Wet blood irritates on his chin, but he doesn't wipe it off. It's smeared elsewhere; it's on his cheek and his throat and his knuckles and his knees, it drips in wet clotted globs from his hairline, but he doesn't have the energy to scrub himself down just yet. His heart is racing, beating like an attack, still now, an hour later. His shoulders and arms twitch intermittently, burn in a constant annoyance, but there's a fat wad of cash in his back pocket in his empty cigarette pack, and it's as good as any pill he's ever swallowed. 

 

His fingers tremble faintly as they draw the stick from his mouth, his lips tingle faintly as smoke filters between them into the open air off of the balcony. There's a ring of crimson on the paper like a lipstick stain. He puts the out against his tongue, spits out the ash as he tosses it over the railing and watches it bounce against the pavement. His mind is carefully blank. Any memory of busted teeth and black ribs is tucked away to muse upon later, now he just looks up at the midnight sky, and tries to distinguish stars from airplanes.

 

He jumps when a hand lands comfortably on his shoulder a few minutes later, but doesn't turn. He knows the smile pressed into the back of his neck.

 

"You were beautiful tonight."

 

It's whispered into his hair, rough, possessive. Taeil can smell expensive cologne, familiar, it's the scent he wakes up bathed in every morning. The corner of his mouth quirks, the hand in his hair tightens until he winces and his head is turned for him. Jihoon is smiling placidly, his teeth perfect and straight and white, his eyes glassy and far away. He bends to kiss Taeil, and he's got this mixture of roughness and softness that drives Taeil insane, like a claim laid in blood and soft hands. Taeil kisses back with as much intensity he can muster. There's a sour powdery taste between Jihoon's teeth, his tongue is heavy and clumsy, but Taeil can't imagine that he tastes much better; like nicotine and iron.

 

When Jihoon pulls away his fingers loosen but stay tangled in his hair. Taeil puffs smokey breaths against Jihoon's collarbone to get his lungs functioning properly again.

 

"I got you another fight in two days, it's at the docks. You staying at mine 'til then?"

 

Taeil, tired and sore, nods into Jihoon's shoulder. He takes the money out of his jeans and holds it out blindly, long fingers take it and a mouth presses onto the crown of his head briefly, a silent thank you. The post-fight haze is wearing away, his many cuts and grazes are starting to smart, his galleries of bruises are beginning to make themselves known. His skin prickles. He's shirtless and it's cold out, and Jihoon notices, rubs his briskly to heat him up. Blood streaks after his fingers, paints crude lines across his shoulders and over his spine, but Jihoon doesn't care so neither does Taeil. 

 

"Let's go home," he chokes. His voice is a sandpaper rasp. He'd had a hand on his windpipe not two hours ago, it'd squeezed until his vision had flickered like the screen on an old analog television, and he knows that the green and yellow stains like fingers will stay for a month at the least.

 

He doesn't mind though, not really.

 

Jihoon always touches extra gently on the yellow ones.

 

"'Kay," Jihoon says, voice fluid and light, a humid breeze that flows over Taeil like warmth, and the two of them stumble off of the balcony and outside onto the street. 

 

They won't get a taxi with Taeil looking like he is, but they can't get booted off the subway so they walk until they find a station and board an empty train. The fluorescence hurts both of them for different reasons, so they lean their heads together and keep their eyes closed. Jihoon's skin is clammy, he's coming down, while Taeil's is dry and smooth. Jihoon hums as they ride, it's arhythmic and tuneless but it pulls a grin onto Taeil's tender lips anyways.

 

They make two transfers before they make it to the building, and by then Jihoon is sober and Taeil's skin is pulled taught by scabs and dried blood. Their walk is less of a shamble when they enter Jihoon's apartment, and Taeil's fingers are steady as he flips on the lights once they enter the cool space. Jihoon's hands don't leave him once, clasping onto his arms and his waist, his hair and the belt loops of his old faded blue jeans. He's tired, mentally exhausted to match Taeil's spent muscles. So he follows obediently as Jihoon tugs him immediately towards the bedroom. He falls into the bed behind Jihoon, whines unintentionally as his body protests but Jihoon shushes him and pets through his hair, works out knots and clumps of blood with gentle fingers. Taeil instantly relaxes, and smiles.

 

He falls asleep with one of Jihoon's arms slung around him, pressing deeply into a purple bruise, and the last vestiges of crimson smoke leaving his guilty lungs.