himself to the side and curls into a roll, barely managing to get away in time. When he comes up, there is blood trickling from a cut on his arm. The crowd around Kris roars in approval and bloodlust.
Seventeen grins madly, regaining confidence now that he has injured his opponent. He tauntingly spits in Ten’s direction. Cocky with his success, Seventeen charges Ten head-on.
There is a flurry of movement, but Kris catches it all. Shifting his body slightly off-center, Ten redirects the knife’s blade away from himself while using the momentum of Seventeen’s reckless charge to pull the larger man off balance. A swift back knuckle to the temple stuns Seventeen, and before he can recover, Ten is already twisting his arm behind his back. Kris sucks in a breath as Ten slides the knife from Seventeen’s lax grip in an almost gentle manner.
But the way he brings the blade to Seventeen’s throat and rips it open is anything but. There is a spray of red liquid, some getting on Ten’s hand as the now dead body of Seventeen falls forward. The entire crowd is quiet, tense as Ten stands over the body of the former victor, bloody knife in hand. Ten throws the knife to the side, the clanging of metal against cement loud in the hushed silence, and wipes his soiled hand on his pants. Then he turns around and looks up directly at Kris.
Ten’s eyes are sharp, as are his features, but Kris can see now that he cannot be more than twenty years old. The hatred burning in his glare, however, suggests experiences beyond his years. Ten points at Kris, and Kris feels the blood pumping faster through his veins. Without breaking eye contact, Ten brings his thumb up and swipes it across his nose in a contemptuous and defiant gesture. Holding Kris’ gaze for one more second, Ten turns sharply around and stalks out of the arena and back into the contestant cages, shrugging off the guards that rush out to escort him.
As soon as the cage door closes, the crowd buzzes to life with low, scandalized murmurs. Kris ignores it all. He instead leans back against his plush chair and swirls the wine around in his glass absentmindedly as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. How intriguing.
Chanyeol/Baekhyun
At promptly 7:32 A.M, 32 minutes after their alarm clock rings and 31 minutes after the poor device becomes intimately acquainted with the opposite wall yet again, Baekhyun kicks a snoring Chanyeol out of bed and proceeds to sprawl over it so the younger can’t get back in. Even with his head buried in the pillows, Baekhyun can practically feel the pout being sent in his direction. He steadfastly ignores it, and soon enough, there’s some shuffling and the sounds of the bathroom door opening and closing.
Once he ascertains that Chanyeol is taking a shower (the water turns on, and Chanyeol starts singing loudly and very off-key) and not nodding off on the toilet (it has been known to happen on more than a few occasions), Baekhyun flops over and allows himself to doze off for an extra ten minutes. After finishing up his dream (involving Kyungsoo’s eyeballs and a species of orange creatures that are threatening to take over them), Baekhyun drags himself out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Chanyeol bursts in after him a few minutes later, hopping frantically as he struggles to get his clothes on. Baekhyun helpfully zips up Chanyeol’s pants and buttons them, and when the toaster dings, he stuffs the piece of bread into Chanyeol’s mouth. Chanyeol mumbles something that might be a ‘thank you’ as Baekhyun fruitlessly tries to pat down the frizzy mess on the former’s head.
Baekhyun leans against the doorframe, holding out Chanyeol’s bag as Chanyeol jams his feet into his shoes. Chanyeol plucks his bag out of Baekhyun’s hands and dashes out the door at top speed with a full twelve minutes to get to class before the professor scolds him for tardiness. Record time.
Baekhyun stands at the door, spacing out for a minute (Baekhyun blames it on the fact that he’s never truly awake in the morning until after his cup of coffee) before shaking off the daze and heading back inside. But before he can close the door, a hand slams it open.
A damp Chanyeol (Baekhyun can’t tell what the wetness is from, the shower or the sprinting) grins happily at Baekhyun before he closes the distance between them and gives Baekhyun a chaste kiss on the lips.
“Forgot my morning kiss,” Chanyeol says solemnly. “I’m good now.”
Baekhyun quirks an eyebrow at him before pushing him out the door and towards campus. “You’re late. Nine minutes to get to class.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth, Baekhyunnie!” Chanyeol screams as he jogs backwards (nearly bowling into a biker), waving enthusiastically. “You have morning breath!”
Baekhyun snorts and waves back until Chanyeol crashes into a pole. Unable to suppress a fond smile as Chanyeol rubs the back of his head and turns around to start running the right way, Baekhyun closes the door of their apartment and goes to prepare for a shower.
Sehun/Luhan
Sehun doesn’t flinch when the ceramic pot flies across the room and shatters into dozens of pieces against the wall. The pot is-was-the last breakable object in the room, so Sehun knows that the violent outburst is over. But it is the deceptive calm, the tense quiet that follows, that is a thousand times harder to bear, because now he can clearly hear Luhan’s ragged breathing, can hear the way it hitches as the older struggles to regain his composure.
Luhan stands by the circular window at the other end of the room, looking smaller than ever beneath the swaths of silk he is forced to wear. His gaze, slightly unfocused, is fixated on something far away outside. Sehun is not sure whether he should be relieved or concerned that there are no tears in Luhan’s eyes.
“It’s your job to protect me,” Luhan says softly. His fingers curl around the bars in the window, and he leans forward until his forehead touches the metal. Luhan blinks once, twice, and then his eyes flutter shut, the pale sunlight casting a golden tint on his lashes.
Sehun licks his lips uncomfortably because it feels like an oddly private moment, but he does not divert his gaze. Like everything forbidden, Luhan is-and will always be-perversely enthralling. “Not from this,” Sehun says. Luhan’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the bars.
Sometimes, the armor Sehun dons feels less like a protective shield and more like an unbearable burden.
Kai/Lay
Fifteen minutes into their impromptu road trip in Yixing’s dad’s convertible (it is not stolen. Just borrowed. Without his knowledge. Yixing fully intends to bring it back in one piece), Jongin takes off his shirt and throws it out of the car because he wants to “live life a little.” Not one minute later, he decides that Yixing needs to live life with him.
It does not go well, partially because Jongin has never been good at stripping another person of their clothing (that’s Yixing’s job), but mostly because Yixing is the one in the driver’s seat. Yixing squawks as the car swerves, and he fights to keep the vehicle going in a straight line and not off the road despite the fact that he can’t see anything but the inside of his shirt. Jongin wins after a few more minutes of struggle, and Yixing can only mournfully watch as his own shirt is carelessly thrown out too.
“That was designer,” Yixing informs Jongin, staring sadly in the rearview mirror until his shirt is just a speck. He has half a mind to drive back to get it. “And a gift from Luhan.”
At the mention of Yixing’s best friend, Jongin smirks, slow and with every bit of brattiness he has (i.e. a lot). “All the more reason to get rid of it,” he replies, reaching over to fiddle with the radio.
Yixing huffs but lets it go because the sun does feel nice on his bare skin. Also, Jongin has clearly been working out, and Yixing has a very enjoyable view of the proof. But Yixing doesn’t tell Jongin this because god knows the younger boy doesn’t need to have his ego inflated any more than it already is. Jongin finally settles on a dance music station, and they spend the next hour or so bellowing the lyrics and gyrating along to the best of their abilities while sitting in a car.
Yixing is thinking about how nice it is going when Jongin suddenly clambers up to standing position in the passenger seat, cups his hands around his mouth, and screams, “I love you, Zhang Yixing!” Jongin then leans on the windshield and grins down at Yixing, all bright and straightforward affection.
Yixing blinks, unsure how to respond. So he thinks about how Jongin’s skin looks a shade darker than usual. Must be the result of the last hour on the road, or maybe Yixing just can’t tell what color it is from behind his tinted sunglasses. But Yixing can’t look properly at Jongin without sunglasses right now; the sun is right behind the younger boy, making him look more glow-y than usual. Yixing drops his gaze to Jongin’s feet, and goddammit.
Yixing turns his steering wheel sharply. Jongin makes an undignified shriek as he loses his balance before scrambling back down to safety.
“You’re getting the car seat dirty,” Yixing scolds. “And put on your seatbelt.”
Jongin frowns, clearly sulking. “Geez, live life a little, would you?” He pointedly does not put on his seatbelt.
Yixing stares at the other boy for a moment before sighing. What a brat. He slams the brake. Jongin, not restrained by a seatbelt, flies forward and nearly smacks his face on the dashboard (how’s that for living life? Yixing thinks viciously). Roughly putting the car in park, Yixing grabs Jongin by the back of his neck and smashes their lips together in an unrelenting kiss that does not end until both of them are flushed and breathless.
Then, as though nothing happened, Yixing starts up the car and continues driving. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jongin licking his lips. Yixing teasingly returns the gesture. He chuckles when he finds that his lips have a faint taste of Jongin. Jongin grins and leans over to poke Yixing’s dimple.
“Do you hate me?”
The words are oddly loud in wake of the reverberating music that had just been blasting from the radio, echoing across the room. Yixing’s fingers still around his water bottle for a moment before untwisting the cap and taking a small measured sip from it. Drinking too much water immediately after strenuous exercise isn’t good.
Setting the bottle down, Yixing walks over to the middle of the practice room where Jongin is sprawled out on the floor. Acutely aware of the way Jongin is watching him, Yixing lowers himself into a cross-legged position next to the other boy.
Jongin immediately shifts so his head is pillowed on Yixing’s thigh. It is uncomfortable, the muscles in the older’s leg not providing much cushioning, but Jongin doesn’t move. Yixing reaches down and absentmindedly pushes Jongin’s damp bangs out of his eyes, fingers playing with the sweaty strands.
They are oddly bright, Jongin’s eyes, reflecting the fluorescent lights of the practice room. Yixing stares down at them and muses that he can’t really see much else in them. He cards his fingers through Jongin’s hair once more, repeating the action until their harsh breaths are almost inaudible.
“No,” Yixing says evenly.
The artificial light reflected in Jongin’s eyes disappears as Jongin lowers his eyelids, eyelashes not quite brushing his cheek. He turns his head away from Yixing, but Yixing can still see the twist in Jongin’s smile in the mirror across from them.
“You don’t have to lie and spare my feelings or anything,” Jongin tells Yixing’s knee.
Yixing’s fingers, tangled in Jongin’s hair, tighten until his nails dig painfully into his palm. Jongin doesn’t react.
Chen/Lay
Jongdae chews on the end of his pen agitatedly as he glances between the glaring numbers displayed on his calculator and the wildly different ones scrawled on his homework assignment. He rubs his eyes and attempts to blink the tired prickles away in hopes that, by doing so, the enigmatic math problem before him would somehow magically solve itself.
It doesn’t work. Jongdae sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. He viciously punches the Clear button on his calculator. Setting his pen down, Jongdae stretches as much as the little café table allows him to and yawns widely in a way that must be wildly unattractive, but at this point, Jongdae is too tired and fed up to care.
Jongdae reaches for his cup of coffee, but to his dismay, there is none of his life’s elixir left. Jongdae represses the urge to flip a metaphoric table (as flipping the actual table would be rude and give the workers more to clean up) as he stares mournfully at the empty cup and, not for the first time, wonders why this is his life.
Suddenly, a new cup of steaming coffee is placed in front of him. Jongdae takes in the elaborate heart decorating the top of the drink, feeling his own melt, and nods up at the waiter in thanks. The waiter inclines his head in the direction of the register. Jongdae’s gaze slides over that way to the person leaning on the counter watching him, an involuntary grin breaking out.
Yixing meets Jongdae’s grin with a dimpled smile of his own and mouths, Fighting. Jongdae bites his lips to keep his smile from reaching creepy levels and, reluctant as he is to ruin the pretty design, takes a sip of his coffee. He wonders what kind of expression he made while drinking it because when he looks back, Yixing is laughing, amusement written all over his face.
Jongdae sticks his tongue out at the older. Yixing’s eyes are alight with mirth, and he blows a kiss at Jongdae. Jongdae mimes catching the kiss and puts his hand to his heart. Taking one last lingering look at Yixing, Jongdae turns back to his homework with renewed energy, the warmth of his coffee and Yixing spreading and filling him up in a way that nothing else can.
Kris/Tao
As soon as the horn sounds, contestant number ten, a young boy with messy black hair, gets punched square in the jaw by contestant number seventeen, who is the current champion of the pit by sheer power and brutality. Ten’s head snaps violently to the side, and by the time he turns back slowly, a hand rubbing his jaw, Seventeen has already reached down and scooped up a staff. Kris, struggling not to yawn, takes a measured sip of his wine. These vicious one-sided fights between Seventeen and whatever poor number is up for the day have ceased being amusing and are starting to bore. Perhaps Kris should just throw Seventeen in the pit with a lion tomorrow. That ought to be entertaining…
Seventeen swings the staff over his head, and suddenly, he’s stumbling backwards. Kris blinks. What?
Seventeen charges forward again with the staff, this time aiming for the knees. Ten reacts at the very last second, throwing his body into an aerial spin as the staff uselessly swishes through thin air beneath him. He lands on one leg and kicks Seventeen’s fingers with deadly precision with the other. There is a soft crack, and judging by the way the staff hits the ground and Seventeen lets out a pained cry, several digits are broken. Unconsciously, Kris leans forward, his attention captured.
Nursing the hand with broken fingers, Seventeen reaches back and grabs a knife. He waves the weapon threateningly at Ten. Ten circles him, eyeing the pointed tip warily. Seventeen lashes out, the blade deadly as it swings through the air. Ten throws himself to the side and curls into a roll, barely managing to get away in time. When he comes up, there is blood trickling from a cut on his arm. The crowd around Kris roars in approval and bloodlust.
Seventeen grins madly, regaining confidence now that he has injured his opponent. He tauntingly spits in Ten’s direction. Cocky with his success, Seventeen charges Ten head-on.
There is a flurry of movement, but Kris catches it all. Shifting his body slightly off-center, Ten redirects the knife’s blade away from himself while using the momentum of Seventeen’s reckless charge to pull the larger man off balance. A swift back knuckle to the temple stuns Seventeen, and before he can recover, Ten is already twisting his arm behind his back. Kris sucks in a breath as Ten slides the knife from Seventeen’s lax grip in an almost gentle manner.
But the way he brings the blade to Seventeen’s throat and rips it open is anything but. There is a spray of red liquid, some getting on Ten’s hand as the now dead body of Seventeen falls forward. The entire crowd is quiet, tense as Ten stands over the body of the former victor, bloody knife in hand. Ten throws the knife to the side, the clanging of metal against cement loud in the hushed silence, and wipes his soiled hand on his pants. Then he turns around and looks up directly at Kris.
Ten’s eyes are sharp, as are his features, but Kris can see now that he cannot be more than twenty years old. The hatred burning in his glare, however, suggests experiences beyond his years. Ten points at Kris, and Kris feels the blood pumping faster through his veins. Without breaking eye contact, Ten brings his thumb up and swipes it across his nose in a contemptuous and defiant gesture. Holding Kris’ gaze for one more second, Ten turns sharply around and stalks out of the arena and back into the contestant cages, shrugging off the guards that rush out to escort him.
As soon as the cage door closes, the crowd buzzes to life with low, scandalized murmurs. Kris ignores it all. He instead leans back against his plush chair and swirls the wine around in his glass absentmindedly as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. How intriguing.
Chanyeol/Baekhyun
At promptly 7:32 A.M, 32 minutes after their alarm clock rings and 31 minutes after the poor device becomes intimately acquainted with the opposite wall yet again, Baekhyun kicks a snoring Chanyeol out of bed and proceeds to sprawl over it so the younger can’t get back in. Even with his head buried in the pillows, Baekhyun can practically feel the pout being sent in his direction. He steadfastly ignores it, and soon enough, there’s some shuffling and the sounds of the bathroom door opening and closing.
Once he ascertains that Chanyeol is taking a shower (the water turns on, and Chanyeol starts singing loudly and very off-key) and not nodding off on the toilet (it has been known to happen on more than a few occasions), Baekhyun flops over and allows himself to doze off for an extra ten minutes. After finishing up his dream (involving Kyungsoo’s eyeballs and a species of orange creatures that are threatening to take over them), Baekhyun drags himself out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Chanyeol bursts in after him a few minutes later, hopping frantically as he struggles to get his clothes on. Baekhyun helpfully zips up Chanyeol’s pants and buttons them, and when the toaster dings, he stuffs the piece of bread into Chanyeol’s mouth. Chanyeol mumbles something that might be a ‘thank you’ as Baekhyun fruitlessly tries to pat down the frizzy mess on the former’s head.
Baekhyun leans against the doorframe, holding out Chanyeol’s bag as Chanyeol jams his feet into his shoes. Chanyeol plucks his bag out of Baekhyun’s hands and dashes out the door at top speed with a full twelve minutes to get to class before the professor scolds him for tardiness. Record time.
Baekhyun stands at the door, spacing out for a minute (Baekhyun blames it on the fact that he’s never truly awake in the morning until after his cup of coffee) before shaking off the daze and heading back inside. But before he can close the door, a hand slams it open.
A damp Chanyeol (Baekhyun can’t tell what the wetness is from, the shower or the sprinting) grins happily at Baekhyun before he closes the distance between them and gives Baekhyun a chaste kiss on the lips.
“Forgot my morning kiss,” Chanyeol says solemnly. “I’m good now.”
Baekhyun quirks an eyebrow at him before pushing him out the door and towards campus. “You’re late. Nine minutes to get to class.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth, Baekhyunnie!” Chanyeol screams as he jogs backwards (nearly bowling into a biker), waving enthusiastically. “You have morning breath!”
Baekhyun snorts and waves back until Chanyeol crashes into a pole. Unable to suppress a fond smile as Chanyeol rubs the back of his head and turns around to start running the right way, Baekhyun closes the door of their apartment and goes to prepare for a shower.
Sehun/Luhan
Sehun doesn’t flinch when the ceramic pot flies across the room and shatters into dozens of pieces against the wall. The pot is-was-the last breakable object in the room, so Sehun knows that the violent outburst is over. But it is the deceptive calm, the tense quiet that follows, that is a thousand times harder to bear, because now he can clearly hear Luhan’s ragged breathing, can hear the way it hitches as the older struggles to regain his composure.
Luhan stands by the circular window at the other end of the room, looking smaller than ever beneath the swaths of silk he is forced to wear. His gaze, slightly unfocused, is fixated on something far away outside. Sehun is not sure whether he should be relieved or concerned that there are no tears in Luhan’s eyes.
“It’s your job to protect me,” Luhan says softly. His fingers curl around the bars in the window, and he leans forward until his forehead touches the metal. Luhan blinks once, twice, and then his eyes flutter shut, the pale sunlight casting a golden tint on his lashes.
Sehun licks his lips uncomfortably because it feels like an oddly private moment, but he does not divert his gaze. Like everything forbidden, Luhan is-and will always be-perversely enthralling. “Not from this,” Sehun says. Luhan’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the bars.
Sometimes, the armor Sehun dons feels less like a protective shield and more like an unbearable burden.
Kai/Lay
Fifteen minutes into their impromptu road trip in Yixing’s dad’s convertible (it is not stolen. Just borrowed. Without his knowledge. Yixing fully intends to bring it back in one piece), Jongin takes off his shirt and throws it out of the car because he wants to “live life a little.” Not one minute later, he decides that Yixing needs to live life with him.
It does not go well, partially because Jongin has never been good at stripping another person of their clothing (that’s Yixing’s job), but mostly because Yixing is the one in the driver’s seat. Yixing squawks as the car swerves, and he fights to keep the vehicle going in a straight line and not off the road despite the fact that he can’t see anything but the inside of his shirt. Jongin wins after a few more minutes of struggle, and Yixing can only mournfully watch as his own shirt is carelessly thrown out too.
“That was designer,” Yixing informs Jongin, staring sadly in the rearview mirror until his shirt is just a speck. He has half a mind to drive back to get it. “And a gift from Luhan.”
At the mention of Yixing’s best friend, Jongin smirks, slow and with every bit of brattiness he has (i.e. a lot). “All the more reason to get rid of it,” he replies, reaching over to fiddle with the radio.
Yixing huffs but lets it go because the sun does feel nice on his bare skin. Also, Jongin has clearly been working out, and Yixing has a very enjoyable view of the proof. But Yixing doesn’t tell Jongin this because god knows the younger boy doesn’t need to have his ego inflated any more than it already is. Jongin finally settles on a dance music station, and they spend the next hour or so bellowing the lyrics and gyrating along to the best of their abilities while sitting in a car.
Yixing is thinking about how nice it is going when Jongin suddenly clambers up to standing position in the passenger seat, cups his hands around his mouth, and screams, “I love you, Zhang Yixing!” Jongin then leans on the windshield and grins down at Yixing, all bright and straightforward affection.
Yixing blinks, unsure how to respond. So he thinks about how Jongin’s skin looks a shade darker than usual. Must be the result of the last hour on the road, or maybe Yixing just can’t tell what color it is from behind his tinted sunglasses. But Yixing can’t look properly at Jongin without sunglasses right now; the sun is right behind the younger boy, making him look more glow-y than usual. Yixing drops his gaze to Jongin’s feet, and goddammit.
Yixing turns his steering wheel sharply. Jongin makes an undignified shriek as he loses his balance before scrambling back down to safety.
“You’re getting the car seat dirty,” Yixing scolds. “And put on your seatbelt.”
Jongin frowns, clearly sulking. “Geez, live life a little, would you?” He pointedly does not put on his seatbelt.
Yixing stares at the other boy for a moment before sighing. What a brat. He slams the brake. Jongin, not restrained by a seatbelt, flies forward and nearly smacks his face on the dashboard (how’s that for living life? Yixing thinks viciously). Roughly putting the car in park, Yixing grabs Jongin by the back of his neck and smashes their lips together in an unrelenting kiss that does not end until both of them are flushed and breathless.
Then, as though nothing happened, Yixing starts up the car and continues driving. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jongin licking his lips. Yixing teasingly returns the gesture. He chuckles when he finds that his lips have a faint taste of Jongin. Jongin grins and leans over to poke Yixing’s dimple.