Sometimes Daehyun wonders if this is normal. To stare at Youngjae as the other leans in towards the microphone, hands clasped delicately around the headphones, mouth open, singing the most beautiful of melodies. To admire the slope of his nose, the curving of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips, the sparkle of his eyes. The way those small, slim fingers are connected to a soft palm, thin wrist and then to arms nicely toned from their One Shot dance practice. How Youngjae’s body gently narrows down to a noticeable waist, flares out for a curved lower half.

He can convince himself that this part of their vocal practice is normal. After all, everyone can freely admit that Youngjae’s face, body and personality is very easy on the eyes, ears and heart.

It’s the other part that is concerning.

The part where, as they read off the music sheets of their latest song for the first time, Youngjae accidentally slips. Where there is a fa written on the sheet, Youngjae is flat by not even a quarter of a tone, but Daehyun can pick it up. He has perfect pitch, Youngjae unfortunately doesn’t. But they made a pact, at the very beginning, they’ll use any means to make the other stay in tune.

Crack.

There’s a shape intake of breath from one and a stinging palm on the part of the other. Daehyun can’t resist but stare at the blossoming redness on Youngjae’s cheek. Can’t help but to admire how it slowly forms the imprint of a hand. It’s his mark on Youngjae’s cheek, delivered by his very own hand. He admires the way Youngjae’s eyes are widened, those light brown irises that are staring at the ground, the pupils are contracted in pain, but slowly they’re dilating to their normal size. And how Youngjae clasps a hand to his cheek, it reminds Daehyun of a delicate doll, perched on the edge of a shelf. With just one push Daehyun can easily send that doll falling. And he likes watching it fall, break into tiny pieces. Then he’ll gather up the broken porcelain and glue them together with care, with his whole heart, and set it back on the edge of the shelf for the next time he walked past.

“You were a little flat,” Daehyun says by way of explanation, shrugging his shoulders and settles back on the table with large jugs of water and some sheet music. “Let’s start from bar 22.” He flips open his music sheets nonchalantly, his eyes sliding off the page and towards where Youngjae was gathering himself for another round, his eyes shining with determination, focused, his tongue sweeping across his lips, wetting them, making them glisten like dew on grass. He thinks Youngjae is very beautiful.

It happens another four times, before Youngjae’s able to hold the note without sliding sharp or flat. Each time, that beauty of a red rose blooming on Youngjae’s cheeks never fails to capture Daehyun’s attention. He’s glad that Youngjae can hold the note and disappointed at the same time. Glad, because he doesn’t have to keep harming Youngjae. Disappointed, because he got such a thrill out of it. The way that the stinging sensation on his palm seemed to send electricity up his arm and fuel the beating of his heart. The way how Youngjae’s little gasp every time seemed to send a shock through his whole being and make every hair stand on end. How Youngjae’s pretty brown eyes widen, that vulnerability displayed so bare, for the whole world to see, for Daehyun to see, makes Daehyun’s head dizzy, spin, light, faint with too much adrenaline. He caused that. Made Youngjae vulnerable. He’s able to bring Youngjae to his knees with just one action, a simple meeting of skin.

And he’s utterly disgusted with himself. What sort of human wants the complete, unwilling submission of another? What sort of human desires to inflict pain to others? Of course, it’s within Youngjae’s consent, and Youngjae can easily slap Daehyun if Daehyun goes off-tune. But with all these high notes in the songs, the balances are always tipped, and four times out of five Youngjae is on the receiving end.

Youngjae isn’t trained in the execution of high notes, while Daehyun is completely comfortable with them, and therefore, Daehyun should be going easy on Youngjae, but he puts all his strength once again and cracks the back of his hand across Youngjae’s face. Youngjae actually stumbles and Daehyun’s breathing becomes erratic.

He should stop. He needs to stop.

It would be so easy to shut down these thoughts. The ‘should’s and ‘must’s and ‘ought to’s. He could just turn off the little voice of moral conscience and enjoy the way Youngjae bites his lips to prevent a yelp, revel in the way Youngjae inhales a shaky breath, obviously very affected by the latest slap.

Oblivion is less than a thought away.

But he’s scared. It’s only his thoughts, his conscience that’s stopping him from completely abusing Youngjae. Of hearing those gasps turn into screams, of that stumble into thrashes. Of Youngjae begging for mercy, of Youngjae’s breath stopping.

He hates himself. It can’t be put in a simpler way. Despises the way the blood rushes through his veins. Loathes how shivers of excitement run down his spine. Abhors the way his heartbeats quicken, how his brain becomes sharper, more focused, how he has to swallow some water, his lips, clench and unclench his fists to prevent himself from flying at Youngjae.

He’d rather die than destroy Youngjae. Youngjae who is the brightest, fixed star of the night sky, the voice of Heaven, the breath of the first wind.

And yet, here he is, using his music sheets to whack at Youngjae’s head, and grabbing Youngjae’s hair and tugging it down to elbow-height. It’s like he’s inhaled some sort of illegal drug. There is a kaleidoscope of colours behind his retina when Youngjae releases a small scream. His skin is tingling when Youngjae flings up a hand to stabilise himself, conveniently grabbing onto Daehyun’s shirt. Where Youngjae’s hands touch his skin through the fabric, it’s a fireworks explosion. The way Youngjae’s eyes are squeezed shut turns every nerve in Daehyun’s body into a writhing snake.

He’s torturing himself.

He could so easily fit his hands around that pretty, slim neck.

He could easily tighten his hold, watch as Youngjae’s face becomes flushed, his eyes rolling to the back.

He releases his hold on Youngjae’s hair and takes a step back, turning around as if to organise the sheet music on the table. He tries to calm his breath before facing Youngjae. He closes his eyes, in a breath, holds it for three seconds before slowly letting it out. His head is still spinning, his jaw muscles are clenched from the refraining, his breath is still shaky when he exhales it out, like he has run a thousand miles from his own demons and was hoping for a short reprieve.

Because, within every sadist, there is a masochist.