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Despite the heavy bass thrumming in his ears, youngwoo feels far away. His vision swims, the multicolored strobe lights seemingly shifting along with the rest of the world around him–a byproduct of the alcohol clouding his nervous system, as well as his better judgement—already several shots in and on his third gin and tonic of the night.
At least like this, the suffocating pressure weighing down on his lungs seems to mellow out into a dull ache in his heart.
“Hey Ian,” someone yells out from somewhere beside him, still barely audible underneath all the noise. Youngwoo turns his head in the direction of the voice and immediately regrets it, world tilting on its axis–but he’s able to stabilize himself with a hand on the plush leather of the sofa beneath him. He blinks, once, then twice, until finally blurry-eyesight and confusion gives way into recognition. There’s a familiar face grinning in his direction. Between his forefinger and thumb dangles a small plastic baggie holding what appears to be several small white pills.
“What say we start having some real fun?” he says, sleazy grin stretched tight over thin lips. Youngwoo can’t even remember the fucker’s name.
“I don’t do drugs–I’m sober,” Youngwoo responds drily, eyes already shifting away with disinterest.
That’s when he sees it. A figure on the dance floor that bears an uncanny resemblance to the man he dreams of at night, grinding against a petite woman who has her arms thrown around his shoulders behind her–his hands fitting perfectly against her slim waist before they slide down, down, until the tips of his fingers can snake under the hem of her minidress.
When the strobe lights hit his face, youngwoo realizes he was mistaken–but the damage is already done. The pressure returns in full force.
“Oh come on, don’t be like that. It’s just a little pill. Completely harmless—trust me. You’ll be floating on cloud 9 in no time.”
And just like that, Youngwoo decides–fuck it. and fuck Oh Taejoon, too.
“Why not?” he responds, eyes distant and words tight, speaking more to himself than anyone else–but everyone’s too high off their mind to notice anyway. The bastard that had offered him the drug seems surprised at first before his lips stretch into a grin.
“That’s the spirit,” he hums, and Youngwoo has to strain to hear it under the weight of the music pulsing around them. He leans forward in his seat, holding one of the pills between forefinger and thumb.
“Open wide.”
Youngwoo contemplates asking the sleazy fucker to just hand him the pill, but quickly realizes that, at this point, he’s beyond giving a damn. So, just like he’s told, he opens.
He jerks back in surprise when a closed fist shoots out in front of him, squarely striking the poor fuck on the nose. He’s immediately sent reeling with a howl, nursing what will surely be broken as he crumples to the floor, writhing in pain. A friend of the boy immediately leaps to his feet, ready to confront the offender.
“Sit. Down.”
The way those words are uttered makes it clear that it was far from a request; it was a warning.
The voice is familiar despite the threatening undertone to it–Youngwoo would recognize it anywhere, follow it to the ends of the earth–and his eyes immediately shoot up to meet Taejoon’s eyes through his peripheral vision.
Taejoon doesn’t bother with more words–instead, he grabs Youngwoo by the bicep, grip bruising as he hauls his drunk ass up off the couch and towards the back exit.
“Taejoon, what the fuck–” Youngwoo hisses, half in pain and half in anger—Taejoon either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, easily dragging Youngwoo out into the empty back alley despite his protests, both physical and otherwise. Only once they’re outside, inhaling sharp gulps of the cold night air with the sound of the door clicking shut behind them, does Taejoon finally speak.
“Really? After everything we—” A pause. Youngwoo can see the muscle in Taejoon’s jaw tense. Youngwoo’s eyes immediately gravitate towards Taejoon’s scar—a permanent reminder of his own sins, constantly paid for in blood by those he loves most. His heart squeezes painfully inside his chest.
“After everything you went through to get clean? What the fuck were you thinking?” Taejoon finally grits out, unbridled fury behind every sharp-edged word.
“Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” Youngwoo bites back, words as icy as the piercing loathing that clouds his violet eyes. ”Besides, I can take care of myself. I’m sure you have more important matters to get back to.”
It takes a second for Youngwoo’s words to sink in, anger contorting into frustrated confusion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Taejoon retorts, exasperation clear in the knot of his brow.
“It means mind your own fucking business, Taejoon.”
“You’re my fucking business, Youngwoo.”
And Youngwoo can’t help but laugh; it’s mocking, sounds borderline sinister—but beneath it is barely concealed heartbreak. “And how many others do you go around making your business? Is it just me and Vanessa, or do you have a running list of bitches you alternate depending on what day of the week it is?”
Taejoon’s eyes widen. Youngwoo could practically see his mind reeling through those gorgeous hazel eyes.
Youngwoo just grins, a deranged glint in his own. “Weren’t planning on me finding out, Taejoon-ah?”
In all honesty, he’s not sure why he’s so upset. This is for the best—he understands all too well the reality of their circumstances, has experienced the homophobia that runs rampant within the ranks of New York’s Asian gangs all too well. Not to mention the fact that she’s Jason’s niece, the only daughter of the head of the largest Asian mob in New York—her presence alone would open countless doors for Taejoon. Logically, he knows this.
Yet, that doesn’t stop the hurt, nor the vitriol that bubbles out in the aftermath of it.
“If it’s ass you want, I suggest asking your girl. The way she looks at you, I’m sure all you’d have to do is as—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, the wind knocked out of him as he’s slammed into the brick wall behind him by the neck, and before he can even ask what the fuck Taejoon’s problem is, there’s an all too familiar mouth on his, teeth nipping into his bottom lip.
“Tae—Taejoon, get off me,” Youngwoo hisses, half the sentence swallowed down by Taejoon’s over-eager mouth. Yet, his body is only all too willing to betray him, back arching like a bow pulled tight when Taejoon grinds his cock against his, fingers digging bruises into his hips even through the denim of his too-tight jeans. “Get—off me, Taejoon,” he gasps again, head thrown back as another well-placed thrust sends sparks flying inside his skull. “Someone will see—”
“Let them,” Taejoon groans against his lips, low and guttural and borderline desperate in a way that has all of Youngwoo’s carefully crafted determination melting.
Yet, it also makes something inside of him fracture. And so, he plants both palms against Taejoon’s chest, and shoves.
Taejoon’s sent stumbling backward, and for a second, Youngwoo could swear he saw his own hurt reflected at him in those hazel eyes. It’s so visceral that Youngwoo has to look away, already building up those walls he’d laid the foundation for, so long ago. Already stamping out all these ugly feelings bubbling up inside him like lava. He gathers himself, wiping his mouth with the base of his palm as he replaces everything he’s feeling with stone-cold indifference.
“… go home, TJ. It’s late. I’m sure she’s waiting for you.” He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know what he was doing—the effect is instant, Taejoon’s eyes widening like he’s been slapped across the face. And instead of looking that hurt in the eyes, youngwoo runs. Like a fucking coward, Youngwoo runs.
Wordlessly he turns his back on him, fishing a half-empty pack of cigarettes out of his jeans before he pulls one out with his teeth. He lights it wordlessly, ignoring the weight of the silence that hangs in the air between them, like a noose waiting to wrap around his neck. It’s Taejoon who finally speaks, words cutting through the cold night air like a scalpel through skin.
“Are you going to go back in there?”
Ian doesn’t look at him, back still turned as he exhales a cloud of smoke, tendrils curling away from his nostrils and disappearing into nothing. “Eventually, once I’m done with my smoke.” A pregnant pause—he can’t help twisting the knife. “I’m sure I’ll find someone in there that won’t drag me into back-alleys.” Someone who won’t look both ways before he kisses me.
Why’d he say that? Maybe he just wanted to feel close to him again. Maybe the only thing holding them together anymore is the hurt.
A part of him is hoping for some sort of response—something to stretch on this silence so that it doesn’t feel so much like goodbye.
Instead, all he hears is the shuffle of tired footsteps behind him, growing softer with each click, like a bell signifying their end. His fingers curl into fists by his side, the vice around his lungs tightening with every softening echo.
I can’t allow myself to be vulnerable here.
Thunder crackles in the distance. He feels the first drops of light rain, frigid against his warm skin, just as he hears the heavy swing of a door opening.
Shin Youngwoo has always been but a weak, weak man—desperate to hold onto those he loves, even as they slip through the cracks in his fingers like grains of sand. And so, just like sand, he crumbles.
He drops his still-burning cigarette where he stands, turning sharply on his heel. It takes only a few long strides before he grabs onto TJ’s wrist, grip strong enough to leave purpling bruises in their wake—Taejoon doesn’t even flinch, turning first to stare at the fingers wrapped around his wrist before he raises his gaze to meet Youngwoo’s violet eyes.
The storm picks up around them, the pitter-patter of light rain drowned out by the sudden downpour. Lightning strikes somewhere in Youngwoo’s peripheral vision, shortly followed by the howl of thunder. It’s loud, jarringly so—but in this moment that feels like it stretches on for an eternity, Youngwoo only hears it as white noise.
He doesn’t offer an explanation and Taejoon doesn’t demand one, even as he turns on his heel again, grip still tight around Taejoon’s wrist—dragging him away from the heavy bass bleeding out through brick and mortar walls, wet hair plastered to his forehead and rain-soaked shirt sticking to the flat planes of his torso. He doesn’t spare a single glance backward, even as he navigates them through familiar roads, empty except for the few stragglers taking refuge in the various convenience stores lining every street corner.
Taejoon says nothing the entire time, seemingly just as unbothered by the rain currently soaking him to the bone—he’s too preoccupied with staring; at the way Youngwoo’s slender fingers curl around his wrist; at the way his soaked-through white shirt just barely sinks into the dimples in his lower back; at the way droplets of water map their way down his nape before disappearing under a collar.
He looks statuesque; like marble made flesh by divine hands. Briefly, Taejoon wonders if this is what falling in love is supposed to feel like—like flying too close to the sun.
He’s snapped out of his reverie by the chime of a doorbell, heavy wood swinging shut behind them. Taejoon wipes away the rain clouding his vision with his forefinger and thumb—the first thing he notices when he looks around is the paint peeling off corners of the wall, most likely from prolonged water damage. The second thing he notices is the large front desk right in front of them, behind which sits the only other occupant of this otherwise empty room—an elderly man who glances up at them from his newspaper, eyes sharp despite their age behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Room for two, please,” Youngwoo says, words stiff—Taejoon’s known him long enough to know it’s not because he fears judgment from some old homophobic bastard with one foot in the grave—it’s because of all the unspoken truths that hang between the two of them. Taejoon wonders if either of them will ever be brave enough to say any of it.
The old man’s eyes immediately harden, features contorting in masked disdain that’s only all too easy to notice when it’s the same look that’s followed you most of your life—when it’s the same look that’s followed the man you love for most of his life.
Taejoon’s teeth clench behind pursed lips, the muscle in his jaw tight as the fingers of his free hand curl into a fist beside him—but before Taejoon can say anything, Youngwoo’s fishing out a damp roll of bills from his back pocket before he slams them on the counter. From his peripheral vision, Taejoon can see the frigid look in his eyes, the hard set of his features.
“A room, please.” And yet his tone makes it clear that this was no longer a request. The old man’s gaze flickers from Youngwoo’s face to Taejoon’s, disgust crystal clear—but in this world, money and power speak louder than any amount of self-righteous morality. Wordlessly, he pulls out one of the keys dangling from the rack built into the wall beside him before placing the key on the counter in front of them. 404.
Youngwoo wastes no time grabbing the key before turning towards the elevator visible just a few feet down the hall, still pulling Taejoon along like some hapless mutt on the leash.
When it comes to Youngwoo, maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A loyal dog waiting by the front door until its whole world deigns to walk back into its meager life.
The elevator ride up to the 4th floor is uneventful. They stand at opposite ends of the rickety old 5x5 steel box, stubbornly looking anywhere but at each other. Taejoon eyes the cigarette burns obfuscating the numbers on the buttons leading to each floor. Youngwoo stares at a dent in the ceiling. The whirr of steel cables is the only thing interrupting the suffocating silence hanging between them.
Absentmindedly, Taejoon rubs at his sore wrist—thumb digging in where he remembers the most pressure.
The elevator doors open; Youngwoo is the first to exit. Wordlessly, Taejoon follows.
There’s the familiar jingle of a key being inserted into a lock, followed by a soft resounding click that echoes in the quiet of the empty hall. Youngwoo swings the door open before stepping inside—Taejoon moves to follow, but before he can, there’s a hand shooting out towards him, grabbing a fistful of his damp shirt.
He’s jerked roughly inside and slammed against the back of the door, hard enough to knock the wind out of him—and before he can replace the air that was in his lungs, there’s a familiar mouth on his, familiar hands curled into fists over his chest, stretching out the damp fabric of his shirt. Taejoon can’t bring himself to care.
Not when Youngwoo kisses like a man starved, carnal and bruising in its intensity—nipping bruises into his bottom lip until it swells; licking over the roof of his mouth, teeth clacking together; biting into his tongue until they both taste blood.
Youngwoo kisses like a man trying to prove a point, like a man trying to leave his mark—that he was here, that they were here, that at some point he’d held a space inside Taejoon’s ribs that stood for more than the title of best friend.
In a different universe, Oh Taejoon is brave enough to tell him that there is no universe where Oh Taejoon isn’t in love with him. In a different universe, Oh Taejoon is brave enough to tell him that there is no universe where Oh Taejoon won’t love him until the very last star burns out in the night sky.
When Youngwoo finally pulls off of him, Taejoon is only all too unwilling to allow it. The hunger bubbling up inside him is violent, all-consuming—because despite the callouses marring his knuckles, Oh Taejoon has always been just as much of a coward as the man he’s desperate to hold in his arms—two halves of the same fractured soul.
He peels off the shirt still sticking to his chest in record time, tossed in some random forgotten corner with a wet plop, too preoccupied with chasing after Youngwoo’s retreating mouth. Youngwoo seems to have had the same idea, fingers curling around the hem of his own wet shirt so that he could tug it off just as unceremoniously—collar barely over his head before Taejoon’s kissing him again, left hand curling around the side of his neck, fingers roughly carding through the obsidian tufts of hair lining the base of Youngwoo’s skull.
Meanwhile, his right arm snakes around a sculpted waist, flat palm tracing over every plane and contour before following the path outlined by his spine—fingers slipping under the waistband of Youngwoo’s jeans and underwear before curling around a fistful of ass.
Youngwoo gasps into his mouth, body arching into his like a bow—Taejoon groans in turn when he feels Youngwoo’s hardness grind against his own length, through the layers of cotton and denim separating them.
Taejoon nips a line up Youngwoo’s jaw before he presses the flat of his tongue into his flushed ear—heat coils low and sharp in his belly with every moan and whimper Youngwoo lets out against his rain-damp skin, blunt nails digging crescent-shaped half-moons into his tricep, other hand preoccupied with scratching red lines down the length of Taejoon’s back.
Taejoon decides the bed can wait for later.
There’s nothing gentle about the way Taejoon spins Youngwoo around, fingers digging into the tight muscles of his hips as he’s shoved up against the nearest wall. Youngwoo is quick to hiss out his discontent—“fucker,”—cheek pressed flat against flaking paint, yet he makes no move to shove Taejoon off; instead, his hands remain firmly planted against the wall, arching his back into him as he grinds the cleft of his clothed ass against the outline of Taejoon’s cock.
“Haah—", Taejoon gasps, open-mouthed against the flushed skin of Youngwoo’s shoulder before he sinks his teeth into a defined shoulder blade—the action earning him a full-bodied shudder. His hands, meanwhile, are quick to snake around Youngwoo’s waist, fingers making quick work of Youngwoo’s jeans with practiced ease before he shoves them down his thighs alongside his briefs.
Immediately, Taejoon curls his fingers around a fistful of ink-black hair, yanking—the groan Youngwoo lets out is guttural, pleasure laced with pain, only for the sound to be stamped out halfway when Taejoon thrusts all four fingers of his free hand down Youngwoo’s throat.
Youngwoo audibly gags when the pads of his fingers press down on the back of his tongue. The sound makes Taejoon’s cock twitch in interest.
“Wet them properly.” It’s less request, more demand—words low and hard, tinged with an undercurrent of lust. Youngwoo glares at him through his peripheral vision, violet eyes cloudy with an indistinguishable mix of loathing and hunger.
It makes his heart squeeze tight in his chest—but underneath it, a sick sort of pleasure blooms in his gut.
Like a garden of roses watered with blood.
When was the last time those cold, unfeeling eyes looked at anyone with such visceral hurt? With such vindictive disdain?
Youngwoo gurgles wetly around the fingers reaching down his throat, right before he bites down on the intruding appendages—hard, until the taste of copper coats his tongue.
Taejoon hisses, his fingers immediately withdrawing. Youngwoo takes the opportunity to spit out the excess spit mixed with blood staining his mouth.
“I already prepped, asshole,” Youngwoo spits out. Almost instinctively, Taejoon’s fingers immediately dip into the cleft of Youngwoo’s ass as if to confirm his assertion, only for his fingers to come away wet with leftover lube.
Taejoon clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw tensing in tandem. Jealousy bubbles up inside him like vomit trying to claw its way up his throat.
“Huh. Planning to get lucky tonight, were we?” Taejoon mocks, somehow keeping his tone stable despite the vitriol dripping from his every word.
Youngwoo snorts. “Why? Upset you’re not the only one fucking people on the side?”
Taejoon clenches his teeth. In place of an answer, he instead brings his bitten hand up to his lips, gracelessly spitting on his fingers before wiping the wetness over Youngwoo’s twitching hole—he clenches instinctively in response, grunting out his discomfort when Taejoon shoves three fingers in with no warning.
“Huh. Awfully tight for someone who’s been fucking people on the side,” Taejoon sneers—in stark contrast with the way the air feels like it’s being suffocated from his lungs with every barbed jab Youngwoo throws at him. He knows he deserves it, deserves every bit of loathing he sees reflected back at him in those violet eyes. Yet that doesn’t stop him from twisting the proverbial knife—every word a double-edged sword that leaves them both bleeding.
Youngwoo laughs—the sound is scathing, like nails on a chalkboard. “Was the pussy so good it turned you stupid?” Taejoon’s hand curls tighter around his nape in response, the pads of his fingers pressing down on the sides of his throat, squeezing around his windpipe until Youngwoo’s every inhale is a grating rasp. It’s still not enough to shut him up.
“If you h—ah—hadn’t…dragged me out—… by the scruff—” Youngwoo stutters on every other word, waterline wet with unshed tears as he tries to speak through the pleasure currently short-circuiting his brain with every perfectly angled thrust of Taejoon’s fingers. Blindly, he reaches behind him, blunt nails scratching down Taejoon’s chiseled abdomen before shaking hands fumble with the buckle of his belt. “—I’d probably have some pretty little th—thing… bouncing on my cock right now.”
Another shuddering rasp. He’s already struggling to string his sentences together, eyes practically rolling back into his skull with every perfectly aimed curl of Taejoon’s fingers against his prostate.
“—or vice versa. I’m flexible—but you knew that—fuuck—knew that already… didn’t you, Taejoon-ah?”
The only response Taejoon offers comes in the form of his teeth on Youngwoo’s shoulder, breaking skin. Youngwoo keens in response, eyes half-lidded from the pain/pleasure, no longer capable of separating each—not when every nerve in his body feels like a livewire.
His abdomen tightens with the signs of his impending release; maybe if he were still capable of rational thought, he’d be more embarrassed about potentially finishing to nothing but Taejoon’s hand on his neck and his fingers in his ass. Instead, he’s practically gurgling around the saliva pooling in his mouth and dripping down his chin—so overwhelmed with the pleasure assaulting his nervous system that he can barely remember to breathe, let alone swallow.
Distantly, Youngwoo registers a snicker in his ear, borderline caustic—it takes his lagging mind several more seconds to register the sound as having come from Taejoon.
“Big words coming from someone drooling like a bitch before I’ve even put my dick in,” Taejoon hums, warm breath caressing the flushed red shell of his ear. Meanwhile, he only increases the pace of his fingers—desperately trying to focus on the feel of Youngwoo’s warm, velvety walls around him instead of the way his chest caves in on his breaking heart.
Distantly, he wonders if this is what Youngwoo felt when he found out—this visceral hurt choking the air out of his lungs.
Betrayed, lied to, and left behind. The reasons behind it are redundant. Sin is Sin.
His parents were agnostic—Taejoon’s never been to a place of worship in his life. And yet, suddenly he’s overcome with the inexplicable urge to get on his knees and pray.
I’m sorry—I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Just this once, please forgive me.
“Think you could fuck anyone else as good as I fuck you, Ian?” No, no—everything’s coming out wrong. “Matter of fact, think anyone else could fuck you as good as I do?”
Youngwoo doesn’t answer—can’t answer—blinking back the wetness lining his waterline, blunt nails clawing over blue denim in a desperate attempt at grabbing onto something, anything to keep himself grounded; the vibrations left in the wake of his scratching making shudders run down both men’s spines.
He’s close, so close when Taejoon’s hand withdraws from around his neck without warning, the digits of his other hand notably stilling inside him—but before he can snarl out his discontent, there are fingers in his mouth, gently prying it open further before softly pressing down on his tongue.
“Breathe,” Taejoon whispers into Youngwoo’s ear, lips brushing over soft cartilage—a single word carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken confessions.
The contrast between that one word and the vitriol they were spewing at each other just seconds ago is so jarring that it gives him whiplash. Youngwoo’s vision blurs.
He switches their positions without warning, Taejoon’s back colliding against the wall with a muffled thud—Youngwoo only all too eager to swallow down the grunt that escapes Taejoon’s lips on impact.
His teeth sink into Taejoon’s bottom lip, tugging until it pulls away from his bottom row of teeth, only to let it snap back a second later. Slender fingers finally make quick work of Taejoon’s belt buckle—but instead of immediately reaching for the buttons, he’s sliding the leather out of its loops.
For a fraction of a second, confusion flickers across Taejoon’s flushed features—but it’s quickly overridden by the bolt of arousal that flashes through him, right alongside the realization, when Youngwoo loops the leather strap around the back of Taejoon’s neck before slipping the end through the buckle.
Taejoon’s breath hitches in his throat when he feels the cold metal of the belt buckle press over his adam’s apple. Then, Youngwoo wraps the end around his open palm before he curls his fingers into a fist—
“Why don’t we find out?” Youngwoo hums—it takes Taejoon a second to realize what he’s talking about with the way the tension surrounding them clouds his mind.
—and then he tugs.
Immediately, speckles of light obfuscate Taejoon’s field of vision. The pressure around his throat is suffocating, relentless as he desperately struggles to get enough oxygen into his lungs—and yet, he makes no move to try and loosen the vice around his neck.
Like a willing lamb to the slaughter, he places his neck on the butchering block; puts his fragile human life in Youngwoo’s open palms to do with as he sees fit.
Darkness begins to creep up from the corners of his vision. His eyes can’t help but flutter shut.
He’s teetering on the precipice, a single step away from plummeting into nothing when the vice around his windpipe disappears. Immediately, he’s gulping down the air he’d been denied—each inhale hoarse, borderline raw.
He’s never been harder in his life.
The leather end of the belt is still wrapped around Youngwoo’s palm—he feels it rather than sees it, dark spots still dancing across his field of vision when Youngwoo cradles his face in between both his hands.
“Still with me?” Youngwoo mumbles quietly, words ghosting over his lips from the proximity as he knocks their foreheads together, noses brushing in a way that feels far too intimate considering the chasm that exists between them. How did we get here, Youngwoo-ah? Where did we go wrong?
Taejoon only nods slowly, chest still heaving around lungfuls of air. Once the dark spots dancing within his field of vision start to clear, the dingy motel room they’re in starts looking a lot brighter than he remembers—he finds himself having to squint against the sudden glare.
Youngwoo gives his head a gentle shake, just enough to gather his scrambled attention.
“What do you do if you want me to stop?”
“Three taps wherever I can reach,” Taejoon responds hoarsely, voice foreign even to his own ears. Satisfied with his answer, Youngwoo pulls away, releasing the leather in his grasp before his fingers drop to Taejoon’s crotch again—it takes him less than a second to pop open the button, and then he’s pulling down his fly, sound sharp against the silence that hangs in the air between them.
The relief is instant—a breathy sigh slipping past his cracked lips as soon as he feels the pressure withdraw from around his aching cock. Youngwoo can’t help the snicker that escapes him at the sight, brow quirking as the corner of his lip curls in a barely-there grin.
“You look good like this,” Youngwoo hums, only for the feelings of jealousy and resentment to bubble back up, omnipresent like a knife to his jugular.
Had she seen him like this? Did she know that that perpetual crease between his brows only eased in the dead of night, softened by sleep? Had she noticed the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled?
Did he smile at her like he smiled at him?
Youngwoo drops to his knees, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots up his thighs on impact—dipping his fingers under the waistband of Taejoon’s black boxers before he pulls them down alongside his jeans to pool around his ankles—Taejoon’s cock bobbing up against pelvis with a wet slap, precome beading at the tip and just as flushed red as the tips of his ears. Youngwoo’s mouth waters.
Taejoon’s breath hitches as soon as his fingers wrap around the base, turning into a hiss when he gives the length a dry, languid stroke—makes a circle with his forefinger and thumb that he uses to squeeze around the glans until more pre dribbles out of the slit. Youngwoo immediately catches it with his tongue, eyes flicking upwards to meet hazel as he runs the flat of it over the tip, tongue dipping in just after.
Taejoon makes a sound reminiscent of a dying animal. Youngwoo snickers, licking a fat strip up the thick vein lining the underside of Taejoon’s cock—feels the way the heavy weight sits on his tongue right before he sharpens his tongue to a point and dips it under his foreskin.
The groan Taejoon lets out in response is guttural, borderline primitive as he feels his brain liquefy between his ears—and still, he stares at Youngwoo, transfixed and unblinking, as if the moment will disappear as soon as he closes his eyes.
The gentle devotion Youngwoo sees reflected back at him in those pools of liquid gold makes his heart squeeze inside his chest—resentment flaring within his gut right alongside it.
He brings his free hand to curl around the leather hanging from Taejoon’s neck, twisting it around his palm once before he takes Taejoon in to the hilt at the same time as he pulls.
Instinctively, Taejoon’s head jerks back so hard that his vision whites out on impact with concrete—body instinctively trying to coil away from the pressure cutting off both his oxygen supply as well as the blood circulation to his head. His hands come to rest on Youngwoo’s head, fingers seeking some sort of purchase as they curl around tufts of soft black hair.
Youngwoo, meanwhile, grants him no reprieve from the pleasure; ignores the ache he can already feel building in his jaw as pulls off to the tip, a mix of spittle and precome dribbling down his chin as he tongues along the underside—only to sink back down as deep as he can go, bridge of his nose burrowing into the soft brown curls at the base of Taejoon’s pelvis.
Youngwoo can’t breathe—gurgles wetly around the delicious weight breaching his throat, but none of that matters because his own mind is drunk off the power/pleasure of watching Taejoon come undone because of him.
His hold on the belt turns lax just as he pulls off, fingers pumping up and down in pace with his mouth just seconds earlier, tongue circling the glans before he sucks hard, and Taejoon’s knees buckle.
Taejoon’s orgasm hits him without warning like a six-car collision on the interstate. His spine caves in on itself, tremors running through his body as he digs his blunt nails into Youngwoo’s scalp. The pain only makes Youngwoo more eager, makes him suck harder, moaning around the warmth that floods his mouth; vibrations causing Taejoon’s brows to furrow, eyes half-lidded as his whole body shudders through the aftershocks, a thin trail of drool dripping down the corner of his chin.
“Holy shit—Holy fucking shi—," Taejoon stutters under his breath, barely legible with how he can’t help but swallow down alternating syllables, practically turned stupid by the pleasure cascading through his body in waves. Pride blooms in Youngwoo’s chest at the sight, violet eyes trained on Taejoon’s hazy gold, barely visible through his cracked eyelids as Youngwoo continues stroking him through his orgasm. Is she as good as I am, Taejoon-ah? Can she make you come so hard you forget your own name?
The usual bitterness he’s come to expect tastes surprisingly sweet, almost… comforting. Briefly, Youngwoo wonders if he’s losing his mind.
The thought is promptly shoved to the back of his mind when Taejoon curls his fingers around his bicep before roughly jerking him up onto his feet, free hard wrapping around his nape before he kisses him hard, and then all Youngwoo can think about is Taejoon, Taejoon, Taejoon.
The kiss is bruising, all starving hunger and sharp animal teeth. Youngwoo threads his fingers through soft brown hair while Taejoon maps bruises onto him in the shape of constellations. They stumble backward towards the bed, Taejoon kicking off his jeans and underwear somewhere along the way. When he tries to lick into his warm mouth, Youngwoo simply curls his fingers around the tufts of his hair lining his crown before pulling. The motion earns him a low grunt that has Youngwoo’s cock twitching between his legs.
One hand still fisted in Taejoon’s hair, Youngwoo brings the other to his lips—keeping Taejoon’s heady gaze as he spits out the mix of cum and spit pooled in his mouth onto his waiting palm.
Taejoon’s breath audibly hitches in his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows around a dry mouth. Youngwoo grins, expression equally as mocking as it is predatory—brings his cum-stained hand to Taejoon‘s half-hard cock. Youngwoo’s touches are merciless, the wet squelch of skin on skin echoing off the walls, every stroke more vicious than the last as he smashes their bruised lips together again.
Taejoon hisses into his mouth, blunt nails digging crimson half-moons into the sides of Youngwoo’s neck, oversensitivity shooting up his spine like lightning.
“Stop—stop, I’m still sensitive—,” Taejoon manages to grit out between kisses, words barely coherent as Youngwoo takes his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks.
“I know,” Youngwoo hums in return—pulling away long enough to flip them around before shoving Taejoon onto the mattress, only to climb on after him and straddle his abdomen. “That’s the point. Plus, I want your cock inside me. Sooner, rather than later.”
He reaches up to undo the belt looped around Taejoon’s neck—snickers at how disappointment flashes through Taejoon’s eyes when he realizes what Youngwoo’s doing.
“A little too into getting choked, aren’t you?” Youngwoo mocks, question more rhetorical than anything else. Taejoon doesn’t answer, eyes tracing over every beautiful curve and sharp contour of Youngwoo’s features. In his head, he thinks: Youngwoo-ah—I’d let you bleed me out like a lamb at the slaughterhouse if you wanted to.
Youngwoo pulls the leather strap from around Taejoon’s neck—but instead of tossing it in some forgotten corner, he leans over Taejoon’s pliant torso.
“What…? What are you doing?” Taejoon asks, confusion washing over his features, morphing into realization as soon as Youngwoo brings his hands together over his head. Taejoon’s breath hitches in his throat, excitement building in the base of his gut when he feels the leather, firm and rough, wrap around his wrists—crisscrossed and tight enough that he can’t writhe out of the binds, but loose enough that it doesn’t cut off circulation.
Once he’s done, Youngwoo leans back on his haunches to admire his handiwork.
“You look good like this,” Youngwoo mumbles again, voice low and thick with the desire clouding his mind like fog—feline eyes mapping over every defined muscle, every bead of sweat decorating sun-bronzed skin.
It’s Taejoon’s turn to snort, relaxing into the scratchy sheets as he stares up at Ian. “Naked? You just realized?”
Youngwoo snickers, dragging open palms up the ridges of Taejoon’s torso before roughly squeezing at his pectorals, the action pulling a drawn-out grunt from between Taejoon’s bruised lips. “More like pliant and powerless under me,” Youngwoo corrects, leaning his entire weight on Taejoon’s torso when he leans forward, pressing down on his ribcage as he ghosts his lips over Taejoon’s own—breaths mingling like two lovers in the dark, violet eyes reflected back in gold.
“I’m always powerless under you,” Taejoon breathes out before he can stop himself, tongue loose under the weight of his own suffocating feelings: guilt, loathing, resentment, anger, hate—and finally, love. So, so much love.
And just as Taejoon knew he would, Youngwoo recoils as if burned, eyes staring down into his before they dip lower to stare at his hands, curled into fists over Taejoon’s broad chest—desperate to escape the adoration in Taejoon’s gaze.
The self-loathing that immediately ignites inside him is familiar—what’s new is the bitterness flooding his airways like bile.
“Used that one on her, yet?” Youngwoo asks, less question than bite as he looks down at Taejoon, the grin pulled taught over his lips all teeth, sharpened with the blunt end of his resentment.
A pause as Taejoon’s eyes simply glaze over Youngwoo’s features, then down his body—committing him to memory as if he hasn’t already memorized every birthmark and mole like a monk memorizes scripture.
“Why ask questions you won’t believe the answer to, anyway, Youngwoo?” There’s no harshness to his words—no hatred, no resentment, only tired resignation. It makes Youngwoo’s blood roar in his ears, teeth clenching behind pursed lips.
A scornful laugh echoes off the four walls surrounding them. “Fuck you. Fuck you, TJ. You don’t get to say that to me. You don’t get to say that to me like you didn’t hide a whole relationship from me—like you didn’t turn me into some filthy fucking secret.” He doesn’t wait for a response before reaching behind him, hand roughly stroking Taejoon’s cock to full mast.
“Do you think she’s thinking about you right now? Waiting giddily for her phone to ring and for your caller ID to flash across the screen?” Youngwoo doesn’t wait long enough for an answer—lifts himself up onto his knees before shifting to straddle Taejoon’s hips, lining himself up with Taejoon’s cock, grinding the tip against his rim. “How do you think she’d react? To finding you in such a…compromising position? With a man, no less,” Youngwoo sneers, words laced with pure, unfiltered disdain.
Whether it’s directed towards Taejoon, himself, or the world at large—he’s not sure.
“All the while she’s drawing out plans for your white picket fence together. Like a fucking idiot. We’re a lot alike in that regard, don’t you think?” Youngwoo croons, voice scathing, but before Taejoon can even respond, he’s slamming his hips down and taking Taejoon in to the hilt.
Pain immediately shoots up his spine like lightning. Meanwhile, Taejoon’s head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched tight as he fends off his quickly-building orgasm with sheer willpower alone.
Youngwoo doesn’t allow him the luxury of getting accustomed to that tight heat, the slide eased by the cum Youngwoo’d used to lube him up; doesn’t allow himself the luxury of getting accustomed to the sting of Taejoon’s cock splitting him apart. He leans back, balancing himself with his palms against Taejoon’s thighs before he lifts himself back up, just to drop himself back down. His brows are knitted together, one eye squeezed shut, cock slapping against his abdomen with each downward slam of his hips.
It hurts like a bitch, but the pain resonating through his body—starting from his core before stretching out to the tips of his fingers and the flats of his toes—is a welcome distraction from the ache in his heart, suffocating him from the inside out.
He throws his head back and counts the cracks in the ceiling.
It feels like he’s watching himself from outside his body—a perverted voyeur peering in through the keyhole, jerking himself off with quick, fluid strokes as he watches two boys make love / two faggots commit sodomy.
A disgrace to the natural order. An affront to god. He’s heard as much a hundred—no, a thousand times. It’s all a matter of perspective.
He barely registers the burn of lactic acid building in his thighs. Even Taejoon’s moans sound distant, muffled like there’s water in his ears—like there’s water in his lungs. He wonders if love always feels like drowning.
A familiar warmth spreads through him. Immediately, his hips slow, palm coming to rest over the base of his abdomen, where the heat feels most pronounced. The noise inside his skull continues to build alongside a dull throb at the base of it. Suddenly, he’s thinking about family.
What exactly… could he even give Taejoon?
Youngwoo doesn’t register the concern in Taejoon’s eyes—his own, distant. Lost. When Taejoon brings his bound wrists up the Youngwoo’s face, cupping his cheek within his palm, Youngwoo doesn’t pull away.
“Youngwoo…?” Taejoon asks softly, knuckles gently caressing skin. His name, uttered from Taejoon’s lips seems to momentarily break whatever spell Youngwoo was under, at least long enough for Youngwoo’s eyes to meet his. Something cracks inside Taejoon at the abyss he sees reflected back at him, even before Youngwoo utters the words that will be the final nail in the coffin of his heart.
Taejoon’s release trickles out from inside Youngwoo, even with his cock still buried deep inside him.
“I feel….disgusting,” Youngwoo mutters into the silence, so quiet it’s like he’s speaking to himself—putting words to the filthy sensations corroding him from the inside out.
Taejoon’s eyes widen, like a soldier blindsided by a bayonet through the heart.
Youngwoo pulls off wordlessly after that, climbing off of Taejoon on shaky knees like a newborn fawn. His eyes are distant even as he undoes the buckle of the belt tying Taejoon’s wrists together.
Youngwoo’s already on his feet by the time Taejoon’s able to toss aside the leather and sit up after him. There’s cum dripping down his leg and onto the linoleum.
Youngwoo’s legs buckle on his third step. Instinctually, Taejoon reaches out to steady him by the elbow—only for Youngwoo to recoil as if burned, eyes wild as he curls away from the touch.
“Don’t—” Youngwoo hisses, only for his voice to taper down to a resigned whisper. “—don’t touch me.”
Taejoon’s fingers curl into a fist, outstretched arm held in place as if frozen before it drops limply to his side.
Youngwoo continues to stumble away, back turned to Taejoon. His steps are uncoordinated—as if his brain was having trouble locating his body in space. Dazedly trying to locate his missing clothing.
“We’re done, TJ. Don’t come looking for me again.”
The words are barely a whisper, uttered with all the resignation of a man who had loved and utterly, completely lost. Yet, in the deathly silence of that old and worn motel room, it feels more like thunder crackling in Taejoon’s ears.
There’s no fanfare after that—no flash of lightning, no actual crackle of thunder. The ground doesn’t split open under him. The earth doesn’t stop spinning. Only the sound of wet fabric rustling can be heard as Youngwoo pulls his clothes back on, still damp from the rain.
A part of him screams at him to stop him, stop him. Sink the blade deeper, twist the knife further. If you can’t have his love, take his loathing. Make it hurt. Make him hurt, if for no other reason than to prove to yourself that you still mean something.
Youngwoo reaches for the door. Taejoon doesn’t stop him. Can’t stop him.
He’s hurt him enough.
The door clicks shut softly behind him, and all that’s left to keep Taejoon company in that hollow motel room is the weight of his own grief.
Youngwoo doesn’t see him for a week after that.
It’s easy enough to avoid him with how circumstances stand—Taejoon’d practically moved into the hotel months ago, at Jason’s orders dressed as a suggestion. It was closer to Jason’s home, and the old bastard’s smart enough to know that it’s always best to keep your most loyal dogs on a short leash.
It’s the only reason he’d brought this nameless man home from the bar—the only reason he still comes home at all. Even inside the hallway, he can still hear the thrum of rain pitter-pattering against the concrete through the thin, poorly insulated walls.
He’s reaching for his keys before he’s even at the door, that familiar itch building underneath his carefully crafted façade. The second pair of footsteps trailing behind come to a stop right behind him. While Youngwoo’s preoccupied with slotting key into lock, the man-whose-name-he-can’t-remember decides to press a kiss into the crook of his neck, mouthing up along his jaw.
Unfounded irritation immediately flares up inside him—he’d been the one to invite this man back to his apartment, and they were both well aware of the unspoken rules of their little tryst: they’d fuck like animals in rut, Youngwoo would make some piss-poor attempt at aftercare, the man would leave limping but satisfied, and they’d never cross paths again. Any hopes of leaving behind their number would be snuffed out the moment Youngwoo moans out the wrong name when he comes.
If there’s a familiarity to the man’s deep-set eyes and sharp jaw, Youngwoo pretends he doesn’t see it.
Unfortunately, when he swings the door to his apartment open, he comes face to face with the man whose shadow he’d been chasing under glasses of bourbon and inside repulsive club bathrooms.
When he cranes his neck to look Youngwoo in the eyes, Youngwoo wonders how the hell he ever convinced himself that he could find those beautiful golden eyes in anyone else.
“Sorry, something came up. Go home,” Youngwoo mutters, clearly not sorry at all with how he doesn’t even have the decency to spare him so much as a single glance.
Any complaints the man could have voiced in response are promptly cut off by the door slamming shut in his face.
A slew of curses flood in through the cracks in the door, followed by a half-hearted kick against the cheap wood, and then—quiet.
The silence in the room feels deafening. It hangs between them, like a knife taped to the ceiling. Who it’ll drop on is anyone’s guess.
“I told you—," Youngwoo finally starts when the silence becomes too loud.
“I broke up with her,” Taejoon interrupts, as simply as if stating the weather. Youngwoo finally notices the slight pink swell of his jaw.
“…What?”
It’s the only response Youngwoo can muster, mouth going dry and arms hanging limply at his sides, as if all the energy had been sapped from his limbs.
“I broke up with her,” Taejoon repeats, just as indifferent as the first time. The question that follows is anything but.
“Will you let me touch you now?” Taejoon’s eyes look… lost. Like a loyal dog, waiting for his owner to return.
Something in the universe cracks like glass.
Youngwoo shrugs off his jacket as he practically launches himself at Taejoon, mouths colliding like two red stars on the edge of collapsing. The kiss is all ravenous hunger, all teeth. Broad, strong arms come to wrap around his torso just as his legs wrap around Taejoon’s hips, his arms around his shoulders. The ease with which Taejoon holds him up has his cock twitching inside the confines of his too-tight jeans.
“Touch me,” Youngwoo chants between kisses, like a mantra, like a prayer. “Touch me. Touch me. Please touch me,” he mutters into Taejoon’s open mouth, teeth clacking together as he licks over the roof of his mouth, fingers already fumbling with the buttons of Taejoon’s dress shirt, only to give up half a second in. The sound of buttons popping echoes off the walls of his—of their too-small apartment like an urban symphony, the sound of tearing fabric harmonizing with the sound of the pouring rain.
Taejoon responds with a prayer of his own, muttered into the heated skin of Youngwoo’s throat between the bruises he leaves with his teeth.
“I will,” he promises, words followed by the dull thud of Youngwoo’s back hitting the wall, pinning him there with his hips while he shrugs out of the tattered remains of his shirt. Youngwoo presses harder against the wall with his shoulders, forearms flat against the wall as he uses the static shift in his weight to roll his hips up and against Taejoon’s quickly swelling cock. The action coaxes a guttural groan from him, borderline animalistic. Large hands immediately fist into the front of Youngwoo’s shirt, and it’s all the warning he’s given before it's torn clean off his body.
“Touch me,” Youngwoo breathes, teeth nipping a path up Taejoon’s jaw before nibbling on the lobe of his ear. “Touch me,” he begs again, arms wrapping around Taejoon’s neck, blunt nails scratching lines of red up the sculpted planes of his back.
“I will,” Taejoon responds again, bending over at the neck to suck a bruise that’ll turn purple by morning just underneath Youngwoo’s protruding collarbones. Large hands map their way down Youngwoo’s sides as if memorizing every curve and ridge before coming to squeeze at his ass through his jeans.
“Touch me,” Youngwoo groans into his ear, deep and low, before rutting his cock against Taejoon’s once again.
“I will,” Taejoon answers again, like a god made manifest in Youngwoo’s arms—an answer to his every prayer.
Taejoon’s hands skim further down Youngwoo’s body, fingers gripping around the backs of his thighs before he hikes his legs up higher against his sides.
Youngwoo shudders when he feels Taejoon’s warm tongue press over a nipple, arching into that warm, insidiously talented mouth, fingers curling around a fistful of brown hair as he’s carried over to the bed.
He’s dropped onto the mattress rather unceremoniously, the bed frame creaking under his weight as he bounces on impact. A small spark of irritation flares up in him at the prospect of being treated with all the finesse of a sack of potatoes, but the thought quickly flies out of his head when Taejoon flips him onto his stomach without warning. The flush decorating the length of Youngwoo’s flawless skin deepens, heat blooming in his belly like lava.
God, he loved it when Taejoon manhandled him.
Without warning, muscled arms snake around his waist from behind—makes quick work of the buttons of his jeans before Taejoon dips his thumbs under the waistband of Youngwoo’s briefs, pushing both down his thighs before Youngwoo shimmies them off the rest of the way.
Taejoon, meanwhile, leans over Youngwoo’s broad frame to pull open the first drawer of Youngwoo’s—of their nightstand, fishing around blindly for the bottle of silicone lube Taejoon knows Youngwoo keeps in there. When his fingers finally wrap around something that feels vaguely like the right shape and size, he pulls it out, quickly flipping open the cap before he drizzles a generous amount over his fingers and Youngwoo’s hole before tossing the bottle in some forgotten corner of the bed.
When he feels two fingers press against his rim, Youngwoo bucks, already beginning to prop himself up on open palms to voice his discontent—only for Taejoon to wrap his free hand around Youngwoo’s neck before pinning him to the mattress by the nape.
“fuck—just put it in, I can take it,” Youngwoo croaks, voice already beginning to fray from overuse as he struggles against the weight keeping his cheek pressed into the sheets.
“No,” Taejoon responds simply, fingers twisting inside him before he presses up against his prostate with pinpoint accuracy. “I need to stretch you so you don’t tear.”
Despite the pleasure assaulting his every nerve with every perfectly aimed thrust of Taejoon’s fingers, Youngwoo’s still lucid enough for warmth to bloom in his chest at the soft sternness of Taejoon’s words.
It only makes Youngwoo struggle harder, desperation building as desire coils low and deep inside his belly, grinding back against Taejoon’s fingers as he pushes a third finger in to join the first two.
“Don’t care—” Youngwoo slurs, the saliva pooling in his mouth dripping out onto the mattress from the corner of his mouth—legs shaking where they sit propped up on his knees. “Please—please, I like it when it hurts, I can take it” he babbles, half-stupid already; fingers clawing at the sheets, desperate for some sort of purchase, something to keep him grounded in the face of the pleasure currently frying his brain.
“Shit—,” Taejoon mutters under his breath, pupils dilating impossibly wide at the sight of Youngwoo’s hole fluttering around his fingers—cock throbbing in interest at the mental image of Youngwoo’s hole clenching around it instead, painfully hard inside his trousers.
When Taejoon’s fingers finally, finally slip out of him with a wet squelch, Youngwoo keens at the loss, hole clenching around thin air.
Taejoon had only pulled out so that he could undo his own trousers, fabric pooling around his ankles along with his underwear in record time—but what Youngwoo does next has his brain short-circuiting inside his skull.
With his face still pinned to the mattress and his spine arching into the bed, Youngwoo reaches behind him; shaky hands cupping the round flesh of his ass before he pulls them apart and puts himself on full display.
Something inside Taejoon snaps like a steel string stretched too thin.
Before Youngwoo even has a chance to beg, Taejoon sheathes himself inside him to the hilt, so hard it knocks Youngwoo off his knees and flat onto his stomach, fisting at the sheets as his mouth hangs open in a silent scream
Taejoon doesn’t wait for Youngwoo to catch his breath—straddles him with a knee on either side of his hips before he pins him to bed with his hands on his lower back, and then he’s fucking into him like a man possessed, headboard banging against the wall with every sharp thrust that lands directly on his prostate.
Youngwoo fists his hand into the sheets before shoving the balled-up fabric into his mouth, and he sobs.
Immediately, Taejoon fists a hand into Youngwoo’s hair, tugging violently until Youngwoo’s spine curves into a half-moon, forced to support the weight of his torso with his palms pressed flat into the bed.
“What happened?” Taejoon croons mockingly into Youngwoo’s ear, the pace of his thrusts unfaltering. “I thought you said you could take it?”
“I can,” Youngwoo whines in return, tears streaming down his cheeks right alongside the drool dribbling down his chin. “fuck, I can,” Youngwoo rasps again, desperate even as his blunt nails threaten to tear holes into their cheap jersey sheets, eyes rolling back so he can stare into Taejoon’s own. “Keep going—fuck, Taejoon, don’t stop, keep going, use me, fuck me until I pass out—”
Youngwoo’s voice breaks on a particularly sharp thrust, the pressure that was building at the base of his gut snapping like the string on a bow—Youngwoo comes with a guttural groan, his entire body trembling through the aftershocks.
The way Youngwoo’s walls flutter around him as he shudders through his orgasm is enough to wrench Taejoon’s orgasm out of him as well. Youngwoo keens softly at the feeling of Taejoon pulsing inside him, coating his walls with his cum.
Taejoon’s hand finally unclenches from around the fistful of hair in its grasp; instead, he circles his arm around Youngwoo’s shoulder, cradling his chin between between a forefinger and thumb. Wordlessly, Taejoon tilts Youngwoo’s head back before meeting his lips in a slow, languid kiss—nothing but a soft press of lips against lips.
As with everything Taejoon ever asks of him—Youngwoo is only all too willing to indulge.
The first rays of morning light are just barely beginning to filter in through the cracks in Youngwoo’s blinds.
When Taejoon wakes, it’s to a silent apartment and a cold bed.
Youngwoo’s sitting on the ledge of his apartment complex’s roof when the storm clouds start rolling in. The sun disappears behind them, and suddenly Youngwoo’s all alone, legs dangling off the edge of the building, nothing and no one to keep him company but the lit cigarette hanging from his lips and the voices that echo inside his head.
He’s old enough that, most days, the voices are quiet. Blocking out the perpetual storm of too-strong emotions, constantly swirling inside the depths of his mind, was initially a learned art—now, it’s second nature.
Most days, the voices sound like his own. Today, it sounds like his mother.
‘All that opportunity—all the doors she could have opened for him, all down the drain because of you.’
Youngwoo exhales through his nostrils, tendrils of smoke curling away from him and into the cold fall air. Ash crumbles off the end of his cigarette, disappearing into nothing as it falls. Youngwoo stares at the pavement several meters beneath him—briefly, he entertains the thought of jumping. Then, he remembers that the complex is only three floors tall; if he did, he’d likely only be crippled for life in the aftermath. Even more of a burden than he already is.
The first drops of rain begin to fall from the sky as Youngwoo stares off into the overcast horizon.
How long will we keep going in circles like this, Taejoon-ah?
How long will we continue eating away at each other?
For once, there is no answer.