Jonghyun raised cold, uncaring eyes to the soft, brown, pleading ones in front of him; unblinking, Jonghyun turned his head away, towards Key’s sharp dark ones – only smiling then.

 

Being rude to Jinki. That was the only pathetic defense Jonghyun could come up with. It was low and miserable and painful and Jonghyun hated it. Hated doing it like nothing else he had ever hated. He knew Jinki was hurt, that Jinki didn’t understand, that Jinki was sad and once he had seen desperate, silent tears fall silently from the corner of the leader’s eyes for a split second before he turned his back on him. 

 

He remembered the soft, warm clench of Jinki’s fingers about his wrist and the brushes of Jinki’s shoulders against his and the musky, clean scent that was always wafting about Jinki drifting into his nostrils. 

 

He remembered in vivid detail the one time he’d lost control and given in and thrown himself into Jinki’s lap and wrapped his arms about his neck and kissed Jinki with his heart, his soul, with everything he had. He remembered Jinki’s lips parting to welcome his prying tongue and the frantic mess of lips, tongue, and teeth that the kiss had become, and how before he knew it he’d pushed Jinki down flat on the sofa and crawled over Jinki’s willing body, the warm pads of Jinki’s fingers slipping under his shirt to trace, tremblingly, the planes of his muscles, then his s. How he had stiffened and gasped and shuddered under Jinki’s gentle touch. 

 

How the night had turned into a frenzy of heat and stars and friction and Jinki’s cry as he came undone, writhing, under him and the intense, dizzying rush of pleasure of his own that accompanied Jinki’s.

 

Jonghyun restrained the urge to let a cynical, twisted grin curve his lips. Remembered? 

 

That was too mild a term.

 

He obsessed over these memories. Allowed them to fill his waking daydreams and his nightly visions. And he hated himself for wanting more. Always, always wanting more. 

 

Standing beside Jinki, he’d curl his fingers into fists so tight that he’d lose circulation in them. Because if he didn’t those fingers would, of their own accord, stretch, stretch, stretch towards Jinki, itching to feel that warm, smooth skin, under his own fingertips. 

 

But he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t (he didn’t know which, either) and so all he had were the memories of that one night.

Which he’d turn over in his mind again, again, again, again, again.

 

Maybe just once more. 

 

Again.