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It’s nearing sunrise. Saint’s bedroom begins to timidly melt in golden light, mischievously it spills through the blinds in soft, uneven streaks. The air is warm, tender, as the sunrises giving birth to a fresh day. This time is gooey and soft - Saint’s favourite part of the day, when the edges of reality blur into something dreamlike.
This hazy space is impossibly delicate as Saint lies rolled up in cotton covers, cradled in cloud like pillows.
Saint’s body feels heavy, subdued by the pull of sleep, yet strangely alive. Perhaps it’s Shin’s soft snoring, a gentle rhythm from the bump where he’s wrapped up on the other side of the bed. The sound seeps into Saint’s chest, spreading a warmth that feels almost too big to contain.
The honeyed light creeps slowly, reaching over Shin’s shoulders and slithering towards his face, its touch reverent. It caresses the curve of his brow bone, igniting a quiet kind of affection in Saint’s gaze. Shin’s hair, a tousled, fluffy mess, had fallen haphazardly over his closed eyes, and Saint’s rebellious hands ached to smooth it back, to claim the softness for himself and run his fingers through it.
Shin’s stolen loose tank leaves his arms bare, the pale expanse of skin painted with delicate constellations of moles. Saint’s fingers hover, then surrender, tracing them gently as though mapping the stars. His touch is careful, almost holy, following those tiny, perfect dots like a traveler guided by the North Star - leading him back home. The sugary skin makes his teeth ache - a syrupy taste coats his tongue, sickly and persistent - his jaw hardens, the muscles pulling tight as if to steel himself.
The sweetness of it all is overwhelming, almost sickening in its intensity. It clings to him like molten gold, seeping into his pores and settling deep within. He feels it bloom, soft and unstoppable, like flower buds unfurling in the hidden corners of his chest, threatening to take root and consume him entirely.
It’s in these perfect moments that Saint finds himself jealous of time itself. That omnipotent, transcendent force - it could linger here forever, untouched and undisturbed, basking in the golden warmth that is Shin.
Here and now, he is free. But soon, the illusion of freedom will shatter. He will have to rise: prepare the food for the noodle stand, cook the breakfast his drunkard father demands, and begin the deliveries that mark the start of the day. Time is money, and money is his time. The weight of it presses on him, cold and relentless, a cruel rhythm that never lets up. The debt collectors are merciless, their presence as unforgiving as the steel of their demands. In stark contrast, the tranquil morning sun which wraps him in a warmth he knows will soon be a distant memory, lost to the march of time.
During these silences Saint often thinks his name is an ironic joke.
There is nothing saintly about him. If anything, monster would be more fitting.
Selfishness runs in his tainted blood, a toxin passed down from his drunkard father. It was taught to him, ingrained so deeply that it is him. He is nothing but a creature - gluttonous and starving - driven by a ceaseless hunger to consume, to ruin, to take without a thought of the wreckage left in his wake. Consequences were foreign to him, as distant as the mercy he had long abandoned.
His past is littered with punches and bloodied mouths, a patchwork of mottled purple and blue skin, streaked with grazes and scars. Violence and ruin are his constant companions - destructive, like the relentless force of a tsunami. Unforgiving and cruel, a natural disaster that tore through, leaving only shattered remnants, debris scattered in its wake, and cracked bones that tell the story of what was lost.
He was the reckoning of dreams - a fire frenzy that left hope a charred suffering mess. He burned those he held close, scarring them, abandoning them - it haunts his living being.
Saint is a poisonous viper coiled within the sweet, delicate garden that is Shin. His presence, though wrapped in warmth, is a quiet corruption, slithering through the cracks of their fragile peace, always taking more than he has the right to.
Saint’s salvation is always just beyond his grasp. Taunting, testing and teasing.
His kind acts, his worship, his desperate repentance - none of it will ever truly absolve his sin. No matter how many times Shin offers forgiveness, a blank slate - Saint always falls to his knees, crushed by the weight of his own guilt, endless devotion at the ivory altar could never purify him.
Hidden beneath the blankets, the surgical scar disrupts the smooth, honey-tan expanse of Shin’s skin—its jagged mark a blighted reminder of how sinful Saint is, an imperfection etched permanently onto the otherwise flawless canvas.
Shin stirs, groaning softly as the sun rips him from the comforting cocoon of sleep. He rolls, gravitating closer to Saint, instinctively seeking the warmth of another body and the subtle dip in the mattress. His arms slip gently across Saint's sternum, fingers tracing the curve of his chest with a tender, familiar motion. A head is clumsily nuzzled into Saint's side, pressing into the warmth, a silent plea for the serenity of the moment to last just a little longer.
Shins hot breath elicits goosebumps on Saints skin. Want melts like hot wax, scorching his insides.
A traitorous smile etches itself onto Saints lips. Sinful and greedy.
Shin is so beautiful - all sun bronzed skin, lean muscle and a map of veins and stories. He seems to glow from within, an ethereal beauty that feels almost angelic. A blooming rose guarded by vicious thorns.
He steals this image, engraving it deep into his mind - the haze of warm, pliant mornings, messy hair tumbling in soft disarray, and tired, boneless limbs draped in quiet surrender. It is a memory he knows he doesn't deserve, yet he clings to it, selfish in his longing, aware of how unworthy he truly is.
A groggy deep good morning is mumbled into his side. Hot cruel breath against his skin.
Shin rises, the sun forming a golden crown, blessing the curve of his head in soft, radiant light. His chocolate eyes are heavy, thick with the remnants of sleep, too sweet and too deep for Saint to meet for even a fleeting second. There’s something intoxicating in their quiet depth, pulling Saint in like a tide he knows he shouldn’t let himself drown in.
Saints mouth is dry.
Shin stretches out like a cat, long limbs unfolding graciously outwards, muscles rippling, bones cracking with soft groans. He moves to sit up, scratching at his neck in a reverie. Awkward sleep induced tension shaking off his body with every passing second.
This is followed by slow, wide blinks. A quiet yawn. It's cute and endearing - it erupts butterflies in Saints stomach.
Saint was not a religious person. But he would worship Shin until he became nothing but dust. Every breath he took would be a prayer, every touch an offering, as if Shin were the very essence of something holy, something worth everything Saint had to give.
Saint’s hands shyly crept up Shin’s sides beneath the tank, barely grazing his waist before circling like a moth drawn to the warmth of a flame. It was all-consuming, a pull so deep it captivated every inch of Saint’s being. His eyes were entranced, glazed over, as they lingered on the soft skin beneath his fingers, caught in the spell of the moment, unable to tear himself away.
The blush erupted on Shin's face like watercolor, spilling across his cheeks in soft, delicate waves, a flush of pink bleeding into the peachy undertones of his skin, as if the very warmth of his emotions were painting him. A noise of protest, embarrassment broke the morning silence as Shin shivered out of Saint's hold. The covers draped off Shin's body like the flowing robes of a Greek statue, sculpted and serene, as if the fabric itself couldn’t bear to touch the perfection beneath it. Every curve, every line seemed carved with divine precision, the soft glow of morning casting shadows that made him look otherworldly.
“Don't you have to get up?” Shin whispered, the tone was accusing, playful and served with a wicked knowing smile, “What about the noodle stall?” Shin’s cheeky fingers danced across Saint's chest, soft pads ghosting the skin.
Shin slouched and slipped back against the headboard, held tilted back, jugular exposed. The sun skips over the juncture, skin shining - Saint feels his blood turn to lighter fluid - as his eyes trace collar bone, like scripture.
It's sudden when Shin's lips briefly meet Saint's forehead, sweet and gentle. Before pulling away, his eyes shimmering, ears red.
Saint craves - like a tempest in human form, a wild hurricane. He's a man on the edge of a precipice and he's teetering between bliss and purgatory.
Saint could only groan in response, a sound that was half frustration, half resigned surrender. His arm flopped over his eyes in exaggerated defeat, dramatically flailing and sighing as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He pouted, his lips pushing out in a soft, almost childlike gesture, all mock annoyance and reluctant charm.
Shin falls back down with a thud onto Saints chest. A welcomed calming weight. The warmth of Shin’s skin is presented to Saint and his teeth ache again - a familiar coil tightening in his chest. His jaw tightens, reluctant but unmistakable as if every fibre in his body screams to give in - to be selfish and greedy once again.
Saint’s mouth is dry.
Skin set ablaze, burning from the inside and out. Every cell screaking in desperation for the only thing that can quench his thirst. He’s drowning in the softness of the pillows and covers, lost in a haze of heat and longing, completely at Shin’s mercy. He feels like some pathetic puppet, tangled in his own strings, unable to move or breathe without Shin’s touch pulling him further into the depths of his desire.
He would sacrifice anything, become everything, to atone. No boundary exists in his devotion to Shin. The passion that burns within him is a wildfire, raging uncontrollably, destructive as a bomb yet mesmerizing like the fleeting beauty of fallen stars.
That sinful voice in the back of Saint’s mind was possessive and cruel, urging violence without consequence, conquest without morality—all in Shin’s name. He would take every punch, endure the bloodied lips and bruised faces, fight through every backyard brawl, if it meant keeping Shin safe. His knuckles would split, his body swollen and raw, but he would fight until nothing of him remained but the will to protect.
Heavy hands wrap around Shin, pulling him close, chest to chest, as if he fears Shin might slip away at any moment. Saint holds him tightly, desperately, like a lifeline. His head buries into Shin's shoulder, lips mouthing over the skin absently, reverently, as if whispering prayers to a god he knows he doesn’t deserve. He is a weak, weak man.
Shin can only laugh, the sound spilling out before it even has a chance to form into words, his breath caught in the quiet tension of the moment. But as Saint's hands curl into his hair, softly tugging at the wiry strands, something shifts. The playful laughter dies in his throat, replaced by a sudden, deep tremor that turns his insides to jelly. Each gentle pull sends a wave of heat through him, leaving him open and raw.
Saint’s mouth leaves Shin’s shoulder, trailing leisurely up his neck, the movement slow and deliberate, as if savoring every inch. His breath ghosts over Shin’s ear, warm and teasing, before his teeth gently tug at the lobe, a light, playful bite that’s both taunting and sweet. It’s a moment suspended in time, filled with a tension that coils tighter with each passing second.
Shin is sickly sweet and caramelised. He is like popping candy on Saints tongue. Like an addict Saint abuses.
Lips meet sleepily, molding together sweet and innocent. It's perfect. It's warm. It’s words they cannot speak fully, just yet. It’s everything Saint needs - but he still burns selfishly for more.
Saint burns up like a falling star reentering the atmosphere - pulled in by gravity. His hands are not his own when they possessively skim across hot skin, circle a waist with bruising intent and needily gripping at the nape as hungry mouths dance. He devours up the soft sounds that leave Shin. He's starved and spoiled.
Saint will drink him up like holy water, soak in his essence and swallow him whole - greedy like a beast who feasts on the stars. He has Shin selfishly all to himself and never wants to leave this moment, this privacy, where Shin is his and only his.
Then he stops. Pulling away in a harsh jarring movement, straightening in realisation, head whipping to the alarm clock on the bedside cabernet. Followed by a bitter groan.
Shin makes a soft noise of protest, his sleepy hands raking up and down Saint’s sides in slow, coaxing motions, as if trying to pull Saint back in, like a siren calling to a ship lost on the mighty ocean. His touch is a gentle pull, warm and insistent, urging Saint closer with every tender caress, as if he could lure him into a sea of desire he knows neither of them can escape.
Shin laughs, muted and content. Eyes rolling, snuggling impossibly closer.
His skin is so hot.
But the noodle stand, the endless prep, the steaming pots of broth and baskets of noodles. His father’s drunken morning demands. The debt collectors. The weight of it all presses in, the reality of his life slowly creeping back in as the warmth of Shin’s skin and the softness of the bed threaten to pull him into a stupor of indulgence.
The thought of leaving this cocoon is unbearable.
Saint is nothing but selfish when he rolls back over, lips slotting sweetly against Shins. Quick and innocent. He smiles into it, apologetically before pulling away.
“Fuck the time, we are so late” Saint mumbles, already regretting throwing his legs out from the warm covers and swinging them over bed, “What do you want to eat for breakfast?” He asks as big hands scramble to find his school uniform.
The sheets rustle as Shin is draped in them, basking glowing in the sun - barely present red splotches on his neck, messy hair and long legs peeking out like some sleazy midnight movie showing or the unspeakable magazine stuffed under the bed.
Saint feels eclectic - deft hands prod at the ground aimlessly searching for his shirt, but his eyes can't leave shin's form - he is a depraved fool with a dry mouth. Barbaric and primitive, his insides drip like hot honey. Fingers twitch in defiant need to touch. It's like the rug is dragged from under Saint and all air has been punched out from him. He's hot and then drenched in the icy cold ocean of reality.
Saint is jealous of time - because it steals this moment away from him too quickly.
Images bubble in his mind, shapeless and born from raw desperation and adoration - sharp nails dragging down heated skin, limbs twisting and tangling, drawing closer, closer still, again and again. Saint feels like he can't breathe, he's overcome by the need to worship - to whisper prayers and praise like a madman at Shin's feet.
He has stopped moving, he's just stood staring - mouth agape, hands flexing at his sides - pulse racing, ears prickling. The raw want is cracking like hot volcanic lava, pooling in his stomach - sizzling.
Shin can only laugh half heartedly at him, cheeky chocolate eyes with a sly smile - he knows - know what he does to Saint just by existing. That Saint is a weak human being - eternally devoted in his fervor.
“Your shirt, we threw it in the hallway.” Shin says matter of factly, smiling head tilted as he teases. His lips are kiss bitten, pink and swollen. His ears are burning red.