Work Text:
hold me right up
watch me light up
love the sight of us when you and i laugh
sugar on my tongue
you put the air in my lungs
you make my blood sweet in the morning
with my buttons undone
take me higher, love me wider
sweet saliva and i just wanna lie here
i’m not shy, i don't need to try,
i'm in your fire and i think that i could die here
BROWN SUGAR | IDER
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks and a handful of hours since Minho came home. Two weeks and a handful of hours and maybe three or four minutes, not that anyone is counting. Not that Kibum is counting.
He’s not counting up the days, adding them like pocket change to the piggy bank of stored up time he’s spent with Minho across the years. He’s not keeping track like that, of how many hours down to the minute it’s been since Minho returned, took up his place by Kibum’s side, eased past the tension of their separation, their lack of conversation, and back into the tumbledown, ruinous, traitorous thing Kibum calls his heart. He’s not, because that would be ridiculous, and pointless, an exercise in self-torture and Kibum won’t have it.
Except for the part where he will have it, because maybe he deserves it, because maybe he should remind himself of all the missing moments and the left-on-reads, all the friends he saw in place of Minho as if out of sight had ever meant out of mind. As if by keeping him at arm’s length and then further still, it would finally kill the longing, the yearning.
For a moment, Kibum thought it had worked. For a moment, when Minho stood there in that doorway, looking foolish and good, so good in that uniform, Kibum had convinced himself he’d finally quelled the ache. Until he was in Minho’s arms, and it burst back to life like a fire that had never quite gone out, hunger burning through him as he buried the urge to cry in harsh and meaningless and untrue words about how stupid Minho looked. Words about how embarrassing he was, even as Kibum’s mouth set to watering at the scent of him, even as that old itch crawled beneath his skin again, hopelessly unsatisfied.
So yeah, maybe Kibum’s counting. Filing each day that ticks by away under wasted time, because he could be making up for it now, could be setting it all to rights if he only had the balls to look Minho in the eye, properly, and say the things he’s been keeping tucked away somewhere behind his ribs for what feels like a century now. Except he doesn’t have the balls, he doesn’t, he only has a hangover headache and Minho in his bed, still fully clothed in yesterday’s jeans and blue button down, snoring a bit, which should be wildly unattractive and is instead annoyingly endearing.
A handful of hours and fourteen minutes now. Fourteen or fifteen. Who’s counting?
Kibum watches Minho sleep between glances at the time on his phone, adds another mark to the running tally for each minute that passes in which Kibum hasn’t told Minho he’s in love with him. He should have taken the opportunity last night, when some foreign alcohol or other had been burning its way down his throat, when he felt braver. He hadn’t taken it. Instead, the night had passed in a blur of drunken singing and even more drunken photographs, taken on Minho’s phone.
Kibum thinks this must be Minho’s personal marking of time. Not so obsessive as his own, maybe, but a carefully cataloged record of the years. A great many photos of people and places and things, and Kibum among them, no more prominent than anyone else, but still important enough to be there. He holds onto that and pretends it doesn’t sting, pretends it isn’t selfish to want Minho to hold him in higher esteem than anyone else. That it isn’t greedy to want to be more to him at all than he already is.
It’s good enough, he lies to himself. Take it or leave it.
Nineteen minutes. Twenty. A third of the way through another hour in which Kibum will hold back the truth. Maybe his nose will start growing soon like Pinocchio, maybe the shame of the lie will burn him up from the inside out and he’ll fall away to ash and disappear and at least then, then he’ll finally be able to let go of all the wanting, the needing, the unrelenting fervor of his own desire.
Minho stirs beside him. Twenty-three minutes.
His eyes open, and Kibum notes, for the hundred thousandth time perhaps, that Minho’s got the prettiest doe eyes. They’re soft and sweet mocha brown and earnest; behind them, all the love and enthusiasm and sincerity with which Minho lives every moment of his life. Kibum’s jealous of them, just a little, or maybe just jealous of how they don’t linger on him the way he wishes they would.
Except for right now. Right now they’re lingering. Minho rolls over onto his side and his eyes meet Kibum’s, and Kibum doesn’t have time or the presence of mind to look away, and Minho doesn’t seem to wish to. He stares Kibum down like it isn’t far too intimate from just a couple feet away, and he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t even flinch, just keeps looking like he’s drinking Kibum in and he hasn’t yet had his fill.
“I missed you,” Minho finally says. He’s said it a dozen or more times since he’s been back, so much that they don’t even sound like real words anymore, but it still wrenches Kibum’s heart up into his throat. Kibum hasn’t said it back. It isn’t true anyway. He hasn’t missed Minho. He’s been a few steps above that. Whatever word exists in whatever language that’s more powerful than missed. It doesn’t feel right to say he’s missed him but to say he’s pined, or desired, or craved – the reality of it – would be too much. Too heavy, too intense. So Kibum says nothing at all.
He makes a little noise of acknowledgement, tears his eyes away from Minho’s to glance back at his phone. Twenty-eight minutes. Minho’s been looking at him for five whole minutes now, gaze unceasing, hardly blinking, like if he blinks too much, he’ll blink Kibum right out of existence. Something like the truth rises up in Kibum’s throat and he chokes it back, glances back at Minho.
Minho looks at him, cheek pressed against the pillow, fond smile on his lips. Kibum wants to kiss it off of him, wants to taste every last version of his stupid, annoying grin, wants to swallow down his stupid laugh. Kibum wishes he would press the issue. Kibum wishes he would fight him on it. Kibum wishes Minho wasn’t so forgiving when he can hardly forgive himself, and he wants Minho to ask why he hasn’t said it back, why he can’t just say I missed you, too and be done with it.
But they don’t do that anymore. They bicker, sure, but the real fights are long over, and Minho doesn’t push him to be anymore open than he’d like to be, not before he’s ready. He won’t push him now, even though Kibum thinks all he needs is a push. Maybe he’ll drown in the deep end, he thinks, but drowning would be easy. The hard part is taking the dive and Kibum’s never felt like more of a coward, so he just needs the push, he needs it –
And then Minho’s hand drifts across the space between them, stops a little past Kibum’s walls. He leaves it laying there, palm up, open, an invitation. Kibum hesitates, tells himself that this is not the moment, just like all the other not-the-moments since the one where he first met Minho and, infuriated by him just as much as he was attracted to him, decided then and there that he could never know. He could never know the way Kibum’s heart thudded in his chest the moment their eyes first locked, just like this. He couldn’t know the way Kibum lay awake at night, just like this, separating out the threads of four other breathing patterns in the room until he could pick out Minho’s and let himself fall into an uneasy sleep to the white noise of it.
It’s not the moment. He glances at his phone. Thirty-seven minutes. Twenty-three to go until the hour is up and Kibum lets another not-the-moment die in its crib, short-lived and screaming at him for all his lack of courage. Why aren’t you braver? No sooner does he think the words than he remembers a night in Tokyo, what feels like another lifetime ago, when he sat up with Jonghyun, drinking and agonizing. Jonghyun had shaken his head, shrugged and said, Maybe you don’t have to be brave. Maybe you just have to admit you’re afraid you’ll lose him. Jonghyun had snorted out a laugh. Maybe he says no. But where’s he gonna go, Bum-ah? He’s stuck with us for life.
Forty-one minutes.
Kibum reaches out, presses his hand into Minho’s like he has a thousand times before. Lets Minho’s fingers slot through his like a thousand times before. Between their palms, the warm weight of a tension that’s been there a long time. A tension Kibum suddenly realizes, right in this not-the-moment, that Minho knows is there. He’s just as aware of it, maybe always has been, and Kibum knows it for sure when Minho tears his eyes away from Kibum’s face just long enough to glance at their hands laced together, then back into his eyes.
He squeezes Kibum’s hand. Go ahead.
Forty-three minutes. Kibum sets his phone face down on the bedside table, sucks in a deep breath, holds onto it until his lungs protest, then exhales, the words coming out along with it.
“I’m in love with you.”
God. Ew. Gross. He hadn’t wanted to say it just like that. Not so maudlin and soft and affectionate as that. Not so helpless as that. Not so consumed and obvious as that. But it’s out now and he can’t take it back, doesn’t want it back inside him where it’s been eating him alive.
And Minho – Minho simply sighs, squeezes Kibum’s hand again, eyes sparkling, nervous excitement in his voice when he says, “Do I get to kiss you now?”
Kibum wants to scream.
All this time, and there’s no pushback. All this fuss, all this tormented worry, and all Minho can say is that? Kibum’s heart is going to burst, or collapse in on itself, maybe, and he makes a little noise of frustration. “Jesus, I hate you,” he says, only he says it in the same tone as his confession, and Minho only smiles more, and Kibum is left with no choice but to wipe the stupid smirk off his stupid, pretty face.
He’s up and crawling over Minho in a second, straddling his hips and leaning down into him. He has one last thought of hesitation, but he’s done waiting. I’ve been heartsick, he tells Minho in the pressure of his lips. This whole time, I’ve been waiting, and you knew, he says in slipping his tongue into Minho’s mouth, and it’s not just a kiss but a kiss, and Minho’s hands go to his waist, his touch gentle but his grip firm. He thumbs over one of Kibum’s hipbones, and it’s tender and hot and god, Kibum’s going to kill him.
“You let me wait, asshole,” Kibum snaps, suddenly pulling back, breathless and irritated. Minho laughs, sheepish, only half-apologetic.
“Your secret wasn’t mine to tell,” he says. “You already knew that I loved you. I told you a thousand times. I couldn’t force you to hear it how I meant it. I had to let you meet me here.”
“You should have been louder,” Kibum says, frowning down at Minho. Minho tugs him back into him, holds him close against his chest.
“Oh, Kibum-ah. We got done yelling a long time ago, remember? I was never going to rush you.”
Kibum presses his face into Minho’s shoulder, into the softness of the dark blue linen, sweat-damp from his sleep and smelling like his cologne. “I wish you’d rushed me.”
“No, you don’t,” Minho laughs.
“We’ve wasted all this time,” Kibum counters.
“Is that how you see it? Some things take time to grow. You can’t uproot something before it’s time.”
“You went away and now you’re suddenly some wise sage?” Kibum grumbles. “Give me a break.”
Minho pushes Kibum back a little, just enough to get him to raise his head, cups one hand under his chin so he can’t look anywhere else. “It would have made things harder. If I’d pushed and you let me in and we started something, how much harder would it have been to go?” After all we’ve been through hangs in the air, unsaid.
It’s rational, Kibum knows. It makes sense. And yet he regrets so much, all these years not knowing what Minho’s mouth tastes like, all this time without knowing how it feels to be this close, this close, and did Minho’s eyes really always look like that?
Fuck.
Kibum leans back in for another kiss, no anger in it this time. It’s not an expression of frustration, this kiss, or at least, not the same kind of frustration as before. There’s electricity in this kiss, Kibum can feel it, and he dives into it, both hands gripping the open collar of Minho’s shirt. And then he’s pulling Minho into him, tugging and dragging him forward, up, so that he can kiss him again, again, fireworks bursting in his head, the feeling of Minho’s hand still curled over his hip like a hundred pound weight.
“Stop making sense,” Kibum whispers between kisses. “I’m trying to be angry at you. At me.”
“Don’t be angry, Bum,” Minho says, still tracing over the line of Kibum’s hipbone with his thumb like it’s a worry stone. “We took our time, so what? We have plenty of it left.” He presses a kiss against Kibum’s jaw. “Tomorrow I’m still going to want to kiss you. And the day after that.”
One of Minho’s hands skates across the bare skin of Kibum’s thigh, fingertips dancing just under the leg of his shorts, over the sensitive skin between his legs. Kibum shivers, mouth brushing over Minho’s. “Kiss me and what else?”
Minho shrugs, drawing patterns on Kibum’s skin, and the tease of it feels so good Kibum very nearly moans. “I don’t know. What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t be coy,” Kibum says. “It doesn’t suit you.” His hand finds Minho’s and he drags it a little higher on his thigh, a little closer to where he’s already half-hard and too obvious. “You know what I want. Clearly, you’ve always known.”
“Maybe I just want to hear you say it,” Minho says. He twists the loosely knotted drawstring of Kibum’s shorts around his fingers. “Is that so wrong?”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it,” Kibum answers, and it’s supposed to be petulant but it comes out too serious to be playful. Kibum does want to hear him say it because after all these years mired in his own apparent lack of subtlety, he’s never once known what Minho wants, never once realized they could be wanting the same things.
Where a few of his buttons – too few in Kibum’s opinion – are undone, Minho’s chest is flushed, and Kibum wants to put his mouth there too, to see if he tastes as much like cherries as he looks just now. He holds back, lifts his gaze back to Minho’s face to find his cheeks are red as well. Minho swallows a little, lips parting on a sigh. “I want to touch you everywhere.”
He says it just like that, a little nervous but a lot excited, Kibum can feel the excitement in the way Minho’s hand trembles still curled over his thigh, in the way Minho’s hips twitch up where Kibum is sitting on them. And then it’s like he can’t stop talking.
“I want to put my mouth all over you, too,” he admits all in a rush, in a single breath. “I want you to be mine, okay? Only mine.” He tugs the drawstring of Kibum’s pajama shorts loose and the intimacy of that alone burns Kibum up from the inside. He palms over Kibum’s belly, hooks his fingertips just under the waist of his shorts. “I want to touch you and kiss you and love you and be inside of you all the time, Kibum-ah. Can I? Please –”
“Slow down,” Kibum says, even as his hand closes over Minho’s and he pushes it down into his shorts. “We have plenty of time, remember?”
Under ordinary circumstances, Minho might laugh at Kibum using his words against him. Instead, he groans like he’s the one being touched when he curls his hand around Kibum, gives him a couple of eager strokes, hard and fast. It’s overwhelming, how good it is, how good this is all by itself. Kibum’s had plenty of hands down his pants, but it’s never felt like this, not once, not ever.
Kibum shudders out a moan, rolls his hips forward. Minho’s really hard now, too, Kibum can feel him when he grinds his hips down and he thinks it would be so good to get off like this, the way he used to imagine it happening when they were younger, still fully clothed and too desperate to care. Except, of course, there’s the sentimentality to consider now. This, a decade ago, would have been good. It would have been enough, tucked into one of their bunks or in a hotel room somewhere, to just touch and kiss and come too fast in Minho’s hand. But now, after all this time, after all the building it up in his head, Kibum wants the first time to be more, to be better, to mean out loud what it means inside.
“I want it, too,” Kibum finally says, breath catching in his throat as he rocks into Minho’s touch. “Wanna be yours.” He feels giddy and greedy, stupidly, helplessly aroused and for all the times he did imagine this, no midnight wet dream has ever been as good as the way Minho’s looking at him like he could devour him. His eyes are dark but sparkling, shining, fixed one minute on the hollow of Kibum’s throat, the next on the movement of his own hand in Kibum’s shorts, and Kibum is definitely going to lose his mind.
Kibum’s hand, still clinging loosely to Minho’s wrist, circles around it, fingers pressing into his pulse. He feels it leap and they both laugh and Kibum whispers, “Ease up a little, before you make me embarrass myself.”
Minho slows the stroke of his hand, squeezing, caressing, and that’s almost worse because it’s so fucking exquisite, maddeningly so. “Sorry,” Minho says, “sorry, I just – fuck, this is so – you’re so –”
“You got a real way with words, honey,” Kibum says, and Minho pulls his hand free of Kibum’s shorts, loops an arm around his waist, rolls them both over until he’s pinning Kibum into the bed.
“What would you have me say?” Minho murmurs, stealing another kiss before trailing his lips down to Kibum’s jaw, his neck, his shoulder. “That I think about fucking you so often it’s probably not healthy?”
There’s no way to hide the shiver that runs through Kibum, head to toe. “That’s a start.”
“I do,” Minho says, and his arms shake a little as he hovers over Kibum while Kibum reaches between them, starts unbuttoning the rest of Minho’s shirt. “I think about it, like, more than anyone should think about anything, maybe.”
“Good,” Kibum says, pushing Minho’s shirt down over his arms until Minho gets the hint and moves up onto his knees just long enough to get the shirt off, to toss it onto Kibum’s floor. “I’m happy to know I live rent free in your mind all day long.”
Minho laughs into another kiss. “I’m going to start charging.” He bites at Kibum’s lower lip. “You can pay me like this.” One hand roams its way up under Kibum’s shirt; Kibum arches into Minho pinching at one of his nipples. “And like this.”
“Oh?” Kibum reaches down to tug Minho’s belt loose. “I’m afraid I can’t pay all at once, is that okay?” The button on Minho’s jeans comes undone almost too effortlessly. After all this time, Kibum thinks the zipper should probably stutter, get stuck, but that too comes down as easy as Kibum’s walls now that the truth is out.
Minho’s hips jerk when Kibum slips one hand into his jeans, thumb roughly stroking over the head of Minho’s dick through the cotton of his underwear. “Yeah,” he whispers, breath catching, exhaling heavily against Kibum’s lips. “We can work something out. Payment plan of sorts.”
“I knew you were a reasonable man, Choi Minho,” Kibum says between more kisses, and god, he’s never going to get tired of kissing Minho, how was he ever not kissing Minho? No matter what Minho says, it’s going to eat him up inside, maybe forever, the way he refused to admit to the quiet reality of the situation: that he’s head over ass, truly and madly and deeply and fondly in love with Choi Minho. Startlingly, remarkably, Minho loves him, too.
“I am,” Minho says, rutting forward against Kibum’s hand again, again. “I’m so reasonable, Kibum-ah, you’ll see, I’ll be so good to you.”
Kibum will die before he admits it, but something about the soft desperation in Minho’s words, something about how he knows it’s true, that Minho will be good to him, really makes his knees tremble. Thank god they’re lying down.
He runs the fingers of his free hand through Minho’s short hair, tracing little lines over one buzzed side, thinking about what it will be like to pull at it when it grows back fully. He tugs Minho into him, and murmurs against his ear, “Be good to me then.”
For all Kibum’s keeping of time before, time certainly feels unreal now. Everything seems to move at hyperspeed and somehow so, so sluggish all at once. It’s all roaming hands and head to toe kisses and Minho only barely holding back a laugh when he discovers Kibum’s lube is strawberry banana scented (“Are you getting off or making a smoothie?”). It’s both of them finally being naked, Minho’s perfectly copper skin contrasting prettily against the paleness of Kibum’s thighs when he manhandles them apart. It’s Kibum making some helpless, keening sound when Minho’s two fingers deep in him, opening him up, his face a mixture of awe and amusement at the reaction he’s getting every time he curls his fingers in just the right way.
It feels good, it all feels so good, and Kibum is weak for it, that blissful feeling curling hot in his belly, telltale and familiar but never so perfect as this. He’s slept with plenty of men in his time, plenty of strong-jawed men with small faces and big dark eyes he’s long pretended weren’t meant to fuck Minho right out of his system. None of them did what Minho’s doing. None of them even tried. And maybe that’s unfair, Kibum thinks, when they didn’t know what they were competing with in the first place, but it only confirms what he already knew with some other boy between his legs: Minho’s the only one. His only one.
“C’mon,” he finally murmurs, into the space between Minho’s shoulder and his neck. Minho’s busy biting and licking his way across Kibum’s collarbone, the two of them pressed together so impossibly close, Kibum bearing down on Minho’s hand to try and take him deeper. “C’mon, want it, want you.”
Kibum feels delirious already, the way he gets when he’s drunk, soppy and romantic and warm, embarrassing with his big stupid feelings. But Minho loves it, in part because that’s about 93% of his own personality all the time, and despite how Kibum used to think it was cloying and corny, he’s softened over the years. He can’t admit it, won’t admit it, but he loves all of those tender parts of Minho, loves the way they blunt his own edges in response until they’re just two people dissolving into one another, a one-two punch of a cocktail, like cherry bitters and bourbon that feels like it should sting but goes down dark and smooth anyway.
“You sure?” Minho says, his mouth ghosting over Kibum’s throat. He lifts his head to look at him; his eyes are glassy and behind them is all the need Kibum’s spent a decade plus overlooking. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t ever,” Kibum says, choking back a moan when Minho pulls his fingers free of him. He feels the loss of it probably too intensely, a little too dramatically, maybe, but tries to cut himself a break. It’s the first time, after all, and everything is a bit too intense and dramatic, the significance of the moment so unbearably not lost on either of them. And it’s also been a long, long time for him. His blood is boiling, he’s like, way, way too hot for it for being thirty goddamn years old, and he feels like any stray touch could set him off just now so Minho had better hurry.
“Okay,” Minho says, nodding, “yeah, okay – I want – I wanna –”
“Go on, Shakespeare,” Kibum says dryly, but the barely-there heat of the insult gets a bit lost in the way he moans when Minho shifts him down the bed a little by his hips, then pushes his legs up and back so that Kibum feels the strain, pleasant and aching, in the backs of his thighs. Probably they should discuss it more, probably they should talk about all the things you’re supposed to talk about before you have sex with someone for the first time, but all the necessary questions are asked and answered between a few meaningful glances and if it works for Minho, then it works for him. He feels exposed but it’s a good kind of vulnerability, and he can hardly breathe when Minho pushes inside of him, is horrified when he feels tears springing to the corners of his eyes.
It takes Minho a moment to notice, and Kibum only barely calms Minho’s impending panic, just shakes his head over and over when Minho, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in some odd mix of pleasure and concern, says, “I’m hurting you.”
“No,” Kibum says, “no, it’s not you – it is you – but it’s because it’s you.” He isn’t making sense, and he feels the tears, warm and too many of them, rolling down his cheeks then and god, it’s so stupid, they’re not even fucking yet and he’s crying. Minho leans back into him, shifts inside of him as he does and then they’re both moaning and Kibum’s still crying, and the whole thing is already a perfect disaster.
“Shh, no, sweetheart, don’t cry,” Minho says, and he takes to kissing Kibum’s wet cheeks, his hands seeking out Kibum’s until their fingers twine together again and Minho presses both of his hands into the pillow above his head. “Don’t cry, Kibum-ah.”
“I missed you,” Kibum chokes out, and it’s an odd time to finally say it, practically folded in half with Minho inside of him, with Minho kissing away his tears and murmuring sweetly in his ear that it’s okay, it’s all okay. “I did, I missed you more than I should have, some days you were all I thought about.”
Minho takes his cues from the way Kibum’s heels dig into his back, pulling him in, and he rocks forward into him, all the way, so deep. Deep enough that in Kibum’s slight moment of madness, he thinks Minho might really be a part of him. Minho makes a sound like sin, full-throated and eager, and Kibum thinks it’s going to echo in his memory for the rest of his life.
It doesn’t hurt. Not even a little. It should, Kibum thinks, probably it should, but instead all he can think about is how good it feels to be full, how into it Minho is, how badly Minho wants it, wants him. How evident it is in the way he pulls his hands away from Kibum’s to smooth them down his sides, to hold his hips, his thighs, fingertips digging in hard. His hips quivering with the way he’s holding back from going too hard too soon. It’s the euphoria of it all, the rightness of it all, the satisfaction of still blooming after trying so hard to stunt and kill the growth of this thing that’s been living in him all along. It all bubbles up and over and god, how stupid he must look.
“You’re so beautiful,” Minho gasps, and Kibum scoffs, sniffling loudly and he’s pretty sure this is going to go down as the most embarrassing moment of his life. But Minho shakes his head, like that’s not even a thought in his brain at all. “No,” he insists, “you are, you are, you’re so pretty for me, all mine –”
“You really want me to cry the whole time, huh?” Kibum says, and he arches up into Minho, body quaking, cursing the way it always takes him so long to pull it together when he cries.
“Don’t cry,” Minho murmurs again, against Kibum’s lips. “Gonna make this so good for you, I promised.”
“It is,” Kibum says, and he moans, too loud, too needy. “It’s good, you feel – it’s – fuck, harder, Minho-ya, you can do that, can’t you?”
He can. He does. Minho’s hips snap forward, and he sets an almost-punishing pace suddenly, hard, fast, indelicate and unrefined but so tuned in to how Kibum wants it, how he’s imagined it would go, that he almost comes just like that. Then and there, untouched. He only just holds back, wants to save that kind of thing for another day when they take their time on purpose. Besides, he’s still kinda crying, and if he cries and comes without being touched, he thinks he really will die of shame.
“I wanna suck your dick later,” Minho says, apropos of nothing. “Can I do that?”
“Sure,” Kibum says, and decidedly does not think about Minho’s pretty mouth around him. “Told you, you can have whatever you want.”
“Good,” Minho says, and he finally wraps one hand back around Kibum’s cock, strokes him slow and gentle, so unlike his fucking. Kibum shudders; he’s close. He started close, he thinks, has been on the edge since Minho pushed his way inside, and the sheer pleasure of it was half the reason for the tears in the first place.
“Been thinking about that for a decade, you know, you fucking my mouth,” Minho continues, and he laughs, breathless and amused.
“Oh, fuck –”
“And you could fuck me too,” Minho suggests, “if you wanted. Do you like that, too? I don’t know. I still have so much to learn, Kibum-ah, about you.”
“Minho, please,” Kibum gasps, and he’s not sure if he’s begging for Minho to shut up or keep talking; both seem like terrible options because Kibum is just close, so close. He’s moving against Minho, rocking up into his hand and back against him, too, meeting him on every thrust and it’s so good, how is it so good?
Minho’s hands feel like a zealous and devout sort of worship, the way he strokes Kibum off like he’s some delicate and precious thing, the way his other hand splays over Kibum’s thigh, the blunt edges of his nails digging in again, helplessly holding on. There’s reverence in the way he urges Kibum on, soft words that might be anything, Kibum can hardly tell anymore past his own shuddering moans, and the dull throb in his head of his own pulse, heart hammering and back bowing.
“You gonna come for me?” Minho asks then. “Sounds like you’re gonna, and I used to know what that sounded like when you’d – fuck, c’mon, Kibum-ah, just – hyung –”
Kibum comes so hard he can hardly breathe through it, panting, gasping, lightning striking all the way down his spine. He definitely sobs, there’s no other word for that ugly-pretty sound coming out of him, and he can’t see straight, can’t think straight, everything is too sensitive and he somehow still wants more of it, all day, forever.
Minho’s quick to follow, like he’d barely been holding on himself, and Kibum feels it, every second of it, the way he throbs inside of him, the warmth of it. The way Minho collapses into him, pushing his legs a little too far back with no consideration for the pilates classes Kibum has flatly refused to accompany Jinki to for years. He’s panting against Kibum’s mouth, and they’re hardly kissing, mostly just swapping breaths and moans, Minho murmuring his name and Kibum answering only by stroking his hand through Minho’s hair.
Finally, Minho finds enough of his scattered senses to slip free of him, to let his legs down slow and easy. Kibum thinks he’ll probably be sore for days to come; he’s already thinking of choice insults to lob at Minho when he gets boastful about fucking him so good he’s still aching with it next week. But really, he’s just thinking about how good he feels; boneless, hot, sticky, but good. Satisfied. For now.
He lets Minho sink down next to him, half on top of him, and doesn’t push him away even though he thinks they could both definitely use a shower, time to calm down, time to talk or whatever you do after you’ve just slept with your best friend after too many years of pretending you didn’t want to. Or, apparently, blatantly telegraphing how much you wanted to without having the balls to ever actually say so. Whatever. Kibum will figure that out later.
In the meantime…
“I’m sorry,” he says after a long time of lying there, one arm loosely draped around Minho who’s breathing soft and slow and sleepy again.
“For what?” Minho asks, and he nuzzles into Kibum’s shoulder which is so annoying and ridiculous and cute, adorable really, and Kibum’s heart leaps like he’s some middle school girl about to pass out over her idol. He’s seen them, and now he’s one of them. Great.
“For not answering your messages. For hiding from you. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Minho says, pressing his mouth against Kibum’s shoulder and leaving kiss after kiss behind.
“Okay, well… forgive me anyway. For my peace of mind.”
“You’re forgiven,” Minho says. “I was never mad. Not really. I just missed you. I wanted to hear you say you loved me, even if you didn’t mean it like that.”
“I always meant it like that,” Kibum says, and he’s only just stopped crying, so he tries to steer away from the sentimentality before he starts all over again. “I didn’t think you wanted me to mean it like that.”
Minho hums softly. “I do. Please always mean it like that.”
“Okay. I will.”
“Okay,” Minho echoes. “Me too.”
He falls back to sleep like that, head on Kibum’s shoulder, and there goes his stupid little snore again. Kibum treasures it, every last breath of his, warm against his skin. He reaches for his phone, looks at the time.
It’s been 39 minutes. 39 minutes and a handful of seconds, maybe, since Kibum said I love you.
But who’s counting?