Title: oh man honestly I did not even name this thing
Summary: Chansung's burning.
Notes: SIGHING, now that I have gotten this out of my system, will my brain react by making me write more smut or never allow me to write it again? Well! I guess we shall see.
Chansung gets like this sometimes. Hot. Hot inside. He gets hyper, more unruly, he moves around all the time, he can't stop. He touches the other members constantly to stop from touching himself. Just breathing makes him sweat; a single moment of silence sends his mind whirring like a skipping record. His thoughts are, predictably, inappropriate: Chansung thinks about girls. Girls and their bodies and their smiles and what Chansung wants to do with girls, to girls. Chansung imagines their heat, their warmth slowly igniting his skin until he's burning from the inside out. Chansung thinks about hands. Mouths. Bareness.
He has to concentrate on practise, on 2PM's performances, but practise reminds Chansung of his own body and performances remind Chansung of other people's. In the rushed chaos of backstage before airtime, Chansung has caught glimpses of bra straps that haven't been adjusted yet, shorts that haven't been pulled up all the way, girls bending down to fix their shoes. Most of the time Chansung averts his eyes. But sometimes he doesn't.
It's natural, everyone tells him. It's hormones. It's a part of growing up. Chansung is advised to do what he needs to do to relieve the stress, as long as it doesn't compromise with his work. And Chansung, he tries. Today he stays in the shower so long that his fingertips wrinkle; Wooyoung complains and Junho doesn't get time to straighten his hair. In the van, Taecyeon wiggles his eyebrows, Khun claps him on the back, and Junsu just makes exasperated noises. Jay doesn't get it, but no one expects him to. And Chansung, he's embarrassed, sure, but he has to do it, he can't not do it, or else he'll go crazy. The problem is that it's only a few hours of relief every morning, and it's not enough. Chansung wants to touch, wants to be touched. Sometimes he thinks he's so desperate that it doesn't even have to be a girl, as long as it feels good, because it's just about the feeling of it and Chansung wants-- he wants to--
He unconsciously starts playing with Junho's hands during lunch break and pulls away when he realizes, frustrated with himself.
The afternoon is spent doing acrobatics and during a leap, Chansung trips over Junho and they fall to the floor together. For a long second they're pressed together from knee to shoulder and Chansung blinks, dazed, and unexpectedly flushes when Junho laughs. Junho puts his hands on Chansung's shoulders to push him off. Puts his hands under Chansung's armpits to pull him to his feet. Brushes away invisible dirt from Chansung's chest, right over his--
The rest of the day is shot.
When they get home, Chansung wolfs down dinner, furiously brushes his teeth, takes a cold shower, and shuts himself in Nichkhun's room, which is still technically half Chansung's since all his stuff is in there. Lying on his top bunk, Chansung counts into a pillow for fifty-nine and a half breaths, then gives up and reaches past his waistband.
It's no good, Chansung thinks, as he strokes himself urgently. This is no good. He can't keep doing this every few hours, whenever he has more than five minutes free, whenever he accidentally bumps into someone the wrong way, he can't he can't he can't. He has to, if he doesn't want to explode or combust or worse, get a hard-on during a show. Fuck, fuck, Chansung is sick of this. He's sick of this routine, of these urges that he can't control, of getting so caught up in the intensity of it; he's sick of his own fucking hand. He's sick and he's addicted and he's drunk and Chansung can't stop, it's like a fever, an illness, and it feels good and--
Junho comes in the room.
Chansung still has his hand down his pants.
"Sshh," Junho says quietly, in response to Chansung's paralyzed stare. He closes the door and climbs into Chansung's bunk; tucks in beside him, pulls the covers over, up to Chansung's waist. "Shh," Junho says shakily, and slowly moves his sweaty hand down Chansung's right arm, past the elastic of Chansung's boxers, until it stops, right over the back of Chansung's palm.
Chansung's looking at Junho like Junho's crazy, because Junho is, what is he doing, what is he thinking? Chansung didn't ask for this. Chansung doesn't know what this means, if it even is what he thinks it is.
Chansung's breaths are so loud he thinks he must be screaming.
"It's okay," Junho mumbles, and lowers his head down right beside Chansung's, on Chansung's old pillow. "We all get like this. It's okay, Chansung." Junho's smile is nervous but there and Chansung sighs out as slowly as he can, like every second he keeps will make this somehow even more okay, even though it isn't, but Chansung doesn't care – it’s Junho and Junho equals trust. Chansung slides his hand out of his pants. Junho’s hand stays.
Junho's skin is hotter than Chansung is prepared for: the first touch is scorching and Chansung almost flinches away, but he doesn’t, he couldn't, he's been frozen since Junho's breath first reached Chansung's chin, all Chansung can do is squeeze his eyes shut as Junho moves his hand up, then down, then again, and Chansung gasps, fingers reaching out to clutch at Junho's arms.
"Shhh," Junho hums, and he laughs a bit, in the same breathless way he did right before their first performance as 2PM, and why is Chansung thinking about that now, thinking about that day and the fear and the excitement and the surprise colouring Junho's face as Chansung reached out for a hug, for a brief moment of Junho's familiar, comforting warmth right before the biggest stage of Chansung's life -- and here, too, is Junho's warmth, all around Chansung, moving faster now, and Junho laughs again and Chansung gasps louder and bites his lip and Junho says, "Chansung."
Chansung's trying to keep his hips from moving too much, but it's not working; Junho's callused hand is strong and the grip feels strange from the other angle and he's not moving as fast as Chansung likes it, but that's good, that's better, because Chansung wants this to last. His whole body is nothing but the circle of Junho's fingers around Chansung's dick and it feels as if his heart is thrumming in time with Junho's firm strokes. He can feel the edge coming fast and he abruptly drags Junho closer, places his open mouth on Junho's shoulder, pants into Junho's t-shirt. Junho squirms a bit and one of his legs rubs against Chansung's crotch in one long slide -- Chansung chokes.
There's a reaction: Junho yanks his hand out of Chansung's underwear, licks a broad wet stripe down his palm, and shoves his hand back down; two, three more pumps and Chansung's biting Junho's shoulder to stifle his yell.
When Chansung opens his eyes, Junho is red in the face and looks like he just did something vaguely horrifying. But his soft smile is still there, shy in all the ways Chansung had forgotten Junho could be, and his hand is a light touch on Chansung's back. Chansung breathes in. He feels more relaxed than he has in weeks. When his mouth curls into a grin, Junho's smile grows just a bit wider.
Chansung's mind is clear.