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Sion likes to think of himself as stable.
He wouldn’t consider himself Wish’s rock or anything—that position is taken by someone he finds far better suited to the role, even though he wouldn’t be able to give a consistent name if asked—but he’s usually steady. These days, he can handle hate comments about himself, their impact evaporating before it has time to sink into the soil; when a member isn’t feeling particularly cooperative on a given day, he knows how to be patient about it, even on the rare occasions that it’s really hard to be so; and, okay, sure, sometimes he slips up when a fan is teasing him about having a different bias in front of him, but that can be labeled fanservice convincingly enough that he never actually has to address it as a personality trait of his.
So, yeah. All things considered, Sion’s stable. His feet are firmly planted on the metaphorical ground and there’s not much that can knock him off balance. If he were to allow himself to slip into obnoxious levels of pride, he’d even venture so far as to say there’s nothing, but he can’t go that far.
Because it’s not true.
It could be true, maybe, hypothetically, in another universe.
In this universe—
Sion chokes on his own breath, the groan in the back of his throat stuttered.
“Hyung...”
In this universe, he’s crammed in a bed too small for two people, his hot breath echoing against the wall he’s facing as he lowers his head, trying to instinctively bury himself like a rabbit hiding in its nest to escape a predator. An arm is wrapped around his middle, holding him close—always searching for closer, as if that’s even possible. Thin fingers play with the hem of his shirt, the pads of them tickling the skin of his lower stomach with brief contact that makes his muscles contract.
Evilly, the villain accosting him rubs their nose against the nape of his neck, inhaling deeply and sending a jolt down Sion’s spine in the process.
On the exhale, Yushi breathes out another, “Hyung,” because he hadn’t answered. He always has to answer Yushi, his neediness suffocating in a way Sion would describe as adorable if his sanity wasn’t currently being threatened by the whims of it.
“Ushi,” he manages, trying to be playful as he skips a syllable despite himself and his inner turmoil.
The problem isn’t that they’re doing this—this isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last time Yushi’s gotten riled up by an offhand comment Sion’s made about ‘how good he’s been at something today.’ The problem is that he likes it.
He likes it too much.
It’s embarrassing. Even if Yushi wasn’t clinging to him, every curve of Sion’s body meeting the dips of Yushi’s own, he would still be heated. The dim lighting of the lamp with a bad light bulb Yushi keeps forgetting to replace is his only saving grace; it’s what’s keeping the pink hue of his ears hidden (because he can obscure his face but he can’t do anything about that), but while Yushi’s ignorance is Sion’s bliss, he isn’t personally granted the same luxury.
Which is why he can’t be prideful.
Yushi, though?
“I’m doing good, right?” He grinds his hips upward, seeking friction against Sion through their clothes, and doesn’t do anything to hide the whimper that the motion draws from him. “Hyung likes this, right?”
He wants to ask, Likes what? Being dry humped at two in the morning? He wants to be sarcastic about it so that he can keep his cool—so that he can seem a little less pathetic—but the truth is, Yushi's right. It isn't necessarily what he's doing—Yushi's always been a little sloppy, too eager and enticed by pleasure, making his approach the complete opposite of the focused expert he makes of himself during practice—but the way he is.
He’s caught up in Sion’s web or, maybe, Sion’s caught up in his. Maybe Sion’s caged and maybe he likes it. Maybe he likes being pushed around by someone smaller and younger than him, someone he usually leads and is now getting led by, but that’s an incredibly gracious usage of the word ‘maybe.’
It doesn’t give him the leverage to be sarcastic, so he isn’t.
Instead, he reaches an arm behind them, shoulder straining, to very clumsily palm between them, feeling the outline of Yushi’s cock through two layers of fabric. If it were only one layer, would it be damp?
Yushi sucks in a breath, and that tells Sion the answer is yes. He laughs, not out of humor, but fondness. For someone who barely speaks when it counts, Yushi knows how to be vocal during sex; though, Sion realizes in hindsight, it could be the opposite. It could be that he doesn’t know how to be quiet when he’s being touched. Sion’s not picky, and neither is his dick—he feels it all the same, his boner sending signals to his brain telling him to either touch himself or ask to be touched.
He does neither. He has to take care of Yushi first.
“I like it, Ushi,” he says, rolling the ball of his palm down against Yushi’s clothed groin in a pattern until his shoulder can’t take the awkward angle anymore. When he pulls his hand back, Yushi, who picked up quickly—which he always does, so smart, so good, his Ushi—that he should be moving in return, matching Sion’s pace as he lazily thrusted up, whines at the loss and seeks Sion’s wrist, grabbing it tighter than he usually would.
Sion shoots him a look, but it’s hard to be threatening in his position and Yushi’s eyes aren’t on his face anyway. With a sigh, he pulls his hand away—not hard, he’s kinder—and uses it to give him leverage against the bed, pushing himself up and over so that he’s on his side again, but facing Yushi now.
He clicks his tongue. “You’re so—impatient.”
“So?”
It only takes a word for Sion to realize making himself more easily accessible was a mistake or, at the least, a surrender of power.
“So,” Sion tries as Yushi’s face gets closer to his own, “you can’t,” and Yushi’s lips are on his, kissing him, trying to steal his words, but Sion’s competitive, so he tilts his head back and repeats, “you can’t,” then Yushi’s mouth is on his neck instead, sucking more than kissing, and Sion’s the one who can’t.
Yushi’s cute, but he’s also annoying when he wants to be, and lately, in these moments, he seems to always want to annoy Sion.
“Hyung?” he prompts, hooking one leg over Sion’s and pressing the knee of his other between his thighs to get himself closer. It’s not smooth—it’s desperate. Sion doesn’t stop him, not even when he starts to roll his hips, a habitual grinder at this point. His teeth graze Sion’s skin and Sion closes his eyes, trying to catch up in a mental race he’s already lost. “I can’t..?”
“Quiet,” Sion snaps, harsher than he meant it to be, but it’s okay because Yushi isn’t fazed, and even if he were, he’d save it for later when Sion can cling to him and apologize to his poor baby for being a mean hyung who totally wasn’t being physically and mentally tormented at the time of his crime.
He isn’t fazed, but he ‘punishes’ Sion anyway, biting into the delicate skin of his neck hard enough to elicit a whine, pathetic and obvious, from Sion.
“Stop.” He pushes Yushi’s face away with his hand, not because he wants to, but because he has to.
“But—”
“Do you want me to get killed by our makeup artists? Do you want your poor hyung to get put down for showing up looking like he’s been attacked by a mutated mosquito just in case it’s contagious? You want me to be the first victim of potential zombie bug outbreak hysteria?”
Sion doesn’t know how he manages to get that out in one breath, either, but he does, words running into each other. Yushi pulls back just to look at him, eyes wide and eyebrows knitting like his hyung went crazy and just recited quantum mechanics to him. He might as well have, trying to reason like this to someone with horny brain, but—
“Kind of,” Yushi, annoying for the sake of it, says, and Sion, speechless, shoves his hand down his pants.
He was right—it’s wet.
Yushi’s apparently speechless, too, because he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he just lets Sion do what he wants, thoughts likely stilled by being touched—it’s cute, the way he short circuits as soon as Sion gets his hands on him.
He’d gone in without a plan, caught up in the urge to change the subject. It’s not that one really needs a plan for something like this, but while it’s wet, the stickiness that meets his thumb when he runs it over the head of Yushi’s cock isn’t going to be enough for this rushed handjob to be comfortable. Sion brings his hand back up—to more complaints, of course, but he can’t blame Yushi because he’d also be upset at being teased, intentional or not—to his face and licks a long stripe down his palm, then another, generous, and then, for good measure, he holds his hand out to Yushi, expectant.
Yushi, who’s happy for any opportunity to get his mouth on Sion, no matter how brief, obliges. He grabs Sion’s wrist and holds it there, tongue lingering longer than necessary when he gets the chance to search the space between Sion’s fingers. Before he gets any ideas, Sion eases his hand away with a now-wetness that isn’t ideal, but will do.
When Yushi cornered him in the bed when the both of them were supposed to be sleeping, Sion knew he wasn’t expecting a masterpiece, which is good, because he was never going to get one from an almost sleep-taken Sion with video calls to answer in the morning.
They’re going to make this quick.
Sion sneaks his hand past Yushi’s waistband again, fingers finding gentle and easy purchase around the length of him. Precum smears with both of their spit as he starts to move his hand, slowly at first, then quicker with a jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t think Yushi has a preference; he’d probably accept anything Sion handed to him right now even if it were on a paper platter, judging by his unashamed whimpers that are a combination of Sion and Hyung and indecipherable noises.
Nothing he’s doing is special, but a desperate Yushi throws his head back anyway, fringe sticking to his forehead—it’s funny how willing he is to ignore sweat when it means getting off, while typically rejecting Sion’s clinginess whenever he feels even the slightest threat of it.
“Ushi likes this, right?” he recites, bratty in his own right. He wants to hear him whine, irritated that Sion’s asking him questions in a moment like this. He wants to be swatted away like a mosquito, insignificant in the pursuit of pleasure.
He doesn’t expect to hear, “No.”
“Huh?” Sion balks, pace stuttering. “You—what?”
Real, coherent sentences feel hard. Harder than him, who tenses as if this is the first time he’s been touched in an hour when Yushi’s hand is on his wrist for the umpteenth time tonight.
“Hyung…”
Yushi, who has hardly ever been known for his self control among the members, pulls Sion’s hand away from his cock and out of his pants while Sion stares stupidly, eyebrows furrowed.
Was he bad? Did he not like it? What—
His wrist is released and he reaches for Yushi’s waistband again only to have his hand batted away. Yushi’s hands find purchase on the elastic of his own sweatpants instead, pulling them and his underwear both down with an accompanying, awkward shimmy of his hips while he’s still laying on his side in the bed. His dick, now free, pulls Sion’s attention away from Yushi’s face and takes the full scrutiny of Sion’s confusion instead.
“Why did you—” he starts, speaking to it like a crazy person.
“You, too,” Yushi instructs, in the same way he would if he was correcting Sion on a move in their choreography—the only one who does.
Sion laughs, a little breathless, the same way he would if he allowed himself to be in a position to be corrected by Yushi during practice, realizing everything in hindsight. It rushes in too quickly, leaving his cheeks hot and mentality defensive. “Oh,” he says dumbly, “right.”
He should have gotten it before—it’s Yushi. Yushi, who’s always in step with Sion. Yushi, who wants to try whatever Sion does. Yushi, who has to cum at the same time as Sion. It all makes sense.
Sion lifts his hips just enough to pull down his own shorts, his cock embarrassingly hard underneath the now-absent single layer; Yushi gasps when he realizes this and Sion shoots him a look, the look, the one that says shut up I’m the leader don’t embarrass me here. Usually, this only results in further embarrassment, but Yushi takes the hint for once in favor of scooting closer.
He spits into his palm, wincing at the grossness of it, then Yushi’s when his hand is shoved into his face because he’s apparently feeling left out. Okay.
“Okay,” Sion says out loud. “Okay, now—”
Yushi doesn’t wait. His hand’s between them faster than Sion can say ‘wait’—not that there would be any gravity to it if he did manage to spit it out—but he gives it his best shot anyway and the word comes out wrong and unintelligible, sandwiched too tight between a gasp and the whimper that follows finally being touched. It’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t have time to sulk, not when Yushi’s pushing his cock flush against his own and holding them together with delicate fingers that don’t belong somewhere so obscene.
Sion bites down on his bottom lip, hard, and covers Yushi’s hand with his own. If he wants to be the one to lead, then Sion will guide from the sidelines, tapping Yushi’s wrist with his finger to indicate he can move. That he should move. That if he doesn’t, Sion’s going to go fucking crazy.
He gets it, of course. Sion knows he gets it because he laughs—once, small and barely there, but it’s a laugh—and immediately starts to move, initial pace erratic. Sion swallows, conscious of everything, and follows, correcting his movement when Yushi’s rhythm falters because of his own arousal. He’s falling apart in front of Sion, verbal in a way the cameras will never see, but he doesn’t stop, ever eager to prove himself while Sion can see him.
It’d be sweet if Sion could think. It’d be sweet if he could process more than the feeling and his own heartbeat in his ears and the sound of those exact, choked moans—if he could think about anything more than the hyung, hyung, hyung Yushi repeats like it’s the only word his ever intelligent mind can remember, like it’s the only word he’s even known. Selfishly, Sion thinks, if it always sounded like this coming from his mouth, he wouldn’t mind that reality, but the idea of Yushi’s lips snaps him out of those briefly allowed thoughts, and he’s kissing Yushi before he can form another.
It’s quick, like he initially planned, like he knew it would be because he knows himself and how Oh Sion can be synonymous with weak under the right lens. Yushi, the brat he can be, pulls away at the perfect moment to hear it when it’s Sion’s turn to crumble under him, his whine drawn-out and clumsy, falling over itself as it spills.
Yushi’s next, lowering his head to bury his face in Sion’s shoulder and keeping it there as he cums, stickiness hitting Sion’s lower belly, unprotected by his shirt rising during—everything. Everything.
He grabs Yushi’s wrist, stilling him even as he rides out his orgasm, too overstimulated himself to be included in the process. Sion draws in a breath, and for a while, that’s all that’s shared between them—breathing, harsh and irregular.
When it steadies and clarity begins to sink in, he finds the energy to speak, motivation present in how hot it feels between them. “Yushi,” he calls, getting no response—he can only hope that this doesn't mean what he thinks it does. “Yushi, hyung wants to move.”
Hyung wants to shower, actually.
Sion lifts his shoulder, Yushi’s pillow, trying to stifle him into responding, and is only meant with a whine, stark in its difference from those he heard earlier—it’s the sound of someone who’s fallen asleep and doesn’t want to be disturbed.
Great. Whatever.
He can’t win them all (or most of them), but he tells himself that at least Yushi’s cute... and comfortably snug against him enough for this to not be so bad.
Besides, he can always lecture him in the morning, when he's just woken up and bleary and only wants Sion to shut up, so who's the real winner here?
Right. Oh Sion, ever victorious—he'll coax himself to sleep with the promise of dreams about this being true.