Warning: Potentially triggering themes (Abuse)

“You’re not Kai,” a voice tells Chanyeol through the phone connection. The voice is right: Chanyeol is not Kai—not even close.

Aside from that, Chanyeol’s busy and he has half a mind to hang up the call just to be spiteful. Kai would let him, Chanyeol knows, and would probably protest very little, if at all. Kai’s boneless like that and when Chanyeol presses down between the younger’s shoulder blades to resume ing him into the mattress, Kai’s boneless like that too. He makes little puffs—distress or pleasure, Chanyeol doesn’t care—each time Chanyeol rocks into him and there’s a part of Chanyeol that hopes whoever’s on the other line can hear the noises the pretty little dancer makes.

The other part of him is angry—is always angry—and possessive enough to fold his torso over Kai’s back and growl in his ear that he belongs to Chanyeol, that no one but Chanyeol can ever see him like this, that he just loves the thrill of it all, doesn’t he? Kai can’t answer with his face stuffed into a pillow, but Chanyeol doesn’t want or expect him to. What Chanyeol does expect, though, is for whoever called Kai’s phone to reveal himself already, and the anger simply grows when the voice on the other end of the line says nothing.

Instead, it’s a new voice—but still a vaguely familiar one—with a tone that’s careless and a lilt that’s a little too cold for someone who burns as hotly as Chanyeol. “This is Shinee’s maknae, Taemin,” the second man says and that’s when the familiarity registers. That’s when Chanyeol moves faster, pushes deeper, pounds harder; that’s when he does what he can to bruise the memory of him into the body of the boy beneath him because Taemin’s come up in the context of Kai too much recently. Chanyeol has had enough.

“Is Kai around?” Taemin asks. “I’m on air with Ryeowook sunbae right now and wanted to say hello to my friend.”

“He’s busy,” Chanyeol grunts. Kai emits a high pitched whine as Chanyeol flips him over roughly and continues to move.

The sound carries through—as does Chanyeol’s heavy breathing which grows increasingly breathless as the moments of the phone call stretch on—and it’s Ryeowook who’s brave enough to wonder, “Everything all right there, Chanyeol-ssi?”

“I’m working out,” he informs the radio host bluntly, his low voice even lower than usual and almost gravelly with the force of Chanyeol’s barely contained fury. “And Kai’s busy,” he repeats before hanging up the call with a meager “Sorry for your trouble” haphazardly thrown in at the end to appease the company and the restless fans.

Kai’s lying open on the bed before him and the sight of his ness, marred here and there with marks from Chanyeol’s mouth and hands, makes Chanyeol see red. Dropping the phone somewhere in the wrinkled folds of the comforter, Chanyeol grips Kai’s shoulders hard and lifts the other’s upper body to pull Kai close.

“That was Taemin,” he spits out, pulling a pained cry from Kai when his hold tightens. Kai’s face blanches immediately and Chanyeol shakes him hard. “Why does he have your number, huh? Did you give it to him? You did, right?” As Chanyeol forces out a false confession Kai tries to cry out, to defend himself, to deny the accusation in its entirety because it’s simply not true. He flails a little and the curve of his nail catches Chanyeol in the chin, scratching the taller boy just enough to break the skin and make him bleed.

Chanyeol slaps him for it—for thinking he could fight back, or that he even had the right to. Chanyeol slaps him again for the call. And again for giving Taemin his number. And again. And again. And again.