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Mingi’s standing on the main stage surrounded by thousands of fans with his face magnified on a LED screen when he realizes just how much this moment is going to affect him throughout the course of the next couple days.
They’re in the middle of their third ment of the night, halfway through the concert with a good chunk of more laidback performances remaining. Yunho’s big, gloved palm is all that’s separating their faces, his other bare hand warm atop Mingi’s shoulder as he counts down from three, and he slips back on one, Mingi’s put-upon facade of solemnity readily met by squinted eyes, a straight nose and pretty pink diamond lips.
Eight seconds. Eight seconds is all it takes for him to break, and the cool touch of leather to his cheek is what does it, mirth in Hongjoong’s gaze when his mouth quivers before he spins around with his head low in defeat, a too-easy win.
Milan goes wild, the stadium erupting in screams that would be mind-rattling if he didn’t have his in-ears in. Yunho’s laughing at him, his hands gentle yet teasing on Mingi’s neck, his eyes glimmering with delight, and he bites his lip in an attempt to further stop the embarrassed smile already weaseling its way forward, his own gaze shy. He can hear the others chuckling too, faint in his monitors, and can’t bring himself to look up from the dirty scuffs their shoes have imprinted on the black aluminum-steel below.
Hongjoong’s smile when Yunho takes his arm and raises it in victory is full of perfect teeth yet a bit coy at the attention, like he’s the one who lost. He thanks the audience as part of his little act, and Mingi shuffles on his feet, slowly coming back around to stand at his side with an absent comment on how cute his face is just for the sake of bubbling up another wave of serviced laughter. It earns him a glance while Hongjoong continues to speak, but he doesn’t return it, too busy staring past the horizon of lights spotting the darkness as he lowers his microphone and tries his best to ignore the others peering at the colour tinting his cheeks with grins of their own.
Hongjoong adapts to his new role quickly, riling up their fans as a cover for the rest of them to take their places. The chant the crowd’s formed increasing in volume every time he turns his microphone towards their voices, led on by the lighthearted scolding of their captain who makes them repeat it once, twice, thrice over the instrumental fading in through the stadium before he finally beams that certified smile the main camera’s way, satisfied.
The lights dim to a dark red, and he slips back into his persona easily, tugging the bandana he’s wearing off with that cocky attitude and tossing it somewhere off to the side as positions are set behind him, bringing the glossy silver of his microphone to his lips once more with a sensual lilt to his voice as ‘ARRIBA’ begins.
﹙❕﹚
Mingi exerts his body to its point for the next hour. It’s easy for him to forget it even happened, caught in the familiar adrenaline of giving his all as he bounces around the stage with high energy and indulges every silly little antic he's dragged into during the encore, letting himself get lost in every scream, vigorously waved glitter-decorated sign and teary-eyed smile he greets in the crowd.
They sing their last songs and say their goodbyes, then hurry backstage to do the final touchup of the night. Sendoff runs smoothly in the blink of an eye, and soon they’re waving and blowing endless kisses once more as it’s time to head back to the hotel.
It’s not until he’s next to Hongjoong in the dressing room does the problem arise again, when they’re both sitting off to the side waiting on an uncomfortable couch that's probably seen too many passing uses in all its time at this stadium.
It’s not loud, per se, but the atmosphere is hectic, filled with stylists and staff flitting back and forth as they pack up. Everyone’s caught in their own thing: huddled in corners to make space within the crowded room, holding fans to their necks as they gulp down water, scrolling through their phones with moist rags stuck to their foreheads. There's shoes scattered across the dingy carpet and miscellaneous pieces of clothing strung over every surface, some articles held together by pins or makeshift clasps still clinging to their bodies seeing as they require the assistance of the ones who hastily applied them in order to be pried off.
Mingi’s one of them, the layered silver around his neck and wrists waiting to return to whichever storage box they were pulled out of. His jacket's laid atop the armrest to his right, and there’s a towel he’s been using to dab the shine dripping down his neck clasped in his hands, his makeup and leather jeans suffocating and uncomfortable now that the rush is no longer distracting him, his dazed eyes stuck to San’s bare back as a stylist helps him undress.
However, even in the midst of his zoned out state, he’s still well aware of the fact Hongjoong's watching him. He’d be a bit oblivious not to, with the feel of an all-knowing gaze heavy on his jaw and the reflection of their equally as disheveled appearances visible in the brightly illuminated mirror behind San’s hip, all of its owner's focus blatantly zeroed in on his profile.
They lock eyes for an accidental moment when he dares a hesitant glimpse, and it’s enough to knock him right out of his stupor as he ducks his head and starts to pick at his cuticles, his leg bouncing to combat the way his nerves begin to tingle. He doesn’t look up when Hongjoong scoots closer in his peripheral vision, his throat clicking around an audible swallow when their knees graze each other’s as the former leans forward, those curious eyes tilting in an attempt to catch his line of sight.
He's incapable of resisting the shift of his gaze towards the strands of blonde hair in his face. And once Hongjoong catches him, fish to bait, he, predictably, finds himself unable to dart it away.
They blink at one another, owlish. Hongjoong’s eyes, his shadow smudged now that they have no one to impress, shifting over Mingi’s features like he’s assessing every twitch of his brows and flex of his jaw, every bat of his lashes and roll of his lips as he tries his best not to squirm. It must dawn on him, then, when Mingi tries to subtly curl away from the intensity of it after a long, unsettling beat of being observed, his heart speeding up among all the silly butterflies trapped inside his ribs, thumping against his chest so loud he doesn’t doubt everyone else in the room can hear its plea.
He watches Hongjoong’s gaze soften with understanding, and the gentle huff of a laugh he gets does nothing but run his blood warm with more glaringly obvious affection as his hyung smiles, the genuinity of it crinkling the sides of syrupy dark browns, and says, ever so smart, a teasing hint knitted into the very words, “Is that what’s bothering you?”
Mingi gives a high, despaired noise and turns from that gleaming grin to pout, slouching further into itchy cushions with pinking ears as he glowers at the wall. Hongjoong’s delighted snort of response is accompanied by placating little pats to his thigh like he’s a sheep needing to be consoled, and his gut flutters at the sound in both shame and meekness, utterly self-dooming.
They fall into comfortable silence after that, clear-coated fingernails stroking his quadriceps through his pants as Hongjoong’s other hand fiddles with the velvet of his own jacket bunched in his lap. There’s a barely audible intake of air when he goes to speak again, Mingi's attention already darting from the click of the door where a casually dressed Yunho's disappeared outside before he knows it, his eyes landing on pretty, pretty lips he wants to press his against and lap cherry-flavoured liptint from until he grows sick.
Whatever Hongjoong has to say is interrupted by a stylist calling out for him, though, and he sends her a polite smile, scrunching his nose before he stands, his gaze bright with amusement. Mingi watches him go with a too-evident look of yearning, mourning the lost of fingertips trailing up his leg, only half-aware of Seonghwa immediately filling the empty space beside him once it’s free, stark white spray-stiff hair hitting his shoulder with a tired sigh.
Hongjoong slips his tank over his head and doesn’t even meet Mingi’s eyes in the mirror in front of him.
Yeah, he agrees as he brings his head down atop Seonghwa’s with a burdened breath of his own whistled through his nose. He feels the same.
﹙❕﹚
When he gets back to his room, he’s ready to flop face first onto messy sheets he had no intention of tidying before he left this morning and crash until he’s woken for their flight tomorrow. Yeosang’s the one to coax him up with the promise of helping him get ready for bed despite the warbled groan of protest he receives the first time he tries, and it takes a pillow to his head and nails scratching at his back for him to finally move, pushing himself up with a halfhearted glare before he's guided to the bathroom by interlocked hands and an endeared smile.
Regardless of his moping, he stands obediently still as both of their faces are wiped clean before Yeosang strips them out of their clothes and drags him under the shower spray, his fingers heaven across his scalp as they scrub the day’s grime away until they’re fresh with the smell of his really nice peach bodywash. He pats their skin moist with product when they're done and tears open two sheet masks as well, humming a fond sound at the way Mingi’s eyes start to droop from indulgent kisses and fingertips massaging hydrogel into his nose.
Their hair is toweled dry and their clothes are gathered off the floor before Yeosang leads them back into the main room and stops at their half-open suitcases, squatting to empty his arms inside the duffle bag reserved for dirty laundry. He tosses Mingi a shirt from his own belongings, digging for pajama pants to pair as the former stifles a yawn and proceeds to dress himself.
They fall into Mingi’s bed after Yeosang yanks a thin sweater over his head and a pair of briefs up his legs, huddled close and snugly quiet, the television on low with some foreign cooking show filling the silence as Mingi rests atop his chest, his arms wrapped around his waist. It’s easier to see his phone screen like this than from over his shoulder, his mindless scrolling giving him something to look at without him having to strain his eyes across the room. Eventually, he switches to a drama, adjusting his phone to better accompany Mingi’s vision, and the latter’s ears filter it into white noise, his lashes fluttering shut as fingers card through his damp hair.
It’s like that he succumbs to the lull of rest whispering his name, allowing it to pull him under the high tide.
﹙❕﹚
When next he comes to, the room is silent and dimly lit, the second lamp atop the nightstand turned off as well as the television, leaving the only sources of light the one closer to his own bed and a tall one next to the loveseat in the corner, casting the space in a comforting glow.
He stirs when he feels a kiss pressed to his forehead, his brain sluggish as the arms he’s cradled in start maneuvering him to grant Yeosang the opportunity to slip out of his embrace, pushing him onto his back. His groan of complaint as he pries his eyes open prompts an apologetic smile and a squeeze to his ankle in an attempt to soothe, but doesn’t stop his walking heater from peeling off the mask on his face as he moves towards the front door, disappearing behind the wall concealing the foyer.
Mingi huffs at the ceiling as the beep of the lock echoes throughout the room, his limbs stretched wide. His own mask has gone from reviving to grossly uncomfortable, and he takes it off with a grimace, rolling over onto his stomach to toss it into the bin beneath the nightstand with the sound of muffled voices in the background, presumably room service. It’s only until the door beeps again does he turn to check, his eyes half-lidded in disinterest as he pats leftover serum into his skin, and gets stilled into shock when it isn’t a head of burgundy that slinks back around the corner, but yellow-blonde.
Hongjoong’s dressed in one of his favourite pajama sets, navy blue silk loose on his figure. He’s got those ridiculously large glasses perched on his nose, thick and squared, and his hair is poofy and unkempt from being brushed out, curling against his now piercing-free ears. Mingi watches him kick his leather sandals off beside Yeosang’s, his eyes kind when they lift and find him atop the bed, greeting the blank stare cast his way by raising his arm to show the paper bag in his grasp with a little shimmy.
The food is good. Hongjoong knows well by now that one of the most effective ways of getting him to let his guard down is by bribing him with a good meal, and the burger nursed in his hands is a prime example of that. He stuffs his face while they spark some form of casual conversation, partially to fill his stomach and partially in hopes that the bulge of his cheeks is enough to distract from the colour dusted atop them due to Hongjoong observing him the entire time under the excuse of having already eaten, his fingers still sneaking a few fries as he talks just to give his hands something to do.
He hops up from his criss-crossed seat when the last bite is slotted into Mingi’s mouth and pads over to the minifridge in the living area, bending to tug it open with an absent noise as he chews.
“If I knew it would've flustered you this much, I wouldn’t have done it,” he says around a dwindling mouthful of potato, fishing out a bottle of water before he straightens. The crack of the seal is loud, and Mingi feels the need to look away from the bob of his throat as he drinks even though they aren’t facing each other.
The statement’s abrupt, a sharp turn from their previous topic of discussion. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to pick up on what he’s referring to, and that early embarrassment comes back to provoke Mingi’s peace anew, washing over his body in a wave of humiliated goosebumps. He picks at a stray thread on his pants and swallows thickly to avoid having to reply, but his hesitance has Hongjoong turning to him in curiosity, his brows raised and his cheeks full of water, so he rushes to speak before his silence can be interpreted as rejection.
“No!” he denies with a shake of his head after he clears his throat as Hongjoong shuts the door and makes his way back over. “No, I . . . I liked it.”
He isn’t quite sure why it feels—wrong. Well, maybe wrong isn’t the right word, but the shame is still there bright as day, leaving him feeling strangely exposed under those all too attentive eyes, like one simple look is enough to decipher the nervous swarm within his lungs making it hard to breathe. A fairly normal reaction given that they belong to one of the men who know him better than he knows himself, but then again, this is how it always is with Hongjoong.
( It’s not Yunho laying in this bed with him, who’d bend over backwards to give him what he wanted as soon as he asked no matter how spoiled he may be. It’s not Jongho, who’d pretend to be unamused as he pouted and whined and clung to him until he was given the attention he demanded, or San or Yeosang or Wooyoung who match his energy perfectly and always know exactly what he wants whenever he comes looking for them in search of physical affection, vice versa.
It’s Hongjoong standing in front of him instead, one of his knees propped on the edge of the mattress as he blinks down at Mingi, his gaze patient yet intense. Hongjoong, who’s a bit like Seonghwa in his ways, except whereas Seonghwa is gentle and mellow and encourages properly speaking out in order to get what you need in return, he much prefers to push until it comes tumbling out in a flurry of blushing cheeks and desperate pleas. Hongjoong, who takes pleasure in playing with his food a little before he gives in, and more often than not, it’s almost always Mingi who’s at the unfortunate brunt of it. )
The purse of his lips is sympathetic—or at least, Mingi thinks it is—as he lifts the bottle to them again before he passes the water over, his voice clear when he next speaks. “I know. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Mingi accepts the bottle without a word, the cool liquid slipping down his throat giving him something else to focus on while his neck flushes with heat. He extends the small fry bag in turn and waits until Hongjoong’s shoved the last few into his mouth before he hands over the bigger one as well, the crinkle as they're folded and disposed of in the bin enough of a response for them both. The water’s traded after Hongjoong dusts the salt from his fingers, and this time, Mingi shamelessly watches before he caps it off and sets it atop the nightstand with a deep, satiated exhale.
Silence overrules as they stare at one another, so prominent Mingi can feel the density of it ringing in his ears. The air feels thick and heavy, filled by the weight of meaningful eyes, undeclared questions and the linen-scented fresheners plugged into every outlet, that forgotten tension that simmered between them back in the dressing room making a reappearance now that there’s no longer anything to use as an excuse, a not so subtle zing starting to bleed through the quiet that neither of them move to break, almost as if waiting for the other to take the initiative and lessen the space first.
Mingi’s gaze is greedy, slowly trailing from the length of Hongjoong’s thigh up his torso to his face where the lamp shines beautifully along his features, framing the pout of lips and the line of a nose and the span of unfairly long lashes. His fingers twitch where they’re curled atop his own thighs with the need to touch as he admires, the need to be close, but he hasn't been given any hint of permission to in the look bared down on him, and so he stays put despite his entire being rearing to do the opposite.
Saliva gathers in his throat and circles around a spike of pure want, solid and uncomfortable when he goes to swallow, the sound of it embarrassingly audible. His body gradually being reminded of just how much he craves the more he sits there and ogles, his heart skipping over itself like it’s trying to burst out of his chest.
He doesn’t even get the chance to find his voice to timidly ask to be granted pity upon, because Hongjoong’s already moving, climbing back into the bed and shuffling over until he can swing a leg over both of his, plopping down to straddle his thighs with a resolute huff.
His palms instinctively come up to hold the hips atop him. They’re full under the silk, squishy beneath his clutch, but all of his focus is reserved for the expression on Hongjoong’s face alone: the softness around his eyes, the barely there uptick of his mouth, the way his hair falls over lenses, haloed by the backlight. The tenderness in his pupils as they float over Mingi’s own features, taking in how overt they are in what they have to offer, what’s written across them.
His hands are warm when they cup Mingi’s jaw, his thumbs firm as they smooth over the angle of it, and Mingi knows exactly what’s on display when his chin is tilted upward until their noses are brushing together, the unbridled devotion in his gaze as his hair is tucked behind his ears, something plain and genuine and wholly authentic. Something reverent, maybe.
He blinks up at Hongjoong, pliant and patient as he waits, and eventually a steady exhale is breathed as the former's eyes slip shut and his head falls forward, his cheek squished atop dark tresses as he guides and cradles Mingi closer.
“Mingki,” he sighs, and is unsurprised by the way weight slumps against his chest like a puppet cut from its strings at the sound of it. “My big baby, hm?”
Mingi nuzzles further into the crook of his neck and doesn’t dare utter a reply lest it comes out cracked and strained and all too affected, the shaky sound he gasps as his fingers tighten their grasp more than enough, telling and apparent.
Hongjoong’s nails are blunt as they scratch along his nape and the prickles of his scalp, grounding. He smells of lingering cologne as he pets over Mingi’s pulse and presses kisses to the crown of his head, his lips feather-light as they descend over his forehead and temples and the shells of his ears, the contact ever so abating to the anxious little animal he will forever be inside.
Anxious, and a little scared, too. He wants nothing more than to remain in the safety of Hongjoong’s embrace for the rest of the night as he lets himself be doted upon, his mind going still as hands smooth over his skin, kneading him in this shape and that—but the longer he sits here, the more a familiar warmth starts to curl low in his gut, aided by the weight and scent and mere presence of Hongjoong alone. The more his body begins to betray him despite his best efforts to stay neutral, thrumming with anticipation.
As ever attentive as Hongjoong is, it’s not hard for him to notice the way he starts to tense beneath every touch. The way his breath hitches when a nose brushes against his cheeks, the way his fingers flex with restraint as he tries in vain to hide the flush of his face against silk.
“Good?” he asks, unfazed, his voice muffled where his mouth is smushed to the notch of Mingi’s jaw, who shudders at both the indifference and the kiss placed over the mole beneath his eye as he tries to herd Hongjoong closer.
His words waver when he speaks, struggling to be transparent even though the offer and the hands petting his ribs have every atom of his body preening in excitement. “You don’t have to.”
There’s a chuckle huffed against his cheekbone. Hongjoong’s eyes are squinted when he pulls back, amused, his palms idle where they slide down onto his stomach for balance while he assures, “You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to, baby.”
Baby. It settles deep in Mingi’s heart and blooms red chrysanthemums from the pores of his bones straight to the caverns of his lungs, ample and suffocating. His stomach soars and his nerves sing, utterly delighted by such a hilariously mundane word.
Baby. Hongjoong’s baby. Mingi belongs to him, to all of them, body and soul until the end of time.
He gets an endeared smile for the shiver that racks through his limbs again before pretty lips he spent the last few hours thinking about are finally, finally pressed to his.
Hongjoong tastes like salt and faint toothpaste, his lips cherry-soft and dominant, gently leading as chapstick is smeared and noses are mashed together, the bridge of his glasses bumping against the slope of Mingi’s every time he tilts his head to better the approach. He swallows every muted sound that clicks in the the former’s throat, his tongue prodding where they’re connected until it’s accepted into Mingi’s mouth with a warbled gasp.
While the kiss is some form of sweet and compassionate, the way his touch roams definitely isn’t. He purrs over the startled moan the feeling of his fingers sneaking below Mingi’s shirt to fondle an abdomen rouses, his thumbs brushing along the thin line of hair trailing from a navel into a waistband as he rolls his hips with just enough pressure to get the other squirming.
Mingi cants into the friction a little helplessly, his brain growing foggy from the nails scraping against his midriff, no helping the whimper that escapes him when Hongjoong breaks apart to admire his declining composure. He knows he must look a mess: his hair mussed and his face rosy, his lips just the slightest shade pinker from the work of another’s, parted around overwhelmed pants of air. His gaze dark and imploring as he nudges into the hand that slips free to cup his cheek, his fingers slithering under the hem of Hongjoong’s shirt as he bats his lashes at the lidded eyes drinking him in.
He’s far from soft now, full and straining against the confines of his pants where the embodiment of all his problems sits smiling at him, who plants one last peck to the corner of his mouth before crawling out of his lap despite the hands trying to keep him still. He pats Mingi’s chest until he gets the note and shuffles further back, adjusting the pillow behind his tailbone so his spine can better line up with the padded headboard. Long legs automatically part to accommodate, and he hooks ankles over his hips as he shifts forward until their roles are practically reversed, Mingi now the one tugged flush against his pelvis with the damp spot bleeding through black and red tartan unveiled for the room to see.
Mingi’s hands flex as Hongjoong’s stroke over his thighs, small yet sturdy and designative all the same, the warmth of them traveling up his calves and over his knees, leaving behind goosebumps in their wake. His gaze shadowed as he peers over his glasses, the depth of it glinting with something keen and entertained that has Mingi itching with that seemingly permanent need to squirm, his lower half lifting into the promise of the touch with no real sense of direction nor motive.
He chooses to toe at the invisible line of his obedience just because, to push his luck and the leniency being graced upon him. Plants his heels and slowly grinds against the stability of an abdomen as a low, pleased sound swirls within his chest at the fricton, moving his hands to his torso and coyly lifting printed cotton until an expanse of mole-speckled skin is exposed, not bothering to hide the way he preens when the corners of Hongjoong’s mouth uptick with a smile.
The latter’s spurred on by a press of legs at his sides before he squeezes the thighs of them a bit too roughly and loops his fingers into the waistband of Mingi's pants, tugging them down just enough to free the length of his cock from the suffocating fabric. Mingi has to look away when it lands heavy atop his navel, his brows pinching at the sudden influx of cool air. He can feel how humiliatingly wet he is from just some simple petting when his shirt's racked further up his stomach, moist and viscous against his skin before Hongjoong takes him in hand and coaxes a quivering breath, the callouses on his palm more of a barely-there caress than any real purchase.
“Still walking around with this useless thing, hm?” he teases, clenching in emphasis just to be mean, pulling forth a whine before he hums at the embarrassed wobble of Mingi’s mouth at the line of precome dribbling from his slit. “What? Pent up?”
Mingi’s eyes flutter open to blink at the painting mounted onto the wall to his right, an abstract blob of colours encased in a gold frame. His words sit jumbled on the tip of his tongue, caught in the bob of his throat, but the next squeeze has him twisting restlessly, prompting nothing louder than a thin, muttered complaint as he subtly tries to buck into the clasp of a fist. “S’hard.”
( There’s an obvious joke to be made here, but neither of them rises to the bait. He knows Hongjoong of all people will understand what he truly means, will instantly pick up on the secondary context woven into his tone.
Schedule stacked upon exhausting schedule with tour preparations following immediately after. Mingi hasn’t found the time to just sit and exist in his dorm in months, yet alone indulge in something as unimportant as jerking off. His libido has been at an all time low for weeks, and he cringes up at the mere mention of sex or anything other than brief kisses stolen in busy corridors or too-short weekends, yet still finds himself seeking the hospitality of arms wrapped around his or the sheets of someone else’s bed to ensure his mind doesn’t go completely off the rails amidst his own self-inflicted droughts of deprivation.
They’re all admittedly in a tough spot right now, something that has become more or less an unfortunate routine over the past six years, driving themselves to their utmost limits until they come crashing down and need both the solace and reassurance of someone else to keep them grounded. It’s an ugly process that leaves them rubbed raw and stripped bare, but one that’s necessary in piecing them back together at the end of it, one they’ve slowly come to terms with during all their time spent together.
This, though, is different. Not quite the same, something much more cherished and profound.
This is about Hongjoong. Hongjoong, ethereal and sublime in the golden atmosphere of the room, a welcomed resident sandwiched between Mingi’s legs. Bleached hair and almond eyes and plain white calf-high socks, tasting of strawberry and smelling so distinctly like the vanilla-coconut of Seonghwa’s bodyscrub.
Hongjoong, who got out of bed after another tiring day, walked down the hall and willingly came to entertain Mingi’s stupid little heart regardless of it being somewhere around ten or eleven at night. Hongjoong, who everyone in the group knows only partakes in things like this if he’s the one initiating, and even then it’s no more than gentle handjobs or liptint-sticky makeout sessions or rare, occasional blowjobs, all of them almost always reserved for Seonghwa.
It’s something they’ve never pressured him about, even before they started sneaking into beds and going for bathroom breaks in suspicious pairs of twos or threes. He talked to them about it once, a long while ago, expressed worries of how he didn’t want them to feel like the love he held for them was insignificant, or that he only wanted to be with Seonghwa when it came to intimacy. How it was hard for him to be vulnerable even with the people closest to him unless a certain amount of time had passed or his heart finally felt ready to welcome them in.
They understood, of course. There was nothing wrong with Seonghwa being his safe person given all they’ve been through together, and eventually, if he wanted to branch out and try doing things more advanced than the usual peck on the cheek or terse kiss on the mouth with the rest of them, he would.
They were patient. Obvious and eager, yes, but patient. Nothing past common flirting or first base touches after that meeting for weeks unless he came to them first.
Or, at least, that was the plan, until Mingi forgot his headphones in the practice room one afternoon and pushed open the door only to catch him in the middle of shoving his tongue down a very willing Yunho’s throat, all dazed eyes and swollen lips and bright, embarrassed cheeks.
He said nothing, just walked right up to the desk and casually grabbed his case off the cluttered surface, meeting Yunho’s sheepish grin with a cheeky one of his own. Hongjoong didn’t even bother raising his head from his hiding place in the crook of the former’s neck, curled atop his lap with tense shoulders and red ears like he was trying to disappear in shame. Mingi left with a gleeful snicker, and kept their little secret safe and untold until they came home and Wooyoung screeched in betrayal as soon as he spotted the matching spread of hickies littered across their necks, much to Hongjoong’s mortified dismay.
The rest of them were slow to follow afterward, nothing too noticeable or grand in the scheme of things if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for. He started touching them more often in public: brushing their shoulders together whenever he asked them to correct his formation while practicing, leaning against their sides in cars on the way back home, holding their hands for longer than ten seconds without his face flushing a pink glow. Lying his head in laps in greenrooms until someone played with his hair, fiddling with their jewellery during interviews, pressing fleeting pecks to foreheads whenever he left a room.
He started sneaking into Jongho’s bed instead of sprawling atop the couch like he usually would and tugging Yunho into the shower with him on mornings he was too drowsy to keep his eyes open, clinging to Wooyoung as he drifted around the kitchen and sluggishly cheering Yeosang on from blanket-cocoons while watching him workout in the living room and sitting at the dining table beside Seonghwa while he journaled, typing away at the emails clogging his laptop in comfortable silence. He let San rub knots out of his shoulders as he listened to him ramble about dramas and took his regular catnaps nestled in Mingi’s duvet since his bed was bigger and his room the quietest place in the dorm, drowning in clothes that weren’t his as he snored.
But, unfortunately, with the biannual change of their homes came a significant decline in his physical contact. They're no longer bunched together in one apartment like they're twenty, though that doesn’t mean they don’t still get updates from Wooyoung and Jongho about who got cuddled or kissed for their good behaviour throughout the week, especially during comeback seasons when the stress is high and they stingily hog him to make up for all the hours he spends locked up in the studios. Yunho and Yeosang’s dorm is reserved for those days when his back starts to act up from being hunched over a desk, and Mingi even finds him lurking in theirs whenever he gets the free time to do so, snuggled up with San or filtering inconspicuous little noises through the walls of Seonghwa’s room, to which he scoffs and adamantly denies making with apple-red ears when he’s cornered in the foyer and teased about it while trying to leave.
It’s a very sacred thing, his affection. Delicate and fragile, gentle and placid. It’s not hard for him to take liking towards someone based off how they treat him and others, but it is hard for him to deal with what presents afterward, and even harder for him to find positive, comprehensible ways in expressing how he truly feels without them transpiring as rude or uninterested or beguiling, or being judged so hostilely it results in him completely turning away from the entire ordeal on a whole.
Yet here he sits, kissing Mingi sweet with a cock in his hand, insisting that he’s here because he wants to be. Here he sits, comfortable and content like there’s no place else he’d rather be, like being here in itself is everything he ever could have wanted.
It’s an honour, really. And Mingi has never in his life, and will never really be able to tell his captain no. )
Hongjoong’s consolation comes in the form of his thumb rubbing along the prominent line of Mingi’s hip, his other wrist moving in slow, stable strokes that already have him impatient for more. “Mm. Must be difficult not getting your way, huh?”
The pout he gets is petulant, Mingi’s bottom lip jutting out even though he knows the jab is harmless, his breath laboured from a swipe over his wet cock as he shyly shifts his gaze back over to yellow-rimmed pajamas. “Don’t be mean.”
Hongjoong’s chuckle crinkles his eyes. They’re significantly lighter than before, more assuasive when they lock onto Mingi’s with a playful squint. “I’m kidding.”
The twist of his palm that follows pulls an earnest moan from Mingi’s chest, stripped and reactive. Hongjoong’s handling him skillfully, his touch deft yet incorporated with taunting movements, warm and oh so perfect as they get him off. It’s a bit devious, the sight of it wrapped around him almost scandalous, in a way, black-gel-polished nail and all, those same fingers that carried out such normal acts today like strumming an electric guitar and cradling the ironic length of a microphone now ring-bare and glistening in slick, the comparison alone enough to have his lashes slipping shut as his throat gargles with a poorly contained whimper, much to their owner’s delight.
“Poor baby. So needy, hm?” he drones as the circle he makes around the the tip just gets it even more mortifyingly soaked, the condescending lilt to the words having Mingi’s toes curl despite the embarrassed hue coating his ears. “Don’t worry. Hyung’ll make it better.”
Mingi’s body prickles as his head tilts back against the plush headboard, one of his thighs tensing against Hongjoong’s side while the other stretches in an halfhearted endeavor of grounding himself, Hongjoong’s other hand traveling from his waist to knead at his stomach while he works, thumbing the moles dotted there before it intertwines with Mingi’s when he blindly reaches for support, the hold painstakingly soothing.
He pets the back of Mingi’s palm when he's peered at through a clustered gaze, the former bucking into the next too-cinched upstroke with a pitchy gasp as he hums an appreciative sound, his eyes soft as they amble over a ruddy face with a muttered, “Pretty.”
Mingi wants to drown in the endearment forever.
He gets close shamefully fast. It’s easy to tell as he tends to get a bit too caught up in the feeling of everything when it happens, a bit too overstimulated and affected by everything and anything surrounding him, every touch and every breath and every hushed line of filth grazed against his ears. It’s something that always leaves him hiding from the praise he’s granted by whoever has him whining beneath their touch, but thankfully he’s been granted seven members who encourage his trigger happy sensitivity, who let him writhe and cry and moan to his heart's content without any worries about the repercussions his volume may induce.
This, however, is drastically divergent, and even with the heat swarming within his gut, he at least still has enough lucid modesty to be considerate of the managers residing next door and the fact that he currently isn’t in their dorms where he can be as loud as he wants without being chided for it the following day.
( He'd much rather save himself the humiliation of facing their knowing glances tomorrow, is all. That’s a sort of teasing he doesn’t ever want to experience from Booba and the rest of their staff again, and a situation he’ll still pettily hold against Yunho until the end of time. )
His first try is blatantly denied. Hongjoong ignores the way he whines and attempts to squirm away from the unyielding contact, dropping his gaze to the moist patch of skin and regrowing hair before him instead of complying.
Their hands remain entangled, yet his other does not cease. If anything, Mingi’s fidgeting only seems to spur him on even more, emboldening him to pick up the pace until the juxtaposition of his hot palm versus the sweet comfort he whispers has him feeling dizzy.
Belatedly, through the fog obscuring his mind, Mingi processes that those unoccupied fingers have managed to free themselves and grab his shirt, and it’s with a delayed sort of panic as he watches another drivel of his desire ooze over the backs of Hongjoong’s knuckles that he slowly pieces together what’s about to happen. He dissents, of course, because Yeosang just bought this when he went window shopping with Jongho back in France, and for it to be returned covered in come and sweat and other inappropriate fluids would probably be one of the greatest disregards of human decency to ever occur in today’s modern times, but Hongjoong continues to outrightly pay both him and his resistance no mind.
His voice is high and strained as he pleas, his lips wobbling as he futilely jerks his hips, his sight blurred by wayward strands of hair and a building sting behind his eyes, “Hyung—”
A quick hand darts to pin him to the mattress, firm and strong and curled into the hem of the shirt as it’s pulled down. He sobs and tries to push it off, his mouth parted with incoherent noises of complaint as he clumsily paws at Hongjoong’s waist, though it does nothing except encourage the latter to press his knees further into the bed and bear his weight down, restraining Mingi effectively.
He doesn’t even look up as his thumb digs into a weeping slit, almost captivated as he disregards a broken hiccup at the pressure.
“No,” he orders simply over the protest, his tone low and commanding as Mingi flails with teary lashes. “Take it.”
And Mingi does, because his captain says to.
It doesn’t hit him as hard as he expects it, slow and thick like molasses or melted sugar, sizzling pleasantly as it washes over him and renders him momentarily gone, dragging him by the ankles beneath the riptide. A buzzing in his ears and a fever in his veins dulling his senses for a beat, the only thing he’s distantly aware of being the lewd shlick, shlick, shlick of a sopping fist, unabashedly loud in the echo of the room.
Despite his best efforts not to, he still ends up spilling all over the front of the shirt, dirtying the abstract design of the Eiffel Tower with a breathless keen as his skull jolts against the headboard with a rather painful thump. Hongjoong strokes him through it with a crooning hum, keeping his touch around the now-even-stickier crown just to be mean, prolonging the tensing thighs and bucking hips below him, uncaring of the crescent-shaped imprints being left in his sides.
He doesn’t stop the steady press of his palm over the still-dribbling head until Mingi’s huffing out overwhelmed breaths and reaching to bat the hand away himself. Lips curl into a satisfied thing at the mess on his chest through an unsteady gaze before dirty fingers are dragged through the tackiness and lifted to his quivering mouth, a wordless prompt. He has half the hazy, post-orgasm-blissed right to tell Hongjoong off, but a thumb is already slotting its way between his bitten lips, and is more than welcomed atop his tongue as it presses into the spit pooling there just a bit too harshly in a reminder of whose mercy he’s currently under.
It’s nasty, and he couldn’t care less. He sucks every single one of Hongjoong’s fingers clean without a fight, and preens at the deep coo and damp pat to his cheek he gets in reward when done, his heart jackrabbiting against his ribs and his blood roaring within his temples. Nothing but raw, unadulterated love blossoming throughout his veins.
Hongjoong’s smile sparks fire up his spine, full with teasing teeth. His eyes are bright when his clean hand finally releases the shirt in favour of reaching to tuck the hair clinging to Mingi's forehead, his tone cheeky as he questions, “Happy?”
Mingi’s breaths come raspy, his chest heaving for air around a little murmured noise of agreement. A stunned haze still blotted around the edges of his vision, the taste of himself tangy on the back of his tongue. He’s grateful he's given a moment to come down, content to sit there and be coddled as his body stabilizes itself, his fingers lax beneath Hongjoong’s top, twitching against his back as he scratches behind Mingi’s ear and thumbs the tears welling along a waterline.
The way Yeosang’s shirt brushes against the planes of his stomach when he shifts, now cool and moist, is something that absolutely cannot be ignored, though.
His nose crinkles in disgust with a ragged whine of discomfort as he bares the consequences of shameless possessiveness, turning from the palm cupping his face with a halfhearted scowl. “You’re so gross.”
The giggle he conjures is no short of thrilled.
Cleanup is easy, for the most part. He misses the the heaviness in his lap, of course, but it’s necessary for Hongjoong to be able to dig around in the nightstand drawer and emerge with a tiny pack of wet wipes. He scrubs the shirt as best as he can manage with all of Mingi’s wiggling, swiping stickiness from his groin with a swat to his thigh to keep him steady before tossing the wipe into the bin and leaving to wash his hands, ignoring the pout directed at his retreating back.
Mingi tears off the shirt immediately after he tucks himself back into his pants and swings off of the bed to make his way over to the suitcases, stuffing it into the duffle bag with another crinkle of his nose and a nonverbal apology to the wardrobe supervisor noonas who’ll have to oversee their dry cleaning later on this week. The sound of running water is faint below the hum of the air conditioner, and he pivots on his feet to follow it, peeking into the bathroom as he clears his throat.
Hongjoong glances up in the mirror over his glasses, his hands stuck beneath the tap. He extends the toothbrush sitting next to the soap dispenser behind his back when Mingi steps closer without having to be asked, and stays while waiting for him to finish brushing his teeth, tracing over constellations of scattered moles on shoulderblades with a nonspecific hum bouncing off the walls.
It takes them a while to settle, but eventually Mingi’s back in his earlier position, except this time, he’s wrapped in smaller arms with a different set of fingers combing through his hair. They’re both on their sides with his legs being the only ones covered by the duvet, his face buried into Hongjoong’s chest to block out the light and his arms wound tight around the former's waist. His voice muffled when he speaks, hidden into ribs, but the sentiment he tries to convey clear nonetheless. “I don’t want you to go.”
Hongjoong’s sigh is quiet as he squeezes Mingi’s nape, his socked foot absently rubbing along the sheets where it rests hooked over the lump of a calf.
“You know I have plans with your hyung tomorrow,” he says as his touch trickles down a spine. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate me standing him up. Plus, you’ll be in a different country by then, babe.”
It’s not the answer Mingi wants to hear at all. He burrows his nose further and whines a childish groan, the button digging into the corner of his mouth only adding to his disappointment. Ridiculously, he feels that telltale sting starting to crawl up his sinuses again when an understanding sound is crooned back at him, and his throat bobs thickly, trying to swallow the sudden swell of emotion bullying its way forward.
The sniffle he gives is loud and intentional and causes the hand nestled in his hair to pause as Hongjoong huffs an incredulous scoff. His palms slide down to Mingi’s shoulders, pushing him away to check if he’s being serious, but the way he whimpers like a dog being rejected and tugs his body even closer seems to reassure him that no real tears are being shed. Mingi can almost feel him rolling his eyes without having to look, and he lets the little flicker of petty gratification the action brings fizzle throughout his limbs.
“I’ll stay,” Hongjoong concedes. Mingi can hear the curve of a smile bracketing the words, though, and it only succeeds in making him even fussier. “Only until you fall asleep, okay?”
Mingi furrows his brows and opens his mouth to complain yet again, but gentle fingers cup his jaw and guide his head out of their owner’s chest to reveal the fondly exasperated expression aimed down at him before he can, his heart skipping a beat at messy blonde and smile lines despite his displeasure, the urge to fight starting to dissipate as thumbs rub the creases along his forehead before soft lips are pressed to his, tender and benevolent and tolerant all the same.
Hongjoong deposits another kiss to the tip of his nose and the mole beneath his eye before he pulls away, and it’s like fairydust is suddenly being sieved over his worn-out brain, his eyes drooping with reappearing sluggishness as Hongjoong grins and squishes his cheeks together with an amused snicker. A hefty, put-upon sigh pushes from his chest as he nuzzles into the touch, his skin buzzing with comfort.
“M’kay,” he easily slurs around a yawn, earning a low chuckle for his . . . well, for what, he isn’t really sure. Maybe Hongjoong’s just laughing to laugh at him, though he isn’t exactly opposed to the idea of being the reason for that joy. He’s also getting too tired to care. “Sangie?”
“He’s with Hwa,” Hongjoong answers like he would a persistent kid as he twists in his hold, his palms slipping away to allow a face to sink into a silky chest once more. The click of the lamp follows, cloaking them in psuedo-darkness, and Mingi can feel his breathing evening out already, aided by the warmth of another body curled beside his.
Gentle fingertips sweep his fringe out of his face after Hongjoong turns back around and presses his mouth to Mingi’s forehead, lingering before he breaks away, leaving behind seeds of toasty delight that flower within the ventricles of his heart, calming and forever beloved.
A whisper of a goodbye floats in the space between them. “Go to sleep, baby.”
And Mingi does just that.
﹙❕﹚
That night, he sleeps better than he ever has since the day they left South Korea.
When he wakes the next morning, Hongjoong is gone, leaving only a ghost of serenity and the lingering smell of espresso. Yeosang’s back in his place, sprawled out in a tangle of his own duvet, overcast by the sunlight peaking beneath the curtains blocking the windows.
His manager’s voice is calm yet stern when he finally presses his phone to his ear to stop the vibrations that lured him up in the first place as he reminds him most of the staff and other members are already downstairs waiting. The screen flashes an early—or late, in this case—seven-o’-five when the call ends after his groggy reply of confirmation, which then forces him to reluctantly stumble out of memory foam with crust stuck to his eyes to coax Yeosang awake with gravel-laced words and pats to his stomach.
They manage to get packed within a little more than half-an-hour, and take another quick shower together before throwing on their clothes and wheeling their luggage to the elevator with a daze still clinging to their minds. The partially melted iced americano passed to him as soon as they step foot in the lobby helps battle the drowsiness hidden behind the dark lenses of his shades, and soon they’re all separated into groups of twos and huddled into the backseats of cars on the way to the airport.
( The pictures of the beautiful Lake Como illuminated by both the midday sun and Seonghwa’s gorgeously happy smile Hongjoong sends in the group chat later that afternoon when Mingi’s laid atop a bed in a hotel room in Zürich, his outside germs be damned, definitely make up for all the trouble tenfold. )