"Stop it," Junho hisses. "Everyone's sleeping."
Chansung smothers his snickers into Junho’s already sweaty neck. His hand, trailing down Junho’s chest, doesn’t pause as it reaches the top of his pyjama pants. “That’s what’s fun about it,” he whispers. “They’re asleep.”
“And you need to go back to your own bed,” Junho whispers back – at least, he means to, but all that he manages is a quaking breath, as Chansung’s hand sweeps across his cock and closes his fingers around it.
“Imagine my mouth there.” And it’s obscenely easy to do so, because Junho feels rather than hears these words against his ear, where Chansung’s tongue licks, leaving scorching trails of heat across Junho’s skin. Junho, desperate for some kind of barrier between them and the rest of the members, snoring from their respective beds in the hotel room, jerks up his blanket and pulls it over the top of their heads. Under the covers, the air grows hot instantly, and the two of them take shallow breaths against each other’s mouths, trying to be as quiet as possible.
They’ve had a long press-filled day and they’re both tired, impatient for rest. Junho shoves Chansung’s sweatpants down past his ass and pulls his hips in, lining up their cocks. Chansung’s so hard Junho aches for him, and when they start grinding, Chansung lets out a thin, high moan that Junho has to muffle with his tongue.
They try to kiss, but neither of them can keep it up for long; Junho’s panting too much. Is it the lack of air circulation or Chansung’s hand kneading his thigh that’s making him so light-headed?
Someone’s groan pierces the room – Wooyoung. Junho freezes, muscles tense in anticipation, waiting to get caught. Chansung buries his face in Junho’s shoulder, holding his breath, although he can’t seem to stop the minute jerking of his hips. The seconds stretch – Wooyoung lets out another softer groan and shifts in his bed; soon after, his low snores rejoin the chorus of the others’. Immediately, Chansung rolls onto Junho and pushes their hips together faster and faster – God, Junho thinks, did the anticipation of getting caught actually make Chansung more horny?
When Chansung brings two fingers to Junho’s mouth, Junho sucks them in without any hesitation. He feels a responsive twitch in Chansung’s cock, but he doesn’t get to smirk about it because Chansung’s replacing those fingers with his tongue, spilling a groan into Junho’s eager throat, and his hand, wet with saliva, sneaks down to Junho’s ass, slipping past the cheeks to stroke in between. Junho’s breath hitches and he comes in a rush, accidentally sinking his teeth into Chansung’s bottom lip. That sends Chansung off too, and Junho feels an answering stream of warmth across his crotch, as Chansung’s hands clutch tightly at his hip.
They tear off the covers in one grand sweep, exposing their overheated skin to the cool, air-conditioned room.
On the bed right beside them, Khun mutters something in quickly in Thai, turning his face into his pillow. Still asleep.
“Junho,” Chansung sighs, his eyes closing.
“What’s the Japanese word for orgasm?”
“I can’t help you here, Sho-chan,” Aiba says sadly, offering Sho the rest of his drink. “You’ll have to seek help elsewhere.”
“But that can’t be right,” Sho sputters. “You’re a god, aren’t you?”
“Shh!!” Aiba hisses, flapping his hands. “Not so loud! No one can know that I came to visit you on Earth!”
“Sorry, sorry.” Sho’s not thinking straight; he’s too drunk. But he’d had to sacrifice several animals out of his dwindling livestock population just to get Aiba down here – if Aiba can’t help him, then Sho’s farm might actually shrivel up like those in the south have under the drought that’s fast consuming the countryside, the worst they’ve encountered for centuries. Who is here to eavesdrop on their conversation, anyway? Sho had to let go of all his farmhands last week. There’s literally no other human around for kilometres – save for Aiba, and Aiba doesn’t count. Aiba may look like some lanky young man wearing dirty work clothes, but he’s far from it.
“I want to help, I really do. But you know I don’t have control over the land or sky or water,” Aiba reminds him, patting his back. He holds out a hand and a small robin flies over, a handkerchief in its beak. Aiba offers it to Sho and Sho takes it gratefully, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Damn, this heat. It can’t be long before he’ll roast up, just like all his crops have. Sakurai Sho, raisin.
“Look, don’t lose hope yet, Sho-chan,” Aiba says. “The elemental gods are all really powerful so you probably won’t be able to sway them, but there are others you can talk to. There’s this really, really old god I know, he’s been around for thousands of years. He might have lived through a drought like this before! He could give you some advice, maybe!”
“What does he have domain over?”
Aiba blinks. “Huh? Oh! You know? I don’t remember.”
This is how Sakurai Sho, humble farmer, and Aiba Masaki, god of land birds, find themselves at the top of the tallest mountain in the country, peering into a darkened cave that seems to stretch inside for impossible miles.
“Nino!” Aiba shouts, the name echoing up and down the walls of the cavern. Nino, Nino, Nino.
They wait. Eventually, they hear someone – or something – start shuffling out from the depths of the cave. “What?” says a high, irritated voice. “If this is about another experiment, I swear, Aiba –”
“Nope, it’s not! I brought a friend who needs your help! Come out into the sun, geez. We can’t see you.”
Whatever Sho had expected of Aiba’s old-as-rocks god-friend, it hadn’t been what he gets: a short, scruffy haired kid, skinny as a twig and scowling like a petulant teenager. Ninomiya Kazunari. God of... something.
“This is Nino?” Sho hears himself ask dumbly.
Nino’s eyes cut into him sharply, sizing him up in one glance. Sho stiffens in fear – oh shit, he’d just insulted a god. Not good, not good. He’s about to apologize profusely, when Nino finishes his survey and the annoyed curl of his lips relaxes, rises up, until he’s smiling brightly.
Not smiling. Smirking.
“I always forget you have nice taste in humans, Aiba,” Nino says, not taking his eyes off of Sho. “I think I’ll have a lot of fun with this one.”
Sho can’t help the full-body shiver that runs through him like static electricity.
“Oh, that’s right!” Aiba shouts, slapping his forehead. “Nino’s the trickster god!”
The -- Trickster God. The ancient god who was unexpectedly born from the torn up landscape following the first argument of the Elementals, during a time before time. The spirit who was as wily as a coyote, as quick as a deer, as temperate as a tornado, and as powerful as a flood, and had no interest in anything except his own amusement. The one being who none of the elder gods have any jurisdiction over, except maybe the Father of All. The Joker. The Deceiver. The Child.
Sho closes his eyes. He’s doomed.
“And why are you in such a pissy mood?” Taec asks, as Jay slams into the room, grumbling under his breath. Jay turns on his heel, glares at Taec like he wants to dump Taec in some hole somewhere, and then stalks into the bathroom.
Taec continues with his video game. A few minutes later, Jay joins him, freshly showered, and still wearing a pinched expression on his face. Taec doesn’t want to pause his game, but he darts his gaze to Jay briefly out of worry. Then he sees.
“Ah,” he says, understanding. “They gave you a haircut.”
“I mean, it wasn’t even long in the first place!” Jay explodes. He runs his palms up both sides of his scalp, over the barely-there fuzz, and grabs the longer hair on the top of his head. “A mohawk, can you believe this? A gay ass mohawk. Do I look like some dumb skater kid?”
“You do now,” Taec says, and yelps when Jay grabs his controller and kicks him off the couch.
Nichkhun trails into the room, holding a hand over his eyebrows. “Plucked,” he mutters when Taec looks at him curiously. Taec is about to laugh, but Khun’s scowl cuts him short. “Don’t get on your high horse, Taec. It’s your turn at the salon tomorrow.”
The smile drops off Taec’s mouth.
Taec watches Jay play for a while (using up all the items he’d managed to gather in a record amount of time), and then asks, “Do you think they’ll do something about my teeth?”
“Shut up about your teeth,” Jay says. “You’re always talking about your teeth. You’re obsessed with your teeth.”
“No I don’t. And no I’m not.”
“Look at this!” Junsu tramples in, holding out his hands like they’re full of contagious germs. “Look! Look at my fingers. I got a manicure.” And he did – his nails are buffed and shiny, every single one of them perfectly even in size. Junsu flops on the couch beside Jay and throws an arm over his eyes. “What the hell, man. We haven’t even debuted yet and I’m already tired off all the prep work.”
Taec grins at him. “At least you got to keep your hair.” Jay pushes his foot into Taec’s face in retaliation.
“Next time, you’re coming with me to the stylists,” he demands. “I told them to cut it normally, with just a few bangs, and they didn’t understand a word I said. Khun was no fucking help, too.”
“Study your Korean,” Taec says, but nevertheless, does go with Jay the next time they are scheduled for a salon trip. He actually goes to his appointment before Jay does since he doesn’t dedicate himself for hours at the gym every day like a crazy person, so by the time Jay gets there, Taec’s asleep in his smock, earphones plugged in and oblivious to the world.
On the drive home, both of them sporting new helmet-hair cuts, Jay stares at himself in the passenger seat window and tries to messy up his style. “Why, of all people, is it you who is the only bilingual person around here?” he gripes. Taec just flashes him a peace sign.
That night, they try to even out each other’s hair with a pair of kitchen scissors, but it doesn’t work very well. Firstly because the cuts turn out uneven, and secondly because they kept making mistakes so they ended up shaving way too much off and end up with mismatched bald patches. The rest of the members find it hilarious, but Taec has never seen their stylist noonas so angry before. He wasn’t aware people that weren’t his mom could yell that loudly.
“Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing,” says Jun.
“Close the door!” Aiba shouts, his voice a squeak. “You’re letting out all the hot air!”
Jun closes the door – but all the gases in the room must have confused him or something, because he closes himself on the inside. Distinctly a stupid thing to do.
The room is stifling. It must be almost forty degrees in here. Why? There are tanks of helium and various colours of balloons littering the ceiling – is it someone’s birthday today? Jun wracks his brain. No, no one’s. Usually if there’s helium around, Aiba’s doing an experiment with it. Ah, okay. But does that explain the heat? The nudity? The balloons tied to Ohno’s dick?
“Are you trying to make Ohno fly?” Jun asks suspiciously.
“Not fly,” Aiba says, like it’s obvious. “Just hover. I figure we’d need a lot fewer balloons for that. And look, Oh-chan’s not weighed down by heavy clothes either.”
“What about the heat?”
“Doesn’t hot air rise?” Aiba asks, perplexed.
Jun resists a sigh. “Yes, but how does that affect Ohno’s mass?”
“Falcons can fly a lot better on thermals, Matsujun,” Aiba nods, as he continues to fasten a huge sheet of garbage bag plastic to Ohno’s wrists and ankles. “So I thought that if I got hot air under Oh-chan, it might help too.”
Ah. So the bag must be some kind of webbing he’s using in lieu of feathers.
“What’s the balloon on his dick for?”
“Just because it’s pretty,” Nino purrs, raising his head from his game for the first time since Jun walked in the room.
Jun narrows his eyes at him. “And why are you naked as well? I wasn’t aware evil beings like you felt changes in temperature.”
Nino shrugs. “I didn’t want to be left out.”
Ohno dreamily bats at the yellow balloon tied to his penis. (Of course Nino would make it yellow, Jun’s sorry to realize.) “If I hover, do you think Aiba-chan could push me around like an air hockey puck?”
“Good question, Captain!”
Jun takes off his shirt and finds a seat on the couch as far away from Nino as possible. Okay, so sweating naked in the dressing room while watching Aiba grope Ohno is probably not the best way to spend his Friday morning, but admittedly, it’s not the worst either. And at the very least, Jun’s not the last person to come in today. He wonders what Sho’s expression will look like when he opens the door.
(I posted a paragraph or two of this fic on my LJ before; here’s another few -- although fair warning, these will probably be heavily revised by the time I'm done the story. The fic is Wooyoung/Junho, Junho/Chansung, Wooyoung/Nichkhun, NC-17 overall. It's about spies!!)
"Do it, Junho," Wooyoung says, and his eyes are clear and unafraid. "Shoot."
If Junho had to choose the single biggest mistake he's ever made in his life, he would pick this one. This person, Jang Wooyoung. Nothing -- nothing -- in the world can compare to this, having to kill your partner just because you've arrived at dead end and you can't both survive.
There are many things that Junho has to say to Wooyoung: why you, why this, why now, how dare you, don't make me do this, please don't make me do this, I won't forget you, how can I, I'm sorry it had to be this way I'm sorry for so many things, I hate that you're putting me in this position I hate you I hate what you've done what we've done, why fuck you why you're the one taking the easy way out what about me what about me
If Junho had to choose the one person who means the most to him in the world, he would pick Wooyoung. Not Chansung. Not Jaebeom. Not Nichkhun. Wooyoung.
It's amazing what you realize, seconds away from death. Not even your own death.
Junho takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly -- a million of his unvoiced arguments disappear into the rancid air, scattered and lost forever. There is nothing Junho can say in this moment to make anything better, to make this situation right; nothing at all exists except the surreal truth of these stretched seconds, sharpening and blurring Junho's vision like shifting camera lens. Wooyoung's hand -- palm clammy, fingers tight -- closes on top of his on the pistol's grip, knuckle over knuckle, thumb over thumb, and presses up. Together, they raise the gun to Wooyoung's mouth: one last kiss.
Wooyoung's lips slide across the metal as he murmurs, "You were my first friend."
The single biggest mistake of Junho's entire life.
"You need to die," Junho says, and Wooyoung shrugs. Smiles, just slightly.
"I really do."
Junho's finger tightens on the trigger.
Now, the question is, do you shoot, or do you not?
The question is, does this person, your biggest regret and your oldest friend and your partner in more ways than one, deserve this ending? He may have fucked you over, also in more ways than one, but is this truly the only way to resolve things?
Is this the only way out of a mess you've dug for yourself?
You ask yourself this, one second away from no turning back, like you can make sense of everything that's led you up to this exact moment right here right now, gain a much needed flash of insight, and be confident that you're doing the right thing -- but it's pointless.
You already know the answer.
Close your eyes. Do what you have to do. But whatever you do, don't regret this.
KEKEKEKE THIS FIC WILL BE FUN but you will probs not see another mention of it for several months, knowing me, fjaljl;uauiorkljf sorryyyyyy
Thanks for reading, and sticking with me!