In Reverse (Hankyung/Heechul)

[warmboys]

Hankyung/Heechul, PG-13, ~720 words
A little bit of backtracking. For blahnicity because the fates have been meddling with her health lately and she deserves to be well and happy.


In Reverse

Working backwards, there was something to do with a cat.

“We have a rodent problem,” Hankyung had said. “I found little round poop balls by the heat vent.”

“Get rid of it,” Heechul had said.

“That’s what Heebum’s for,” Hankyung had argued. He bends down in an attempt to pick up the stubborn, slippery creature; fails. They say pets resemble their owners, or was it the other way around?

Heechul is saying something about how domesticated animals shouldn’t be expected to perform manual labor or work that could easily be done by a mousetrap, and when he pours milk into the small clay dish his wrist under the flannel looks blue, reflection of sky against snow.

The next sixty seconds can be blamed on the heat of the room, Hankyung’s headache carefully pinching the nerves behind forehead skin. Heechul’s wrist smells like jasmine and tastes like his mother’s lotion. Hankyung notes the way he squirms against the refrigerator door, the contrast of warm thighs and cold hands. The small animal sounds he makes travel through Hankyung’s throat like one long dark corridor.

For a while it’s life as usual. The sound of shoes being tossed around is Kibum coming home early. “Hey lil fella,” he says, scratching behind Heebum’s ear. He throws a jacket over the nearest chair, nods greetings at the hyungs.

Kibum hums sonatas when he’s on the computer. Hankyung listens through the bathroom door to Pathetique punctuated by mouse clicks, staccato, while Heechul sits on the toilet cover painting his toenails black.

Hankyung starts with the hand, because it’s shaking, and works his way up the arm. When he reaches the shoulder, the nape of the neck, he stops and takes a step back. Heechul has his eyes closed like something bad is about to happen, like they’re crouched in a back alley, fingers curling around the guns in their inside jacket pockets and police sirens ringing in the distance. When the air between them cools, he opens his eyes and asks “Why?”

In that moment Hankyung gets scared, the way he does when asked to perform mental math or, quick, name the Chinese dynasties in order. But when he parts his lips Heechul says “Hush” and sets the tiny brush down. They kiss slowly, quietly, until the clicking stops and Kibum yells, “Who drank my beer?”

Hankyung makes lists when he can’t figure things out. This is the fifth sheet he’s crumpled in the past hour. Because I miss home is the last line written in drippy black ink. He’s leaning over the notepad with an arm curved against the light of the desk lamp when Heechul asks if he’s killed the mouse yet.

“Why did you remind me?” Hankyung groans, discreetly pushing the notepad under the keyboard as Heechul flops down on his bed, light and airy, toothbrush in his mouth.

“Because you started it,” Heechul says through the mess of toothpaste. The oversized pajama shirt drapes over him like a ghost of a cloak, sticking just close enough to show the outline of nipples.

Hankyung swallows the knot in his throat and says, “Don’t drip on the sheets.”

“It’s white against white.” Heechul grins and lets water dribble down his chin.

It’s skin against skin, mouth against mouth, China against Korea, when they find each other and the mattress springs squeak and compress to hold their combined weight. Heechul spits into the half-eaten bowl of ramen on the desk and Hankyung wonders if this is worth getting poisoned for and decides yes when Heechul bites on his lower lip and doesn’t let go. Hankyung presses a palm against Heechul’s chest, traces circles around the nipple before snaking under the cotton to make cold, rush-hour hurried contact. He doesn’t know whether to go gentle the way he would with a girl, because Heechul’s shoulders are delicate but his jaw clenches like a blind man on a mission. The vein down the curve of his neck pulses under Hankyung’s cupped hand, a reminder of the concrete now. This is happening. Damned if he knew why. Damned if he cared.

The peppermint burns its way down his throat.

When it’s all over, Heechul leans back and hugs his knees to his chest. “If my heart were made of brick, I’d throw it at you.”

“You’re not that heavy,” Hankyung says. We’re not that fragile.

Love you and hope you get better soon <3