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It's the end of a year and the beginning of a new one and Yohan's scars are aching. The scars from his father, barely visible now but some still peeking from beneath burned flesh, they ache in a way that causes Yohan to flinch, to cower, to clench his fingers into the covers until his knuckles go white. The scar that marrs the old lashings, the largest one, burns in the shape of a twisted cross along the expanse of his back, chokes him and suffocates him, leaves him feeling exposed and raw. There's another, across his palm, that he traces with his thumb reverently, and it aches but in a way that somehow dulls all the other pain, fills him with a taste in his mouth, oddly bitter and sweet at the same time.
Mostly the pain is bearable. Worn, dull, these are familiar pathways trodden repeatedly. But sometimes it hits him all at once, unexpectedly, and Yohan has to grit his teeth, ride the waves of it and try to pull the pieces of himself back together afterward, the pieces that are left anyway. There are nights when he thinks he'll never be able to manage it, that the weight will crush him, the reminders of all his past wounds will rip him into so many shreds he won't have anything left.
For some reason, when things are just on the cusp of new beginnings, or endings, it always seems worse. The end and start of a new year snaps something inside Yohan, and he feels spread thin, frayed at the edges. Yohan would like to say that he's gotten used to it. That he isn't a coward who runs away from his fears, but someone who faces them head on. But there's a part of him that will always whimper like a frightened child, a part deep inside that no matter how much he tries will never fully go away. Yohan would like to subdue that part of himself. His therapist says he should comfort it. Yohan is trying. Has tried. Will continue to.
But for now he will curl in on himself and grip the sheets tight with clammy fingers. The room is stifling and hot. The clock on the wall reads just shy of midnight. Yohan closes his eyes to it and wills the unwelcome ghosts to pass.
There's a shift as the other side of the bed dips from an added weight, and Yohan flinches at the feel of cool fingers brushing sweat damp hair from his forehead.
"Yohan-ah," Gaon murmurs softly.
Yohan had purposely slipped from their shared bed to the extra bedroom tonight, knowing that he would most likely be tossing and turning fitfully, aware of what a night like this would bring, and not wanting to disturb Gaon's own sleep. He should have known Gaon would seek him out anyway, as he always does. Stubborn to no end.
Yohan huffs out a strained laugh, "Kim Gaon, go back to bed." He hates the way his voice comes out tremulous and thin.
"I am in bed." Gaon points out, petulant.
Yohan sighs, rolling over and hiding the wince that elicits as best he can, he settles a frustrated but still fond gaze on the other man across from him.
Gaon looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his brown hair is messy, his pajamas rumpled. He's been busy these days, work taking a toll on him, and he hasn't been getting much sleep. Yohan hates that he's become yet another reason Gaon won't be getting a good night's sleep.
Gaon has started gently stroking Yohan's head, and Yohan resists the urge to lean into the touch. He doesn't deserve such a gentle touch, not tonight, not when every reminder of his failings are mocking him.
Gaon looks hurt when Yohan pulls away. Yohan wants to fix it immediately, but his intellect is failing him tonight, his head feels stuffed full of cotton. So he doesn't say anything.
When Yohan closes his eyes he sees flames. He had never deluded himself into thinking that revenge would absolve him of his sins, had tried his best to not even dare to hope that the nightmares would perhaps lessen, even a little. Yet they had, hadn't they? More than he had expected them to. And the weight on his shoulders had lifted, to an extent. But feelings are fickle things. Yohans scars run deeper than the superficial ones across his skin, and they will never go completely away.
Gaon is in his space again. Yohan opens his eyes to watch as Gaon pulls Yohan's hand with the scar across the palm, Gaon's scar, and raises it to his lips, gently kisses it. He makes eye contact with Yohan as he does so, and Yohan swallows thickly. Gaon's eyes are burning with the kind of flames Yohan would gladly die in.
Before he can stop himself Yohan wraps a firm hand behind Gaon's neck, yanks him none too gently close, and roughly connects Gaon's lips with his own. He knows this game. Gaon is trying to be distracting. Lucky for Gaon he has always managed to be terribly, awfully, wonderfully distracting.
Gaon's lips are warm, and Yohan runs his tongue across the seam of them, nips at Gaon's bottom lip until Gaon is opening his mouth to him, and Yohan can taste him and devour him. He tightens his hold on the back of Gaon's neck, catches some strands of Gaon's hair and pulls. Gaon gasps against Yohan's mouth, but Yohan doesn't let him pull away. He kisses Gaon hard enough to bruise, bites at his lips until he tastes the metallic tang of blood.
Yohan ignores the way his scars scream at him in protest, pushes down the words of his demons of guilt, you're using him again. Instead he lets pleasure take their place. He kisses along Gaon's jaw, Gaon's neck, bites hard at the juncture between neck and shoulder, licks soothingly and then bites again.
Gaon jolts against him, entangles their legs together under the sheets, drawing Yohan closer. Yohan sits up with urgency, climbs on top of Gaon then, pushing the other man into the bed, straddling him. He grabs Gaon's arms tight, pulls them above his head in a vice-like grip.
Gaon raises his eyebrows, looking amusedly up at Yohan. The younger man's face is flushed, chest rising and falling heavily. Yohan watches a small bead of blood pool along Gaon's bottom lip, ducks down to swipe it away with his tongue. Yohan pauses, his lips barely ghosting across Gaon's own.
Gaon whispers into his mouth then, a provocation, "Use me, Yohan-ah." And something inside Yohan comes undone.
There's a loud rushing in his ears, and he knows he should move slower, should be gentler. But Yohan also knows Gaon understands this, they've danced this dance plenty of times before.
Yohan is keenly familiar with the way Gaon moans, deep and breathless, when Yohan bites at the inside of his thighs. The way he writhes, when Yohan digs his fingers into his sides hard enough that the marks will be there in the morning.
Yohan still prepares him, of course, he doesn't want to break Gaon, necessarily, but he doesn't take his time, like he usually would. In fact there's barely any time at all before Yohan is pushing inside Gaon, and Gaon is tensing around the intrusion because it hurts, of course it does. Part of Yohan worries and wants to care, and the other part, the part that's unwinding and spinning out of control, well that part of him thrills at it, craves more of the furrow of pain to Gaon's brows. Wants to mark Gaon and delve into him so deeply, so completely, that he never stops feeling Yohan inside him.
There are tears in the corners of Gaon's eyes, and they trail down his cheeks as he flutters his eyes open, looking at Yohan, seeing Yohan for who he is, and still wanting him, all of him.
"Move." Gaon mouths the words at him.
So Yohan does. He moves against Gaon deep, and rough, and Gaon only urges him to continue, wraps his arms around Yohan, digs his nails hard into Yohan's back. He rakes them down the scar there, and Yohan doesn't really feel that at all, but he still wants Gaon to do it again and again and again.
A wild stray thought enters Yohan's mind. The thought that he'd like it if every scar across his body was made by Gaon, just like the one on his palm. Because Gaon owns him as thoroughly and completely as Yohan owns Gaon. It's a terrifying truth, yet thrilling all the same.
Gaon's desperate moans have increased in frequency, and his thighs wrapped around Yohan's sides are trembling. Yohan watches in fascination at the way Gaon comes undone beneath him, even as he never falters in his ruthless pace.
This is coming undone in a different way. When Yohan orgasms his vision goes white for a moment, and he grips Gaon's arms tight, struggling to intake air, shaking and consumed by pleasure.
When his mind clears, Yohan becomes aware of the fact that Gaon is gently stroking Yohan's head again. Yohan has at some point leaned into Gaon and rested his head against the crook of his shoulder.
Yohan's scars still ache. But to be fair, everything aches now, in a not entirely unpleasant way. If he bothered to look at the clock Yohan would see that it is well past midnight, the dawn of a new morning, and a new year. Yohan has never been much for traditions, and he isn't superstitious, but the rhythm of Gaon's breathing, and the tug of his fingers through Yohan's hair are perhaps enough to ease the nightmares, and to define that as at least a hopeful start to a year, well, for Yohan that is certainly more than he could ever dream of.