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“Are you,” is what he starts with before falling into pensive silence, because of course he does. It’s an awkward pause about as pregnant as the lump in his throat, and Renjun watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows around the width of it. The note of worry in his voice is damn near tangible. “Are you really sure about this?”
Renjun agrees with a nod, then voices his assent for good measure. Jeno needs the reassurance, if the hard line between his knit brows could be any indication of his premeditated remorse. Such a good guy , the older boy thinks to himself, and feels his gut twist with guilt. Asking a favor to someone as eager to please as Jeno always struck him as opportunistic, in a sense, like taking advantage of a rescue who’s had its will softened by years of neglect, who gives without ever expecting to take.
He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a denial from Jeno, in retrospect.
“It’ll be quick,” Renjun tells him, averting his gaze to the still water before him. “It always is when I’m by myself. You wouldn’t want to fall behind, would you?”
The tap tap tap of his nails against white porcelain is the only thing that fills the subsequent silence aside from the deep, steadying breaths Jeno gulps every other minute. A few more pass before Renjun hears the shuffling of Jeno’s feet while the man crouches behind him, then feels his wide palm land on Renjun’s shoulder.
Jeno might be hesitant, but it’s not rocket science: they’re idols, after all, and decently well-versed at handling hangovers or anything that can be considered a diet, but shouldn’t.
The pads of Jeno’s fingers brush against his lips, gliding over the thin layer of chapstick Renjun had applied to soothe the cracks malnutrition had left in its wake. They push into his mouth without an ounce of resistance, then against the warm wetness of his tongue as if testing the waters.
Renjun feels his touch on the back of his molars, the seam of his palate, the inside of his cheeks, sickeningly delicate. It sends a shameful shiver up his spine.
Deeper, c’mon, is what Renjun means to mumble petulantly around his mouthful, but only a muted gurgle comes out instead. The drawn-out sound of it doesn’t deter Jeno, however, who unknowingly does as he’s told while teetering closer and closer to the back of his tongue.
His throat spasms around the length of Jeno’s fingers as they prod his uvula, and the familiar taste of bile reaches Renjun’s taste buds before he can even register that he’s retching. The acidic mixture of it with spit and the little he’s had for dinner erupts from his mouth in small but powerful increments, spilling around Jeno’s knuckles to meet the once-pristine water of the toilet.
Jeno’s breaths come out in short, nervous pants by the shell of his ear, and Renjun doesn’t need to peek over his shoulder to know his effort not to wrench himself away is nothing short of herculean. Renjun knows Jeno wants to take care of him, knows Jeno knows that’s a dubious hill to die on.
After all, he feels coddled while caged between Jeno’s arms as a thick glob of spit hangs from the corner of his slack mouth, his stomach constricting around nothing after the pungent smell of his vomit clocks into his senses. As Jeno’s thumb pets the fat of his cheek, reverent and remorseful all at once.
Unsurprisingly, he’s the one to break the silence.
“Jeno-yah,” Renjun calls, voice rough as it slips past a torn esophagus. Blinks away the moisture that blurs his vision, even if the sight he’s met with is hardly worth the effort. “Jeno-yah, are you okay?”
His words are muffled by the pointer and middle fingers Jeno keeps tucked inside his mouth, stiff as though stuck in a trance. They rest against his tongue solemnly, thick, green-ish puke still making its languid way along the protruding veins of his forearm.
After another stretch of silence, Jeno speaks up. “Are you okay?” he asks back, albeit with a certain animosity to his tone he’d seldom heard outside of a game lobby. Renjun’s eyes well up with tears for an entirely different reason, now, and his gut feels even queasier.
“I’m fine,” is his immediate response, uttered with practiced, media-trained ease. It’s clear, too, courtesy of Jeno having retracted his fingers in his haste to get him talking. Renjun spits into the toilet. “I am. Really, Jeno-yah, thank you. I... I wouldn’t know who else to ask for help.”
Through the sound of the toilet being flushed, Renjun can still make out the click of his tongue. “No one else would,” he murmurs, resolute. “It’s. It’s selfish of you. No one wants to see you in pain. You don’t,” from the sound of it, he could tell Jeno spat his words from gritted teeth: “you don’t need to do any of this. What you need -”
“Don’t start,” Renjun is quick to interrupt him, but his body curls in on itself at Jeno’s chastising regardless. “Juh- just, please don’t.”
Like a wave washing up on the shore, the aftermath of his purging catches up to Renjun: how sore the skin stretched over his kneecaps is from squirming against linoleum, the putrid burn along his larynx, his reflection on the sullied water. His face looks a little slimmer than the week before, though, so it’s working. It’s working.
Jeno hugs him, then. His arms wrap around Renjun’s midsection and squeeze him tight, palm rubbing over his aching belly through his shirt. There’s a sordid satisfaction that wells up in his chest as Jeno’s pinky finger lies an inch short of his waistband while his thumb brushes over the juts of his ribcage, all-encompassing.
Renjun presses a sticky kiss to Jeno’s bicep and after an awkward, silent clean up, they’re off to bed.
The second time Jeno helps him throw up his dinner fits into the same mold as its predecessor, albeit with a little less fussing on his behalf. Renjun is grateful, immensely so, expresses it through words and affection and smiles that never meet his eyes, yet have Jeno’s shoulders deflating nonetheless.
By the third, the trepidation in Jeno’s body language is replaced by an unsettling tension in its entirety. His posture is ramrod-straight, his breathing labored, and for the first time since pre-debut, Renjun can’t read him.
Beyond the confines of their dorm’s shared bathroom, Jeno keeps his heart on his sleeve as he always had, eyes a lovely, crescent-shaped window to his soul. The drapes are pulled shut as soon as Renjun is knelt before the toilet, his parted lips an invitation for Jeno’s continuous aid in his self-harm.
It’s not like him.
The weekend rolls around. Promotions have ended, which means the group gets to splurge a little more on themselves and go out for drinks and a banquet to keep them stuffed for the foreseeable future. Renjun tags along with a tight-lipped smile, mourning how he used to look forward to these celebrations of theirs without impulsively pressing a hand against his own concave belly.
After having it rubbed by Jeno that many times ( you’ll be fine , he would whisper, achingly sweet. It’ll pass), the following sense of relief is damn near pavlovian.
Which is why Renjun finds himself doing the same after pushing past the door to the bar’s restroom, except under his sweater: slim fingers scratching at the skin of his abdomen, trying to clutch for fat that won’t give because it’s not fucking there , even if his mind tells him otherwise. He hasn’t even begun digesting his meal yet, and the feeling of repulsion creeps up his back all the same.
A pained whimper escapes his lips at that because he knows the sickness won’t go away, not like this. The one time Renjun has fully relied on someone else is to blame, and how pathetic would it be if he pulled its victim from the fun they were having to soothe an ache he created himself? How selfish ?
Jeno walks into the restroom not three minutes later, only to find Renjun leaning against the counter, white-knuckling its marble with fat tears rolling down his cheeks while all that self-deprecation threatens to take root.
His eyes are wide like he isn’t expecting the interruption, and it’s true. It’s heaven sent.
“Jeno-yah,” he says, sounding as small as he feels. There’s a mere three inches between their heights, yet the way Jeno holds himself stretches the difference into a mile. His contractual charm has always been looking manly, imposing, only for that facade to crack on his first smile.
Renjun wipes at his runny nose with the back of his sleeve, then continues: “The. The toilet isn’t flushing right, just so you know.”
When Jeno glances down at him, however, there’s no underlying playfulness in the curve of his eyes. “Hyung,” he calls, and Renjun’s brows furrow at the honorific. The month-long gap between their ages is hardly significant enough for pleasantries. “I kne- knew why you left the table from the start, but I didn’t want to seem suspicious.”
Renjun opens his mouth to reply, but Jeno beats him to it. “I want to help, like always.”
“You... do?”
“Isn’t this what we do?” Jeno asks, and something about his intonation renders the question rhetorical. His fingers twist the lock on the door. “Isn’t this our. Our thing , now?”
Renjun supposes it is and nods his agreement after a beat of hesitation, not trusting himself to speak. “I’ve been thinking for a while that I can, um. Make this good for both of us,” Jeno suggests in a single breath before his eyes go wide, throat working as he swallows. “As long as you’re okay with trying! I don’t. It’s just. Seeing you like this has made me. It’s…”
“What do you want, Jeno-yah?” After everything the boy has done for him, to him, all Renjun can do is take his wish as a command.
Jeno heaves out a long, shuddering breath as his hands reach for his own belt, bony fingers tracing the design of its buckle. “Ca- can you get on your knees for me, Injunnie?”
He does. It’s a familiar position, all things considered, except for the change in their positions. The intimacy of looking Jeno in the eye has his blood running hot with shame.
“Not here! On the, um. The toilet,” Jeno’s voice is softer, now, and there’s a flush across his nose, visible even under the dim lighting. The contrast between his flustered demeanor and the darker implications woven in his words keeps Renjun on his toes. “I don’t... It’s better if we don’t make a mess.”
They move to the toilet in tow: Jeno atop its seat with his jeans and briefs pooled around his ankles, and Renjun on his knees before him, restless gaze darting from the space between Jeno’s legs to his eyes, over and over.
“You’re hard,” Renjun murmurs in disbelief, hands landing on the boy’s thighs to squeeze the hard muscle underneath. Jeno is tense from head to toe. “Do you,” he pauses, scrambles to collect himself, “do you always get like this when I... When we...?”
Renjun is cute even when he’s crying , Jeno had said once, sometime between Dream’s debut and their leader’s momentary departure. They were young, far too young for any malice to be spotted in between the lines, but that didn’t mean the sentiment hadn’t evolved into something greater. Uglier, rather.
It seems like Jeno doesn’t trust his own ability to form a coherent sentence either, but his lack of protest is a response on its own. “Y-You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I do.”
A means to an end is what Renjun convinces himself this is about. He leans forward, spitting a mouthful of saliva onto Jeno’s cock, then takes the head of it inside his mouth. Rubs his tongue against the crown and hollows his cheeks because he knows how to make this good, has blown enough strangers to drag a shaky little whimper from Jeno’s chest within the first thirty seconds.
Naturally, Renjun’s own cock begins to fill up under the fly of his slacks in response to the heft of Jeno on his tongue and the heady, masculine scent of him after a day out.
Jeno’s hand cradles the back of his skull, then, and feeds him more and more inches until his cockhead trespasses what Renjun’s spoiled gag reflex can handle.
His knee-jerk reaction is to pull off: having a dick shoved that deep into his mouth isn’t what he’s been trained to take, unlike Jeno’s knobby fingers. Alarm bells ring on the back of Renjun’s mind as he buries his nails into the meat of his thighs to take the pain out on something , and Jeno groans, affected and delighted all at once.
As the length of him begins to slide down his esophagus, Renjun feels it seize around the intrusion, stomach gurgling.
The vomit rushes up his digestive tract like clockwork, then past the corners of a mouth already stretched-thin to accommodate Jeno’s girth. It’s thick and beige and there’s lumps of food he hadn’t given his gut the time to digest, all trickling down the base of Jeno’s cock and balls and pulling unexpected, drawn-out grunts from him.
“Oh. Oh my God, Injunnie ,” Jeno blurts out, and the sheer arousal in his baritone has Renjun squeezing his overflowing eyes shut. “Fuh- fuck, that’s so…”
More tears join the mess of spit and puke and Renjun loathes how his cock throbs at it, loathes how he has unknowingly conditioned Jeno to feel aroused by his misery and might be getting off on it himself, too.
His throat doesn’t stop spasming around him, and somewhere in-between his choking Jeno comes completely unannounced, overwhelmed by the warmth of Renjun’s vomit and the tense-release of his insides, milking him better than any run-of-the-mill blowjob could.
The sensation of spunk sliding down his bruised pipes has Renjun spitting it back up, clear with a few green-ish traces of bile. Dripping like a Pollock piece , his mind supplies unhelpfully, and Renjun would crack a joke at their song’s expense had his wits not been scattered in the process.
“Injunnie,” Jeno calls amidst his breathlessness, giving a harsh tug at the back of Renjun’s hair to pull him off his cock.
He winces at the sting, but doesn’t complain: the guy hardly knows his own strength, after all, even though comparing him to a puppy under these circumstances hardly seems appropriate. “Thank you. Thank you so much, I’ve. I have wanted this for a while now. You’re so good, Junnie, thank you. Thank you.”
The string of endless praise and adoration is spewed before Renjun’s vacant face, wet with tears and puke and cum, picture-perfect filth.
“Yah, Jeno,” he musters once Jeno’s excitement trails off into worry. Drags his tongue across the seam of his mouth, then cringes bodily at the taste. “It’s fine, don’t worry. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
Jeno pauses. “It’s not,” he averts his gaze, and Renjun can’t help but feel amused at his struggle to collect himself while blindly dabbing at his friend’s soiled face with toilet paper. “It isn’t, but thank you.”
This time, Jeno’s fingers clutch at the lapels of his jacket instead to haul him up like a rag doll. Wide-eyed, Renjun can only scramble for purchase during the split second it takes for Jeno to pull him against his chest. The force with which his chin lands on Jeno’s shoulder after Renjun aims his damp and teary face away from his sweater has his teeth clicking together painfully, but it’s for a good cause.
Renjun does his best to stay put. His hands remain raised at an awkward angle until his brain supplies that they’re clean, they always are, because Jeno gets his own dirty in his stead. The cashmere feels warm against his palms.
His eyelids almost fall closed. “What’s the occasion?”
Although he can’t see Jeno from this angle, Renjun can tell he dons his thinking face, the wide-eyed, slack-jawed one that’s stupid and adorable in equal measure. “Huh?”
“You haven’t held me like this in a while,” Renjun’s voice is the kind of hoarse that makes his eyelid twitch in annoyance, a vocalist’s tick. He presses on. “When we’re filming you do, but not in private, no.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think it was… appropriate.”
Renjun breathes an incredulous laugh through his nose. A more incriminating question lies on the tip of his tongue, and he swallows it down along with a mouthful of acrid spit. “Is it appropriate now?”
His hands sneak under the back of Renjun’s oversized shirt completely uninvited, smoothing over the knobs of Renjun’s spine before sliding up to get personally acquainted with the rise and fall of each protruding rib. His skin crawls under the curious touch and only when he squirms, uneasy, does Jeno finally open his mouth to speak.
“Could be worse.”