Chapter Text
There’s a new band playing tonight.
Ricky takes a sip of his drink—a Long Island iced tea—head cocked to the side as he observes the newcomers taking to the stage. They’re setting up their instruments, tweaking amps and fiddling with leads. One of the band members trips over a cord and almost faceplants into the drum set. Ricky snorts and looks away.
”Who are they?” Zhang Hao asks, as if Ricky would know who these losers are. Technically, Ricky should know. This bar was owned by his father, and of the thirty-something establishments owned by the Shens in New York, Petal & Thorn was Ricky’s favourite of the lot.
There were certainly classier bars Ricky could peruse. If he were to take a taxi for ten minutes to downtown Brooklyn he could have a three star Michelin meal accompanied by the finest Cheval Blanc money could buy. Though, it would technically be free, since Ricky was the singular heir to his fathers business and wasn’t going to be charged to eat at his own restaurant.
Ricky had expensive taste, but he also had a fondness for the local bands playing at Petal & Thorn every Friday night.
”Dunno,” he replies, throwing back the rest of his drink before placing the glass down on the bar top. “They don’t look like much.”
Zhang Hao’s eyes are smudged with dark eyeshadow and clumpy mascara. He runs his tongue across the top row of his teeth, gaze tracking something beyond Ricky’s shoulder. “I’m not sure about that. The drummer is hot.”
Ricky twists on his stool, squinting in the dull lighting. He sees the guy Zhang Hao is talking about—it’s the same one who had tripped before, actually, and Zhang Hao does have a point. He isn’t Ricky’s type—too smiley and gentle looking. His hair is silky smooth and parted down the middle, eyes almost disappearing as he laughs at something the frontman is saying.
”He’s alright,” Ricky replies, ignoring Zhang Hao’s scoff. The band seems to have finally finished setting everything up, because the frontman turns around, and Christ. That was one delicious looking guy.
The frontman taps on the mic, cringing a little at the squealing feedback echoing through the small room. He’s wearing a pale pink muscle tee, massive biceps on full display that flex attractively when he wraps his hands around the mic stand.
”Good evening, and thank you for having us,” the frontman drawls. His lips barely move when he speaks, but there’s an alluring charm to it. “We’re Disorderly Conduct, and we’re very happy to be here tonight. I’m Park Gunwook, and these are my bandmates.”
One by one, they all introduce themselves. Ricky isn’t really looking at anyone apart from Gunwook though.
There’s Sung Hanbin, the drummer that Zhang Hao is still drooling over. Lead guitarist Seok Matthew, and then there was Kim Taerae on backup vocals and keyboard.
Perhaps, if Ricky hadn’t been so busy ogling Gunwook, he would have noticed how the last member was clutching his bass guitar a little too tightly, something dark and awful brewing in his eyes as he stared at Ricky from his position on the stage. When he speaks into his own microphone his voice is rough and gravelly, and he drawls out his syllables with a timbre that makes some of the girls in the audience swoon.
“And I’m Kim Gyuvin. I do hope you’ll never forget that.”
—
Ricky has an allowance.
It’s not money—he’d laugh at the idea of his father allocating him pocket money, like Ricky doesn’t have a black Amex card tucked into his wallet. No, the allowance he has is time.
Mr and Mrs Shen were just one couple of thousands that had immigrated to America in hopes of a better future. Not just for themselves, but also for their children. The All-American dream.
Ricky ended up being their only child—his mother had complications during her pregnancy with him, and the doctor had advised against any future children, both for the sake of mother and child. It had felt a little lonely at times, growing up as an only child, but he was at least offered the comfort of extended family. Zhang Hao was a close enough cousin that Ricky looked up to him as more of an older brother than anything else.
Ricky’s parents had worked hard to get where they were today. After moving to America with nothing more than three suitcases and a dream, they had grown from their first shop—a bao restaurant—to over thirty businesses in the city, ranging from cafés to luxurious hotels. Ricky had been born somewhere between the tenth and eleventh successful business venture and had grown up comfortably. He attended the fanciest private schools in the city and was wearing designer brands before he could even pronounce Louis Vuitton properly.
For all of the success Ricky’s parents had, they’d both agreed on the same thing—let Ricky be their son first, heir second.
While many of Ricky’s friends had been pushed into hobbies by their parents—things like piano, ballet, French lessons, and many more boring things Ricky never wanted to learn—he’d had the luxury of choosing. This extended up until college as well. Ricky was currently in the last year of his fine arts degree, something he actually enjoyed going to college for, rather than some dreadfully dull business degree.
It was also the last year of Ricky’s freedom.
Well, that may be a touch dramatic. It wasn’t as if Ricky would be banned from having any more fun. He’d made a promise to his father that once he graduated from college he would start working full time under Shen Enterprises in preparation to eventually take over the company once his father retired.
In the grand scheme of things, the deal was pretty sweet. For the most part, Ricky was left alone to his own devices in having fun so long as nothing ended up on the morning headlines.
Ricky’s love for punk and alternative rock had come about one summer afternoon, back when he was still in school. He’d turned on the television to find something to watch and was immediately entranced by Green Day’s Basket Case playing on MTV.
He’d always loved music. If Ricky hadn’t decided to pursue an art degree, he probably would have studied music instead. As a kid he never went anywhere without his Walkman, always humming along to the latest charting music.
Perhaps it was the teenage angst, perhaps Ricky’s taste had inadvertently changed as he aged. Gradually, he found himself listening to Spice Girls less, and bands such as Nirvana and Foo Fighters more.
He’d even managed to convince Zhang Hao to give them a listen. It didn’t take long for his cousin to become equally obsessed, enough that he started to take Ricky to concerts. Most of them were eighteen plus events which was no issue for Zhang Hao. But with Ricky being four years younger than his cousin—though he was always told he looked older—they’d had to finagle a fake ID for him.
Being a rich socialite had its benefits though, and Zhang Hao knew a guy who knew a guy. It hadn’t taken long for Minghao to come through, and before Ricky knew it, he had been introduced to the world of punk concerts and backstage parties.
Ricky loved the punk scene—no one knew him there, and no one gave a fuck about societal expectations and stereotypes. Everyone was there to have a good time and they didn’t care about things like petty gossip or which dessert fork is supposed to be used to eat cake. He had the freedom to experiment with his fashion style—chunky military boots, cargo pants with far too many pockets, and a lot of leather. It was the early 2000’s, baby! An era of fashion exploration.
Of course, Ricky’s parents didn’t know exactly what he was getting up to in his spare time. They knew he would hang out with his cousin and other friends a lot, but they likely thought Ricky was doing something much classier. Like playing golf at the country club. Ricky didn’t dress in his emo-esque fashion around his parents—he kept it simple with boring designer polo shirts and khakis. The only thing he couldn’t hide was his hair, which he had bleached a shade of white-blonde. His mother liked the hair though; she said it brought out Ricky’s fair skin rather handsomely.
There were still occasions where Ricky had to act like the perfect, well proportioned heir his parents believed him to be. Like today, on a yacht gliding across the Atlantic Ocean, the city line of New York nothing more than a blip in the distance. He’s soaking up the salty ocean breeze and warm rays of the sun from the top deck.
”So how have you been?” Jiwoong asks, taking a practised sip from his wine glass. He looks every part like a model, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, dressed in a loose but luxurious two-piece that billows in the ocean breeze.
”Oh, you know. Same old, nothing particularly exciting has happened lately.”
It’s obviously a lie. Most things that come out of Ricky’s mouth when he’s talking to Jiwoong are lies. He’s not about to spill the details of the weekend—Ricky’s Saturday night had passed in a blur of sweaty bodies and colourful pills. He’d needed the stress relief after submitting an assignment that had been stressing him out for the last month. It had been so bad Ricky had lost a little bit of hair—either that, or the monthly bleaching appointments at the hairdresser were finally taking its toll.
Jiwoong hums. Swirls the wine glass around with a delicate flick of the wrist. Ricky watches as the crimson liquid comes a little too close to the rim of the glass. One wrong move and Jiwoong’s shirt will be forever stained and ruined.
”I find that hard to believe. You always seem to be up to something.”
Ricky chuckles, leaning back in his chair, letting the sun warm his face. "Maybe I'm just good at hiding it. Or maybe you're just not looking hard enough."
Jiwoong raises an eyebrow, though the gesture is mostly hidden by his sunglasses. "Is that a challenge?"
"Depends," Ricky says with a grin. "Do you feel up to it?"
Jiwoong takes another sip of his wine, contemplating. "I've never been one to back down from a challenge. But tell me, what's the catch?"
"No catch," Ricky replies. "Just an opportunity to see if you can figure out what's been keeping me busy. Think of it as a game."
"A game, huh?" Jiwoong's lips curl into a sly smile. "Alright, I'll bite. But don't think I won't figure it out. I know you too well."
Ricky shrugs, nonchalant. He’s gone this long without Jiwoong snooping into his private life. He doubts that will change anytime soon. "We'll see about that."
The ocean breeze picks up, rustling the sails overhead and carrying the scent of saltwater. Jiwoong glances out at the horizon, where the sun is beginning to dip, casting a golden glow over everything. "So, any clues to get me started?"
Ricky has known Jiwoong for a couple of years now. They first met back when Ricky was freshly eighteen, a time where his parents sat him down and broke the news that Ricky had been waiting to hear for a while.
Marriage, as a concept, was not something that frightened Ricky. It was another achievement in life to be met, just as graduating school and getting his drivers licence was. Marriage was something that Ricky had been resigned to happening to him, because that was the way the world worked. There was a societal expectation bestowed upon every single person that was born, and Ricky was perfectly fine to carry on that tradition. He could admit he had an easy life, far easier than a fair chunk of the population. If he had to sign a legal document to lawfully tie himself to someone else, then so be it. As long as Ricky had his fortune he didn’t care.
Marrying for love was certainly out of the question—Ricky can admit that the limited amount of love he has was already exhausted. On himself, and on the people closest to him. Giving a piece of himself to someone else like that… It was disconcerting. Ricky didn’t like the idea of handing over his heart in a velvet-cushioned box and expecting it to be treated with care. Because it wouldn’t be, because he’s seen how things work in the real world. Life was not a movie—life was Texas Hold ‘em and Ricky had long since perfected his poker face.
Ricky wasn’t upset at the prospect of having a loveless marriage. Yes, his parents cherished each other deeply and had been lucky to have their own whirlwind romance as teenagers that brought them to where they were today. But Ricky wasn’t naive enough to believe in the fairytale of his own Prince Charming sweeping him off his feet. He honestly feels far more comfortable tying the knot in a strictly business relationship.
So, Ricky had been eighteen when he was introduced to twenty-four year old Kim Jiwoong. Not a whole lot had changed about Jiwoong since then—he still dressed the same and wore the same cologne—but there was one shift in their relationship.
Jiwoong was very much in love with Ricky.
It had taken Ricky a little too long to realise, but by the time he had, the damage was already done. Jiwoong looked at him like Ricky hung the stars in the sky, and Ricky didn’t know how to let him down gently. He was too young, too crass with his words—and frankly, didn’t really care about anyone else’s feelings but his own. That was how the world worked. It was survival of the fittest.
”I know you love me,” Ricky said one night, lying on his back with legs twisted in the silky sheets of Jiwoong’s bed. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and Ricky wiped it away before it leaked into his eye.
Jiwoong made a noise, something halfway between a cough and a gasp. “I—I don’t—“
”Don’t lie to me,” Ricky sighed. “You know I hate that.”
Jiwoong was silent for a minute, and Ricky allowed himself to roll his head to the side, appreciating the glistening honey-toned skin of Jiwoong’s chest.
”I know you don’t love me,” Jiwoong finally said, quiet and nervous and very unlike the confident Jiwoong that Ricky was used to.
”I don’t,” Ricky agreed. His next words were a damaging blow. “And I never will.”
Jiwoong inhales sharply through his nose, squeezing his eyes closed like this was some nightmare he could wake himself from. Except it wasn’t. “Can I ask why?”
This was why Ricky had been avoiding this conversation for so long. Jiwoong wasn’t the type of person to take something at face value, accept it, and move on. Maybe Ricky was too cold, but he thought life was a whole lot easier when you looked at it like that.
”Why is grass green? It’s just how things are, Jiwoong. You knew this from the very first day we met. I’m not sure why you think I’ll suddenly change my mind.”
”Because…”
Because I thought I could wine and dine you. Because I thought I was charming and interesting and handsome, and how could you see all of this but still not want me? Is likely what Jiwoong is thinking.
”I thought you could handle it,” Ricky said when Jiwoong took too long to finish his answer. “I told you it was just sex; I told you to not catch feelings. You agreed, and now here we are. Don’t make me out to be the bad guy just because I held up my side of the agreement.”
Jiwoong sounds impossibly small when he next speaks. “We’re supposed to get married.”
They aren’t engaged. Not really. Their parents had set them up with the intention of marriage of course, because Jiwoong’s family had a global cruise ship company, and the Shen’s were one of the richest families in New York. It was going to be a marriage of convenience; a unification of two powerful families merging into one.
Ricky didn’t need to be concerned with matrimony until after he had finished his degree. It was another part of the terms he had set with his father. This way, he was afforded some extra time to get to know Jiwoong before they were even officially engaged. If Ricky couldn’t be Jiwoong’s lover, he could at least be Jiwoong’s friend.
Their arrangement wasn’t exclusive, and Jiwoong knew this. Ricky had even told the man to feel free to see other people, to experience a relationship outside of the one he had with Ricky. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault if Jiwoong didn’t take advantage of the offer. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault that Jiwoong had fallen for him.
”I don’t need to be in love to be married.”
Ricky sits up, stretching his arms above his head. The sheets pool low on his hips, and he can feel Jiwoong’s stare burning into his back. He thinks the older man needs a little time alone to reflect, and he starts to gather his clothes from the floor. “Let’s have a couple of weeks apart. Maybe you need to think about if this is what you really want, if this is what you can handle.”
That had been a year ago. Neither of them have brought up that night since, and Ricky pretends like he isn’t aware of Jiwoong’s infatuation with him. It’s just easier that way.
He doesn’t like being cruel, but Ricky has long since set his boundaries, and it wasn’t his fault if Jiwoong couldn’t accept that. Ricky can’t change the feelings that Jiwoong has for him, and Jiwoong can’t seem to either. Both of them are stuck at a crossroads.
They still fall into bed with each other and today is no exception. Ricky rides Jiwoong on the sun chair, pretends like there aren’t at least twenty-something staff trotting around on the yacht. Jiwoong holds Ricky softly, like he’s cradling something fragile, but Ricky doesn’t want that. He isn’t breakable, and he doesn’t want Jiwoong to hold him close as the older man comes in the condom with bittersweet prayers whispered between Ricky’s collarbones.
It’s probably easier like this. Less talking and more fucking feels more impersonal. Maybe Jiwoong will realise that Ricky is thinking about a certain singer underneath him instead. Ricky wonders what Gunwook’s biceps would feel like between his teeth.
”When can I see you again?” Jiwoong asks. He helps dress Ricky whilst still being buck naked, just like the gentleman he is.
Ricky rummages around his tote bag for his phone. He flips it open and sees a text message from his cousin that had been sent an hour ago.
——Hao——
R U comin 2nite? A lil bird told me tht band is playin again.
——Ricky——
Wut makes U think I'm intrstd?
The yacht is almost back at the dock. Ricky gives Jiwoong a simple smile. “I’ll text you.”
He won’t. They both know he won’t. It’s always Jiwoong knocking on the door of Ricky’s apartment, a bouquet of roses in hand and a hopeful smile plastered across his face. At this point, it’s almost like a pathetic little tradition.
——Hao——
Oh c'mon Riks. I kno U got the hots 4 tht singer. Don't lie 2 me.
Ricky snorts at Hao’s text. His thumbs fly across the keypad as Jiwoong buttons up his own shirt.
——Ricky——
Duh, ofc I'll B there. Y U think I got waxed ystrday?
——Hao——
LOL! Ur a freak!
——Ricky——
;-)
The yacht anchor is being lowered now, and that’s Ricky’s cue to leave. He stands up, slinging his bag across his shoulder. “A pleasure as always. See ya later, Jiwoong.”
”Hey.”
Jiwoong catches Ricky’s wrist as he goes to walk past the older man. “Hm?”
There’s something intense about Jiwoong’s scrutinising gaze. “Stay safe, okay? I’m always a call away if you need anything.”
The words are a little disconcerting if Ricky is being honest. Jiwoong has always been a bit odd, but this feels a tad too out of the blue.
“I’m always safe. You don’t need to worry about me.”
—
The bar is full tonight.
There’s a line curving around the corner of sixty-eighth. Ricky raises a brow as he struts past and flashes his ID at the bouncer, Zhang Hao hanging off his other arm. “Damn. I didn’t know they were this popular.”
Neither did Ricky. But they played well and were a group of attractive young men, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise to see the mass of teenage girls craning their necks in the hopes to get a glimpse of the band.
”I hope they’re ready to be disappointed. Mingyu will only let about a tenth of them in because of the venue limitations.”
Petal & Thorn didn’t have enough square meterage and fire exits to host large crowds like this. Entry was based on a first come first served basis. The employees were not about to break venue regulations for a gaggle of teenagers not old enough to be served alcohol.
Zhang Hao grins. “What’s the bet they’ll wait outside until the band leaves? Flash some chest in hopes of a signature, or an invitation back to their garage…”
”Do you even have to ask?” Ricky sighs. He only pretends to be annoyed; it is a little endearing to witness fangirls in real life. He was once young and obsessed with Billie Joe Armstrong, so he gets it.
Jay is on bar tonight, and he’s already working on Ricky and Zhang Hao’s drinks from the moment they walk through the front entrance. “Well, if it isn’t my two favourite angels.”
Zhang Hao rolls his eyes, plopping down on the barstool closest to Jay. “You don’t have any other ‘angels’ so you’ll have to try a little harder with your flattery, Jongseong.”
Ricky pretends to vomit from the flirtatious tone his cousin is using, and Jay narrows his eyes slightly. “Thought I told you not to use that name on me.”
“Sorry. I don’t listen to little boys.”
”He’s gonna spit in your drink,” Ricky mutters.
Jay scoffs, shaking the cocktail shaker with one hand and scooping ice into a highball glass with the other. He’s flexing his muscles, it’s so painfully obvious with how he angles his body slightly away from Zhang Hao so that his left arm is on better display. “I’m two years younger than you, not twenty.”
”Baby boy, you could only be two hours younger than me and I still wouldn’t let you hit it,” Zhang Hao giggles, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he watches Jay get progressively redder in the face. Ricky has to hold back an obnoxious sigh. It’s the same shit with these two every week—Jay needs to give up and Zhang Hao needs to stop teasing him.
Someone brushes against Ricky’s side, featherlight for just a second before they move away. Ricky has a glare painted across his features as he turns to look, but it quickly melts from his face when he sees who it is.
”Who isn’t hitting who?”
Gunwook looks a hell of a lot sexier up close. There’s a few freckles dotted around his face and his jawline is imposing in a way that makes Ricky want to lick it. An eyebrow piercing glows in the neon pink bar lighting. Gunwook’s plump lips are slightly chapped and pulled into an easy grin as he leans his elbows on the bar top. He’s wearing all black tonight; a graphic tee half tucked into ripped jeans and an assortment of bracelets wrapped around his wrists.
”My cousin is being mean to the bartender,” Ricky explains. He takes a seat next to Zhang Hao, ignoring the indignant squawks coming from that side as he looks up at the singer. He likes this; likes being a step below a handsome guy like Gunwook. “It’s a shame that Jay likes it, though.”
Now there are two men cussing Ricky out, but he does nothing more than smile sweetly at Gunwook. “How about you? Do you like mean boys, Mr Rockstar?”
Gunwook chuckles. He tilts his chin down, and some of his hair falls across his eyes. “I wouldn’t call myself a rockstar. But to answer your question, I prefer nice boys over mean boys.”
Huh. That wasn’t what Ricky had been hoping to hear, but he could work with that if he tried hard enough. “It’s just as well I can be both, then,” Ricky murmurs. He looks up at Gunwook through fluttering eyelashes, nibbling on his bottom lip as he stares hot and heavy at the singer.
It’s working, because the grin on Gunwook’s face is slowly morphing into something a little more intense. Gunwook opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted when someone else wraps an arm around his shoulders. Ricky drops his flirtatious gaze, a scowl forming on his face as he glares at the newcomer.
”I love mean boys,” the stranger says, and his tone is almost goading. It takes Ricky a moment to realise that no, this guy isn’t a random person, he’s another member of the band.
Gyuvin is a little taller than Gunwook, and Ricky isn’t sure why, but this pisses him off. Just like Gunwook, Gyuvin is also wearing all black—leather jacket clinging to his broad shoulders and skinny jeans showing off his long legs. He’s far too well-proportioned to be slumming around in a bar like this, face small with a perfect nose and straight teeth. There’s mirth dancing around in his eyes, like Gyuvin is in on a joke that Ricky has no clue of.
Ricky decides then and there that he doesn't like Kim Gyuvin.
He turns back to face Gunwook, trying to salvage the moment they were having before Gyuvin jumped in like an overeager puppy. “Would you like a drink?”
”Wookie isn’t twenty-one yet, he can’t drink.”
Ricky inhales through his nose, trying to keep calm. Losing his shit at Gyuvin will likely do no favours for Ricky if he wants to take Gunwook home. Behind him, Jay and Zhang Hao are suspiciously silent, clearly enjoying watching Ricky trying to keep his temper in check. “I’m sure I can make an exception for you. Do you like whiskey?”
Gunwook’s brows rise, the movement shifting his piercing. Even Gyuvin doesn’t say anything, instead trading a look with Gunwook. It’s obvious that they’re putting two and two together about who Ricky is. Jay grumbles something under his breath, probably a complaint about Ricky using the bartender as a means to break the law, but Ricky doesn’t care enough to reply. He watches Gunwook with expectant eyes when singer looks back at Ricky.
”I’m alright, but thank you for offering.”
Ricky shrugs like it's no big deal, because it really isn’t. He starts to say something else, trying to ease into a conversation to get to know Gunwook a little better, but is once again interrupted by Gyuvin. “I’ll take a drink.”
There’s pure venom in Ricky’s glare now. It’s one that would make any normal person wilt, because Ricky has been told he has a very intense death glare, but Gyuvin doesn’t look ruffled in the least. “No. I’m not serving alcohol to a minor.”
No one points out that not even a minute ago, Ricky had been offering Gunwook a drink. Gyuvin grins, teeth gleaming in the neon pink lighting, and reaches into his pocket. Of course he has a wallet chain, and Ricky rolls his eyes in disdain as Gyuvin slides a card out. “‘M not underage, babe. Freshly twenty-one.”
He isn’t lying. Ricky squints at the ID card held between Gyuvin’s thumb and pointer finger. The bassist had indeed turned twenty-one just a couple of weeks ago. He was born the same year Ricky was.
Of course he’s a fucking Virgo.
”Congrats,” Ricky replies drily, conjuring up the most uninterested expression he can muster. “Order your own drink then.”
That makes Gunwook snicker, though he looks at Gyuvin with apologetic eyes when his bandmate frowns at him. Ricky’s glad that he made Gunwook laugh, even if it was at the expense of someone else. Maybe Gunwook likes mean boys more than he thinks.
Gyuvin sighs, and—now why is he suddenly taking a seat next to Ricky? “Babe,” Gyuvin draws out the word, propping his chin on his hand as he looks at Ricky. He’s too close, far too close to be in the personal space of someone he’s just met. Either Gyuvin doesn’t have boundaries, or he just wants to make Ricky uncomfortable. He’s certainly succeeding—Ricky doesn’t even try to hide the way he scooches across his own barstool until half of his ass is hanging off and his elbow is poking into Zhang Hao’s side. “Where’s your sense of hospitality?”
“Stop calling me that,” Ricky snaps. He has to lean so far back, the only thing keeping him on the stool is the white-knuckled grip he has on the bar top. Gyuvin keeps inching forwards and Ricky’s nose is being hit with the stench of nicotine poorly concealed by Ralph Lauren’s Polo Blue cologne.
Gyuvin tilts his head. The action is very reminiscent of a puppy that’s been told off for doing something wrong, but it doesn’t understand what. “Stop calling you babe? You don’t like it, huh? Maybe you’d prefer sweetheart—or, actually, you look like a cute little kitty cat when you scrunch your nose like that.”
It’s a little ridiculous that the both of them are finding animal-like characteristics about the other. But at least Ricky isn’t vocalising it. He glowers, levelling Gyuvin with an irritated look. “Stop talking to me, I’m done with this conversation. Don’t you have a guitar to plug in or something?”
”Me-ow.”
Ricky grits his teeth, choosing to down half of his forgotten drink in one go. He can feel the burn of the tequila sticking to the back of his throat, eyes watering as he tries to suppress a cough.
”We probably should get on stage,” Gunwook announces. He claps Gyuvin on the back with enough force that the bassist's elbow slips out from beneath him, causing him to almost smash his nose on the bar top if he hadn’t caught himself at the last second. Ricky likes to imagine Gunwook did that on purpose. “Will you stick around after the show?”
The question was directed at Ricky, and he quickly replies before Gyuvin can interrupt once more. “If you’re good enough.”
Gunwook smirks. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.” He takes a step away from the bar, grabbing a handful of Gyuvin’s jacket to tug him down from the barstool.
Ricky watches as Gunwook drags Gyuvin through the crowd. The bassist keeps craning his neck to stare at Ricky, mouth splitting open in a laugh that Ricky just knows is directed at him. It’s like the guy knows he’s managed to crawl under Ricky’s skin in only the few short minutes they had spoken. It’s like he enjoyed it. Ricky doesn’t like the way Gyuvin’s wide eyes seem to look straight through him, like Gyuvin knows each and every dark secret Ricky harbours. When the musicians are finally swallowed by the crowd of drunken dancers and Ricky can no longer see them, he turns back around and sculls the rest of his drink.
”Well, that surely was entertaining,” Jay mutters. A neatly plucked eyebrow is raised as he regards Ricky with a curious look, hands busy polishing a glass—though he isn’t really focusing on it. Ricky should probably lean into his ownership role a little more, maybe tell Jay to stop gossiping and get back to work, but he feels… flustered? Which is odd, because Ricky never gets flustered.
He’ll blame it on the Long Island iced tea he drank far too quickly, because that had to be the only explanation. Zhang Hao is nursing his own martini, taking small sips as he studies Ricky with an indescribable expression. He’s quiet. Far too quiet.
”That Gyuvin guy likes you.”
Yep, there it was.
”So what?” Ricky shrugs. He plays with the puddle of condensation from his cocktail glass, moving the water droplets around with a fingertip. “His way of showing it is acting like a fifteen year old. And besides, he’s not the first person to have a one-sided attraction towards me.”
And Gyuvin certainly won’t be the last. It’s just a facet of Ricky’s life that he’s grown accustomed to by this point.
”But you like Gunwook, right?”
”I don’t like Gunwook. I want to suck his dick, there’s a difference.”
Jay makes a choked noise in the background, but neither Ricky nor Zhang Hao pay him any mind. “So then, what if Gunwook likes you?”
“I suppose I’ll break his heart and maybe have one or two hit songs written about me.”
It’s happened before—there had been that Sumin guy, like two years ago or something. Ricky had been nicer back then, far more gentle in the ways he would let hopeful men down that wanted more from Ricky than a quick fuck. Regrettable Regrets had topped the punk rock charts and shot Sumin’s band into the limelight. Though it had taken a few months for Sumin to give up on winning Ricky back with shitty poetry and bouquets delivered to Ricky’s front door. He’d been clinging onto the dregs of hope that Ricky had unintentionally let linger, and the entire situation had changed the way Ricky handled men in the future.
The song was a total fucking banger though. He still listens to it sometimes.
“You’re such a slut,” Zhang Hao giggles around his straw. “Oh. They’re starting now.”
Just like last week, Ricky turns around on his barstool so that he can watch the performance. He crosses his legs, heavy utility boots threatening to throw him off balance as he shifts on the stool.
Gunwook is adjusting the strap of his cherry-red guitar, strumming the strings idly as he looks around the bar. A couple of girls squeal when he flashes them a handsome smile, running a hand through his hair and mussing it up in an attractive fashion.
”Hello, hello! It’s great to be back here again!” Gunwook speaks into the microphone. “I’m seeing a lot of familiar faces in the crowd—hopefully that means you liked us enough last week that you came back tonight?”
There’s a smattering of cheers and whistles, and Gunwook laughs bashfully. He’s pretty good at crowd control for a newbie. “We have a few new songs to play tonight. I wanna see everyone dancing, yeah? I’ll come find you after the show if you aren’t.”
Gunwook winks, taking a step back from the mic. He counts down from three, and introduces the first song by sliding his left hand down the fretboard. Hanbin kicks in with the drums a moment later, and then the rest of the band follows suit.
It’s a good song—upbeat, fairly heavy on the drums. Gunwook’s voice is gritty and raw, accompanied by quick plucks of his electric guitar. The band plays in harmony, like they’ve practised this thousands of times—they probably have, but it’s nice to be able to recognise hard work. This is the kind of song Ricky would typically immediately want on his MP3 player, but he’s unfortunately struggling to pay attention to the song.
Gyuvin won’t stop staring at him.
Seriously, the guy is barely blinking. Ricky feels like a deer caught in oncoming headlights, because he’s frozen in place as he locks gazes with Gyuvin. Those hundreds of hours of practice really are paying off right now, because Gyuvin won’t look anywhere else. His long fingers traverse the fretboard like he’s operating on autopilot. He alternates between using his thumb and forefinger to strum, which Ricky thinks is fucking weird, but not as weird as the unblinking eye contact Gyuvin is holding with him.
Ricky knows that bass guitars aren’t small—he doesn’t play, but he’s had the oppurtunity to fuck around with instruments before. Bass guitars are heavier than they look and are bigger than an electric guitar. They have a longer neck and wider frets, so why does the instrument look so tiny compared to Gyuvin?
There’s a dryness to Ricky’s mouth that won’t go away no matter how much he swallows. He knows he should look away, knows he should be looking at Gunwook instead. It’s as if Ricky is stuck in a nightmare and Gyuvin is his sleep paralysis demon, and Ricky is unable to move or scream.
“But you're a ghost, just out of reach,
A bittersweet lesson, love can't teach.”
Gyuvin’s fingers are long. They easily stretch to press down on the strings, and Ricky can see the way the veins in Gyuvin’s hands are threatening to burst through his skin.
“Thoughts of you keep spinning in my head.”
Zhang Hao is saying something, but Ricky can’t hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His mouth has dropped open at some point, just a little. Gyuvin tosses his head to shake the hair out of his face, biting down on his bottom lip as he grins at Ricky.
“Every smile, every glance, I fall,
But to you, I’m invisible, nothing at all.”
The strap of Gyuvin’s bass is digging into his leather jacket. When he slides his left hand down to the end of the neck, closest to the guitar body, the strap drags the collar of his jacket down. Ricky catches a glimpse of a prominent collarbone, glowing bronze in the shitty stage lighting.
He shifts on the stool, crossing his legs a little tighter.
“So here’s to all the broken hearts,
We fight alone in darkened parts,
And dream our shattered dreams.”
It had to be the alcohol. The increase in Ricky’s heart rate was because of the cocktail of liquor he’d just knocked back. His palms were sweaty because the bar was crowded and everyone’s body heat was warming up the room. Ricky was not interested in Gyuvin at all—nope, nada, absolutely not.
—
There’s nothing gentle in the way Gyuvin shoves Ricky against the wall. The bathroom tiles were cold, even through the layer of Ricky’s jacket, and he lets out a choked gasp that Gyuvin steals with a bruising press of lips.
It’s messy. It’s aggressive. It’s Ricky whimpering when Gyuvin slides his tongue in, licking Ricky’s teeth and tasting every crevice of his mouth. Gyuvin pulls back when Ricky begins to get a little too into it; his hands were pawing at the bassist's chest, hips rutting against the thigh shoved between his legs.
”On your knees, kitty cat.”
Ricky is never obedient. He’s never submissive. But for some reason, he finds himself dropping to his knees, barely paying any mind to his aching shins. Ricky startles slightly when Gyuvin reaches down to run a hand through his hair, though he unintentionally leans into the touch.
”Good boy,” Gyuvin murmurs. There’s something wicked in his tone. Ricky thinks he may have finally met his match.
The situation is bewildering. Internally, Ricky is yelling at himself, why are you here? Why are you kneeling on gross public bathroom tiles—in front of Kim Gyuvin, no less? Where is your decorum? Did you lose it along with your interest in Gunwook?
But it isn’t like Ricky is suddenly taken by the bassist. How could he be, when Gyuvin looks down at him like Ricky is nothing more than mere dirt on his shoes?
Why does that turn Ricky on?
Gyuvin tightens his hold in Ricky’s hair, and his breath stutters, letting his head be yanked back until he’s forced to keep eye contact with Gyuvin.
”Stop glaring at me. That’s rude.”
Ricky hadn’t realised he was, but he doesn’t relax his facial expression into something softer. Rather, he lifts his top lip into a sneer and feels a surge of satisfaction when the creases in Gyuvin’s forehead deepen. “You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what to do.”
It’s weak. Ricky’s voice trembles too much, and he knows he’s already lost when Gyuvin barks out a laugh. The sound reverberates around the tiled walls, sounding awfully too loud even with the music pounding outside.
Ricky doesn’t want to give in. He doesn’t want Gyuvin to feel like he’s won. But it's a little too late for that now, isn’t it? The battle was already lost ten minutes ago, when Ricky had picked his way through the crowd, feeling Gyuvin’s stare burning into the back of his neck. Intent was stamped into each and every move—Ricky peering across his shoulder, movements demure as he slipped into the men’s bathroom. And Gyuvin had followed, like a pathetic dog running after a bone.
What did it say about Ricky, that he hadn’t spared a single glance at Gunwook?
Nothing that he didn’t already know about himself.
”Don’t you start trying to act like a tiger now, hm?” Gyuvin’s lips pull up into a smile, but it's anything but friendly. “Big cats belong in the wild, but you’re at my feet. Everything about you screams domesticated. All I need to do is put a bell around your neck.”
He can’t help it—Ricky shudders, only just stopping himself from letting out a whimper. It doesn’t matter though, because Gyuvin is looking down at Ricky like he knows.
“I—I don’t…”
Ricky doesn’t even know what he’s trying to stutter out. A refute, perhaps, but the words get stuck in his throat.
”Aw. You can’t even deny it. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
”Fuck you,” Ricky whispers.
Gyuvin’s smile widens. One of his teeth pokes into his bottom lip. “Oh, baby. I will.”
Ricky’s head rolls forwards when Gyuvin releases the grip on his hair. There’s a lingering pain in his scalp, a dull throb that seems to pulse in time with Ricky’s heartbeat. Gyuvin’s fingers are busy, unbuckling the belt that had been cinching his jeans in place.
All jokes aside, Ricky truly can’t seem to get any words out. He just sits there on his knees, hands resting atop his thighs as he watches Gyuvin. Watches veiny hands undo the button and fly, and then Gyuvin is shoving his jeans down. He doesn’t bother to step out of them completely—just leaves them pooled around his ankles. He’s wearing boxer briefs, simple black ones with no brand.
Ricky isn’t sure what compels him to do it. He leans forward, running the tip of his nose along the outline of Gyuvin’s cock. It’s like he’s in some sort of twisted trance. There’s a faint voice in the back of Ricky’s mind telling him stop, you’re better than this!
But is he really?
Ricky doesn’t think so. Not when the ache in his knees or the sound of someone knocking on the door still isn’t enough to deter him from sticking his tongue out and tasting Gyuvin through his underwear. It’s salty, mixed with whatever cheap detergent the bassist uses to wash his clothes. The taste of precome lingers heavily on Ricky’s tongue. He lets it cling to his taste buds, swirling his tongue around inside his mouth like he’s sampling a wine. Kim Gyuvin de la Frontera 2006.
”Just like that, baby,” Gyuvin murmurs. Ricky looks up as he drags the flat of his tongue across Gyuvin’s clothed length. Gyuvin’s cock twitches against Ricky’s cheek when they make eye contact, and Ricky can’t help but wonder what he looks like from Gyuvin’s point of view. A million dollar baby at Gyuvin’s mercy, on a grimy bathroom floor somewhere in the streets of Brooklyn.
Ricky wants to tease a little longer. He wants to make Gyuvin beg, tear him apart until the bassist is reduced to nothing more than a mere crumb of the man he had been.
But Ricky is also a realist. He always has been. Someone else was banging on the bathroom door now, though neither Ricky nor Gyuvin had made a move to stop. It would only be a matter of time before a staff member stumbled upon them with a set of keys and some Narcan in case someone had OD’d in the bathroom again.
So Ricky slides his fingertips behind the waistband of Gyuvin’s briefs. He smirks at Gyuvin’s surprised hiss, because Ricky has chronically cold hands. Goosebumps erupt across Gyuvin’s stomach from the chilling touch and the soft hairs of his snail trail stand on end.
Gyuvin’s cock springs free when Ricky slides the briefs down, and he’s mildly appalled at himself for feeling spit well up in his mouth. Ricky doesn’t drool over dick for crying out loud—though, apparently he does now, and Ricky tucks that thought away real quick. He’s just horny. It doesn’t matter that he’d fucked Jiwoong only mere hours ago—he’s just horny.
It’s long and thick, which is to be expected from how tall Gyuvin was. That saying about big feet has never let Ricky down yet. The head is coloured an angry red and a fat glob of pearlescent precome oozes from the slit. It trickles down Gyuvin’s length and Ricky laps it up before it splashes onto the tiles. He braces himself on Gyuvin’s thighs, feeling the way they tense underneath Ricky’s touch. He doesn’t want that.
He doesn’t want Gyuvin to hold back.
He doesn’t want softness and restraint. He wants Gyuvin to use Ricky’s mouth, like Ricky is nothing more than a cheap slut at a gloryhole.
It’s just easier this way.
Ricky cocks a brow. “Are you going to make me do all the work?”
That’s all the warning Gyuvin gets before Ricky swirls his tongue around the tip, sinking halfway down in one go. He can feel his throat protesting; swallowing aimlessly at the sudden intrusion and Ricky has to remove his hands from Gyuvin’s thighs, instead squeezing his thumbs in his fists behind his back to stave off his gag reflex. He focuses on breathing through his nose, eyebrows pinching together as he takes a few more centimetres of Gyuvin down his throat.
Gyuvin mutters out a curse, reaching a hand out to stabilise himself on the mirror. “You play dirty, kitty cat. You’ll regret that.”
Ricky hums around Gyuvin’s cock, the noise indifferent even though he can feel his own dick straining in his pants. His eyes are challenging, openly staring up at Gyuvin as if to say do your worst.
So Gyuvin does.
He grips a fistful of Ricky’s hair. The blonde strands are no doubt a disaster by now, and Ricky can feel how his previously moussed locks crunch underneath Gyuvin’s hand. The muscles in Gyuvin’s thighs visibly flex when he thrusts his hips forwards, keeping Ricky’s head in place with an ironclad grip.
It’s been a while since Ricky has given head—much longer since he’s let anyone have their way with him like this, no less. His mouth feels like it’ll rip, stretched to the limits as Ricky tries to accommodate Gyuvin’s cock. There’s already spit welling up in Ricky’s mouth and it leaks from the corners of his lips, along with the tangy strings of precome that won’t seem to stop leaking from Gyuvin’s cockhead.
“You look good with my cock in your mouth,” Gyuvin grunts, using his grip on Ricky’s hair to pull him forwards until Ricky’s nose is bumping into the neatly trimmed pubic hair at the base of Gyuvin’s dick. Like this, Ricky can smell Gyuvin—really smell him, without the interruption of his stupid alpha male cologne. It’s a musky scent, and there’s something so deliciously manly about it that he can’t help the way his eyes roll back.
Gyuvin begins to shallowly thrust his hips. Ricky can feel Gyuvin’s cock bumping against his soft palate, and he squeezes his thumbs a little harder. He doesn’t want to give Gyuvin the satisfaction of choking on his dick. He keeps his gaze focused on Gyuvin, knowing that he looks like a mess right now. Ricky doesn’t need a mirror to know that his face is flushed pink, tears welling in the corner of his eyes because he’s kind of choking on cock. There’s so much saliva—it can’t escape from the seal of Ricky’s lips anymore because there’s too much, so he’s forced to swallow, and then he actually does gag.
He’s ripped off of Gyuvin’s cock—the bassist likely worried about Ricky accidentally chomping down. Ricky takes in a dramatic gasp of air, a string of saliva momentarily keeping him connected to Gyuvin’s dick before it breaks on a cough.
”Too much?” Gyuvin teases, grinning something awful and teasing. Ricky just glares up at him, coughing a few more times into his fist. He doesn’t reply—doesn’t want Gyuvin to hear how absolutely wrecked Ricky’s voice would sound. He can feel the way his throat is burning and each time he coughs it only grows more inflamed. Fuck, he’s so going to regret this tomorrow.
Wordlessly, Ricky drops his mouth open once more. He’s so fucking hard it’s starting to hurt, so he snakes a hand down to palm at himself through his pants. Unbuckling his belt would be too much effort, and Ricky doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’s getting off on this. Though, with Gyuvin’s eyes gleaming and lips pulled into a cocky smirk, it's probably too late for that.
Gyuvin slaps his cockhead on Ricky’s tongue a few times, clearly trying to get a reaction out of the kneeling man. Ricky just glares, tensing his tongue and feeling the way his spit splatters around with each smack. Some of it flies up and lands on his cheeks, mixing with the perspiration building up from his pores. He waits patiently, palming relieving pressure into his own boner, until Gyuvin finally stops fucking around and pushes back in.
There’s no time for adjusting—Gyuvin picks up from where they had left off, setting a brutal pace immediately. His fingers tighten their twist in Ricky’s hair, other hand dragging a Gyuvin-shaped handprint down the once pristine mirror.
Ricky can’t help the tear that leaks down his cheek. His sinuses are stuffy, overworked with the need to breathe in short and sharp inhales and exhales. There’s a little bit of snot building up in his nostrils—he can feel it, and it’s fucking nasty but he can’t stop it. His poor nose is being squished with each thrust Gyuvin makes. He’s pretty sure there’s a nerve in his face somewhere that links his nose with his tear ducts—when Zhang Hao had gotten his nose pierced he couldn’t stop crying, even though he’d never had trouble with his belly piercing. Ricky thinks of that now, when his nose is being crushed between his face and Gyuvin’s groin.
Gyuvin tracks the tear with his dark gaze. A singular diamond droplet, dancing down Ricky’s cheek and leaving a streak of salty water behind. His dick throbs in Ricky’s mouth and leaks a little more. Interesting.
Ricky stops blinking. Lets his eyes water until he can barely see Gyuvin through the haze of unshed tears, until the burn becomes too much and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. He can feel the wetness seeping down his face and he opens his eyes, feeling proud of the way Gyuvin’s pupils are blown. The bassist is getting sloppier with his thrusts. His hand makes a squeaking noise as it slides further down the mirror. Ricky palms himself a little harder, letting a moan rumble up from the depths of his throat. He knows the vibrations will feel good.
”You—fuck,” Gyuvin groans. His composure is finally slipping. If Ricky could grin he would, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. They’d only been in the bathroom for five minutes at most and Gyuvin was already edging close to an orgasm. Either the bassist had fuck all game, or Ricky wasn’t as rusty as he thought—perhaps a combination of the both.
Gyuvin chews on his bottom lip, face scrunched up in a way that should be unattractive. Which it is. Ricky is not attracted to Gyuvin. He doesn’t let a quiet whimper slip out, rutting against his palm a little harder, toes curling in his boots. He doesn’t appreciate the way Gyuvin’s tongue slips out to lick at his chapped lips, desperate pants getting louder as he chases his orgasm.
Ricky can’t think about that. So instead he sucks a little harder, making sure his tongue swirls around Gyuvin’s head each time the bassist pulls his hips back. Ricky lets his teeth scrape, just a little, and Gyuvin moans so fucking pornographically that Ricky almost comes then and there.
Jackpot.
“I’m gonna fucking come,” Gyuvin grits out. Ricky can feel it, can feel the way Gyuvin’s dick is throbbing in his mouth like some sort of phallic heartbeat. He doesn’t want Gyuvin’s load on his face and doesn’t trust the guy to aim into the toilet. Ricky is not cleaning come off of his face or the floor, so he resolutely seals his lips a little tighter around Gyuvin’s cock.
It’s probably a bad idea. No, it’s most definitely a bad idea. Ricky only just met this guy, so he can only pray Gyuvin doesn’t have any diseases. It’s a little too late to be thinking about this, since Ricky had literally dropped to his knees before even considering it.
Gyuvin gives one final thrust, and Ricky watches how Gyuvin’s entire body is overcome with his orgasm. His brows knit together, teeth biting down so hard on his bottom lip that Ricky is sure it’ll draw blood. The muscles in Gyuvin’s abdomen clench and unclench rapidly, and his thighs shake as the first spurt of come shoots into Ricky’s mouth.
This isn’t the first time Ricky has swallowed. But it is the first time that someone’s come hasn’t been horribly bitter. Don’t get Ricky wrong, it wasn’t sweet by any means, but it certainly was a lot more tolerable than most spunk Ricky has had the displeasure of tasting. Gyuvin must love his fruits.
Nothing will ever quite prepare Ricky for the warmth though. And there’s so much. Streams of come slide down his throat, far too quickly for him to swallow all at once, and he has to pull back so he doesn’t retch. Gyuvin reaches down to jerk his cock a couple of times, milking the rest of his orgasm out. There’s semen pooling in the crevice of Ricky’s tongue. A little bit dribbles down his chin. Gyuvin takes a step back, cock beginning to soften now that he came. He runs his gaze down Ricky’s body. It’s more assessing than appreciative and Ricky is once again reminded of the dynamic he willingly put himself in. He feels small like this, like Gyuvin could make him crumble like a child stepping on a sandcastle at the beach.
Ricky doesn’t hate the thought.
He hates that he doesn’t hate that thought.
Ricky squirms a little. One of his legs has gone numb but he feels so close to bursting. He can’t help the way he grinds against his palm, cock throbbing so hard in the confines of his pants he’s mildly concerned he really will explode.
”Look at you,” Gyuvin coos. Ricky should laugh at that, should find it funny that Gyuvin is slipping into baby talk with his cock still out and everything. But he can’t, because he just wants to fucking come before it starts to hurt. “Kitty cat is all hot and bothered from sucking dick. You’re more of a slut than I thought you were.”
”Shut up,” Ricky croaks. He can feel more come trickling out of his mouth. It’s disgusting; Ricky feels used and dirty but he loves it.
This wasn’t how he’d intended the night to go at all. The plan was to get laid, sure, but not by Kim Gyuvin of all people—much less in the fucking bathroom.
Ricky only has himself to blame though, doesn’t he? After all, he’d been the one to initiate. Gyuvin had just followed. There was a high chance that Gunwook would have taken Ricky home if he’d asked. Right now, Ricky could be in an actual bed being pounded into oblivion by the lead singer.
Yet here he was.
”You know,” Gyuvin says, lifting Ricky’s head with a finger under his chin, “I was going to offer you a hand. I’m not just a taker.”
Gyuvin drags his thumb across Ricky’s chin, smearing his come along Ricky’s jaw. The touch is gentle, almost soft, but Gyuvin’s gaze is hard. He could be pissing on Ricky and it would mean the same thing. The bassist was staking his claim. That should have set off warning bells, should have sent Ricky running and screaming to the hills.
His cock twitches, begging for release. Ricky’s eyelashes flutter as he looks up at Gyuvin, a silent plea shining in his eyes.
Gyuvin smirks. Pushes his thumb against Ricky’s bottom lip. Ricky drops his mouth open, welcoming Gyuvin’s thumb like it's his last supper. Calloused and coated in semen, Gyuvin presses his thumb down hard on Ricky’s tongue.
”But you haven’t been very nice. Running your mouth the second it's empty of cock. I think I should just keep you stuffed full all the time, huh? You may act like a pedigree, but the moment you speak you’re no better than a feral.”
Gyuvin pushes his thumb further in, far enough to hit the back of Ricky’s throat.
The orgasm hits Ricky like a freight train. When the first contraction hits, Ricky can’t help biting down—Gyuvin’s thumb is still in his mouth, and the bassist hisses in pain as he retracts his thumb. There’s a snark on the tip of Ricky’s tongue but he can’t spit it out because his eyes are rolling back, gasping a plethora of fuckfuckfucks as he grinds against his palm like a pathetic virgin teen. He can feel the damp patch growing in his underwear, come seeping into his Calvin Klein’s as his thighs tremble from exertion.
A beat of silence passes. Ricky’s brain finally catches up to his body, and shame trickles down his spine. “Get out,” Ricky mutters. It’s barely legible—his throat feels raw and every time he swallows it feels like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.
There’s a snort from Gyuvin. Ricky doesn’t want to look at the bassist right now, doesn’t want to acknowledge what they just did. He remains on the floor, unmoving, as he listens to Gyuvin pulling his pants back up and buckling his belt.
It’s only when Gyuvin steps over towards the door that Ricky feels a flame of panic arise. His head shoots up, colour draining from his face as he watches Gyuvin reach down to unlatch the door. “Wait!”
”What?”
Ricky clears his throat, trying to sound as imposing as possible. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Not your friends, your bandmates, even your dog.”
He doesn’t know if Gyuvin has a dog. He doesn’t want to know.
Gyuvin scoffs, running a hand through his auburn hair. “Why do you expect me to oblige, huh? You don’t own me.”
Of course Gyuvin would use Ricky’s own words against him. He grits his teeth, scowling at the pleased expression on Gyuvin’s face. “Because I can ruin you, Kim Gyuvin. You wanna fuck around and find out? Go ahead. But you better start digging your own grave if you’re going to play like that.”
The bassist grins. It’s a sinister looking thing, and he rubs a thumb beneath his nose as he leers at Ricky. “I’ll dig one big enough for two then, kitty cat. You wanna ruin me? Fine. I’ll destroy both of us.”