There’s a leaky pipe that climbs up the wall. It drips water all the way from where it ends at one corner of the ceiling down to the ever-growing puddle right beside Kikwang. He watches the drops (dirty and unclear—just like him) fall and hit the surface of the puddle, rippling and fading out against the bent tiles. There’re tiny clouds of red against the muddy tiles, blooming like little rose petals. When Kikwang shifts, moves his thighs (it hurts), the little rose petals get bigger—there’s more red to make them.

          He dips his finger in the water, swirls it around—the brown and red mix together and he watches the roses break up (fade away). It’s dirty water—probably hasn’t been cleaned since at least two weeks ago (probably more than that). It’s dirty, dirty, dirty (just like him). There’s mud in the water, dirt on the tiles, white splattered here and there, hints of blood in the smaller puddles that are closer to Kikwang. He leans his head back against the wall of the stall (it’s dirty too—the entire bathroom is dirty), and breathes out a tiny sigh, closing his eyes.

          It still hurts too much right now for him to even move—his pants are still around his ankles, shirt still yanked here and there (ripped here and there, buttons torn off again, and he wonders what his foster parents will say—if anything at all), and he’s too tired, too sore, to even think about cleaning himself up. It’ll be another long process, at least an hour, because today was one of the worse days and he knows he must look terrible. He feels blood oozing out of the cuts on his lips—can feel bruises forming like violet flowers against his skin—his head hurts because they pulled at his hair (banged his head against the tiles).

          He opens his eyes, and (it hurts because his mouth is bleeding) smiles slightly—just the corners of his lips turning upward.

          It’s weird, Kikwang thinks, to see Dongwoon here (but it’s still nice). It’s weird to see Dongwoon somewhere where the younger man looks so out of place. Kikwang is glad Dongwoon is here, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t strange. The bathroom is dirty—filthy and messy and wet and cluttered—and Dongwoon is perfect. Dongwoon is clean and dry and steady and pressed and calm and perfect. Dongwoon is always perfect, and this bathroom is everything that isn’t (bloody and muddy and leaking), so it’s weird to see him here.

          Dongwoon kneels in front of Kikwang—shining, leather shoes immersed in the puddles, pressed linen pants hovering over the floor while he gets down before Kikwang. His expression reflects everything Kikwang is thinking—about how weird it is for the younger man to be in this bathroom—this filthy, high school bathroom. Dongwoon’s eyebrows are furrowed, nose wrinkled, mouth tight, eyes clearly unhappy to be somewhere this dirty. Kikwang wants to apologize—Dongwoon shouldn’t have to be here.

          “Dongwoon-ah,” he says softly, reaching out to take the younger man’s hand.

          Dongwoon’s eyes narrow, staring at Kikwang’s hand and then to Kikwang’s face. The younger man’s expression is confused for all of two seconds before it transforms (contorts) into something Kikwang’s seen thousands of times, but something that Kikwang’s never seen before on Dongwoon’s face. It’s an expression that Kikwang is all too familiar with. It’s an expression that Kikwang’s seen time and time again because it’s how they usually look at Kikwang time and time again.

          The younger man straightens up to his feet, eyes still narrowed at Kikwang as Dongwoon backs away step by step. Kikwang can’t do anything (he can’t move—can’t stand up) but watch Dongwoon slowly retreat out of the bathroom completely because it makes sense. Dongwoon has never seen Kikwang like this—has never seen Kikwang at his worst, at his lowest (at his weakest). The only time Dongwoon’s even come close is that one time at the club—and even then, Dongwoon didn’t speak much, hardly touched Kikwang at all.

          So it makes sense—it does—really.

          No one wants to use something that’s dirty and old and ripped and torn and broken. No one wants to use something that’s already been used—that’s been misused and abused hundreds of times before. Isn’t the entire idea—the entire concept—of finding a lover to be the only one (or almost the only one) that they’ve touched? That they’ve been with? The less people you’ve been with and the more firsts you have with your significant other—isn’t that the entire point?

          It’s special that way—it’s meaningful.

          It’s useless (pointless and meaningless and disgusting) if the person you love is the hundredth (maybe even more) one touching you.

          Kikwang thinks that the roses are pretty.

          They’re surrounded by dirt—by muddy water and filth and blackened tiles—but they’re red. They’re clear and red and when Kikwang shifts his weight from side to side as he sits, the redness grows—it even mixes with the sticky white that’s splattered on his fingers when he puts his hand in the puddle. He thinks that they’re pretty—terribly, awfully, painfully pretty because he hurts. He hurts and hurts and hurts and even though he knows and understands that Dongwoon shouldn’t want to (shouldn’t have to) stay with Kikwang, he wishes the younger man would. He wishes so badly—wants Dongwoon—and it’s selfish and horrible but Kikwang just does because—

 

 

 

 

 

 

          He opens his eyes—wet—eyelashes wet

          His hair is soaked in sweat.

          The covers are kicked off.

          Kikwang’s always hated dreaming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          He even hates good dreams—has always hated good dreams. Most of his best dreams came to him when he was a child, and he hated them all. They were all about the same thing—all played similar scenes. He always dreamt about smiles and warmth and arms that tossed him up lightly onto strong shoulders so he could see the fireworks better. He’d dream about soft hair that would get caught under his cheek when he rested his face against a slender shoulder—thin arms holding him close and tight.

          But then he would wake up.

          And the closest he would ever get to those good dreams (wonderful dreams) were two gravestones lined up neatly side by side in a cleanly mowed field.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Kikwang wonders if he’ll start having good dreams again soon.

          He imagines that they’ll be about deep eyes and huge grins—he imagines that they’ll be about long arms that wind around and around Kikwang, hands that hold his hips, fingertips that frame his face, a voice that always tries to make him laugh (and never fails to), a body that makes him warm when he’s sad (that makes him hot when he’s needy). He imagines that they’ll be the best dreams he’s ever had (he’ll ever have).

          He’ll hate them.

          When he starts having them, it’ll mean that he doesn’t have the reality any more.

          And that’s worse than any nightmare he’s ever had (will ever have).   

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon has his laptop on the coffee table, hunched over with his fingers skimming breezily over the keyboard by the time Kikwang’s gotten out of bed (wiped his eyes, straightened his clothes, turned his breathing back to normal). The clock on the wall reads some time near eight and Kikwang can’t even feel his stomach—he just knows that he should be hungry and that’s what Dongwoon will ask, but Kikwang can’t even feel his own feet as he trudges towards the younger man.

          There are no words between them—silent and speechless—as Dongwoon sits back and away from his laptop, taking Kikwang’s hands as the older man steps between Dongwoon’s legs, straddling the younger man against the sofa, knees on either side of Dongwoon’s waist. Dongwoon slips his hands beneath Kikwang’s shirt, just enough to rest on the older man’s hips, thumbs hooking carefully against Kikwang’s sweatpants.

          They meet eyes as Dongwoon touches a corner of the black frames around Kikwang’s eyes. The younger man hesitantly pushes them up against the bridge of Kikwang’s nose—stopping them from sliding as Kikwang gazes down at Dongwoon. “You don’t wear your contacts anymore,” Dongwoon says lightly. Kikwang folds his hands against the back of Dongwoon’s neck.

          “Sometimes I do,” Kikwang says quietly. “D’you want me to wear them more often?”

          Dongwoon smiles faintly—something painful in his smile that Kikwang can’t place and even if he could, he doesn’t understand why it hurts to look at it. He doesn’t understand why it looks like it hurts Dongwoon to smile. (Did Kikwang say something wrong?) “You’re the hyung,” Dongwoon says and his voice is playful—painfully playful and playfully painful. “It’s up to you.”

          Kikwang looks into Dongwoon’s eyes and tries to smile back. “Unless I’m going somewhere, I like glasses better,” he says slowly (unsurely).

          The younger man smiles again—less painful this time around—it looks like it hurts less, as Dongwoon squeezes Kikwang’s hips gently. “Me too, hyung.”

          Kikwang lets his hands trail down from Dongwoon’s neck, down past the younger man’s chest and coming to rest lightly against Dongwoon’s stomach. The older man leans downward and Dongwoon tilts his chin upward, catching Kikwang’s mouth with his own—catching Kikwang’s kiss and grazing his tongue lightly along Kikwang’s lips. When the kiss ends—brief and light—Kikwang his lower lip and looks away. Dongwoon seems to be waiting for Kikwang to say something—keeping the silence and only running his hands up and down Kikwang’s sides gently.

             Kikwang rests his head against the corner of Dongwoon’s chest, just below the younger man’s shoulder. He stares aimlessly at the column of Dongwoon’s neck—Kikwang wants to close his eyes, wants to go to sleep again even though he’s terrified that he’ll have another dream (another nightmare). He doesn’t even know why he’s so tired. He wishes it could be just like this and only like this—he wishes it was just him and Dongwoon in this apartment and everything outside of the building doesn’t even exist. He doesn’t want Dongwoon to leave (doesn’t want Dongwoon to be taken away—everything Kikwang loves is always taken away).

          One of Dongwoon’s hands leaves Kikwang’s waist and comes up to the older man’s hair, fingers running through the dark strands slowly. Dongwoon turns his face, cheek resting against the crown of Kikwang’s head. “Hungry?” he whispers against Kikwang’s hair.

          The older man shakes his head just enough for Dongwoon to feel it.

          “You should eat, hyung,” Dongwoon murmurs.

          Kikwang doesn’t respond—he’s not hungry.

          He stays silent for a few more minutes—lets Dongwoon his hair for a few more minutes—lets himself lose his thoughts in Dongwoon’s warmth for a few more minutes. “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang says quietly (he doesn’t want to do this), “you want to know, right?”

          “Yeah,” Dongwoon whispers.

          Kikwang thinks that when he tells Dongwoon, he should be sitting across the younger man—should be sitting a good distance away, facing Dongwoon, so he makes to pull away—makes to roll out of Dongwoon’s lap. He tries to slide off, but the moment he even makes the slightest movement, Dongwoon’s arms slip down to Kikwang’s waist—holding him like an iron vice.

          “Dongwoon-ah—”

          “’M not letting go,” Dongwoon says, voice muffled against the back of Kikwang’s neck. “So don’t even try, hyung.”

          Kikwang swallows—he’s glad that Dongwoon can’t see his face right now. He’s glad, as he tips his face upward for a few seconds, balancing the unreasonable wetness (it’s so stupid) against the rims of his eyes so they don’t go any further—he’s glad that Dongwoon can’t see the older man’s expression. He’s glad that Dongwoon is holding onto him—

          Kikwang wonders (as he takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning—from last week) if Dongwoon has any idea how much the younger man means to Kikwang.

          And how much it’d mean to lose him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon is silent while Kikwang talks.

          Kikwang is grateful for that—whatever the reason for the wordlessness might be. He’s grateful because he doesn’t think he’d be able to go on otherwise if he was interrupted—if he had to answer a question or think about the words that are coming out of his mouth.

          At one point—

          Kikwang closes his eyes.

          He doesn’t want to see anything when he talks about everything after being locked into the room. Sometimes, he wonders how those people who actually had parents or teachers or friends that cared even went through with it—he wonders how anyone could talk about something like this.

          How could you talk about something you wish never happened?

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Kikwang doesn’t open his eyes until he finishes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon is still silent—his arms are still tight and warm around Kikwang, but the younger man himself is unmoving like a stone. Kikwang bites his lip, and inhales hesitantly, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes for one more brief moment. He doesn’t know whether to turn around—if maybe this is his cue to slip away, out of Dongwoon’s arms because the younger man is suddenly rigid and that can only mean that Kikwang should leave Dongwoon alone.

          After all, really, Kikwang’s more or less accused Dongwoon’s sunbae of a crime.

          Dongwoon’s sunbae—a hyung that Dongwoon’s known longer than he’s known Kikwang. A sunbae who’s taken care of Dongwoon—who’s perfectly respected and hardworking and probably made Dongwoon feel welcome as a maknae.

          And Lee Kikwang is a .

 

 

 

 

 

          Really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Who’s Dongwoon going to believe?

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Kikwang sighs, steeling himself resignedly, and leans forward to—

          He leans forward and—

          But—

          Okay.

          He’s leaning forward, but Dongwoon’s arms aren’t letting him go. Kikwang wants to leave—wants to give Dongwoon some space so the younger man can gather his thoughts on probably how to deal all of this because Dongwoon thinks Kikwang is lying and Kikwang has no way to prove otherwise, and Kikwang knows that telling Dongwoon would be pointless anyway. It’s time for Kikwang to leave (time for the fairytale to end) and that’s what he’s trying to do.

          Except Dongwoon’s arms are sort of locked together.

          Maybe the younger man is too shocked too move?

          “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang says quietly, patting Dongwoon’s interlocked hands at the corner of the older man’s hip, “I’m gonna go now, ‘kay?”

          “No,” and Dongwoon’s voice is terse.

          Kikwang blinks (is Dongwoon that angry?). “I’ll come back in a sec,” Kikwang says, biting his lip. “I just—sorry—you can forget what I said—I just need to—”

          “I’m not letting go, hyung,” Dongwoon says and suddenly the younger man’s arms tighten even further—tighten to the point where Kikwang instinctively shifts against Dongwoon because it’s so tight it hurts (knocks the wind out of Kikwang).

          Kikwang pries his fingers between Dongwoon’s, trying to get the younger man to loosen his grip because that hurts—it hurts—and, “Dongwoon-ah—that’s—ow,” Kikwang winces and now it’s a little scary because he can’t move. “Dongwoon-ah—just let go for a sec, okay? I won’t go anywhere—” He squirms enough in Dongwoon’s arms so he can turn around—so he can see the younger man’s expression because Dongwoon is acting like—

          “No, hyung,” Dongwoon says again—in that same terse, tense, frozen, terrified voice (Dongwoon’s expression is terrified—is frozen solid, eyes frightened like a small child lost in the woods). The younger man’s eyes are wide and round as they meet Kikwang’s. “If I let go of you, someone’s going to hurt you again.”

This would be a great deal easier if Kikwang could actually face Dongwoon.

          Kikwang’s sorry for doing it, but he doesn’t think there’s any other way at the moment.

          He elbows Dongwoon (hard) in the stomach and pulls out of the younger man’s arms, hops to his feet, as soon as Dongwoon’s grasp weakens and he doubles over with a huff of discomfort. After Kikwang is standing, and after Dongwoon straightens up from the pain—wincing a little and looking up incredulously at the older man—after they’re facing each other, Kikwang steps forward between Dongwoon’s legs and looks into the younger man’s eyes.

          Dongwoon’s expression is calmer now (not by much), but his eyes are still wide and his jaw is still clenched. Kikwang doesn’t know what to say because he’s not even sure he knows what’s happening. This, in no way, was what was supposed to happen so he doesn’t have anything prepared—he wasn’t expecting this so he has no plans. He’s driving blind right now and he doesn’t want to crash into anything. “You believe me?” Kikwang asks quietly.

          The younger man’s throat contracts visibly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

          Kikwang gives a tiny smile—humorless. “He’s your sunbae—he’s really important.”

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says, voice tight, “however important you think he is—you’re a thousand times that.” His eyes search Kikwang’s face desperately (concerned?), and then move up and down the older man’s body almost frantically—his hands reach out and take hold of Kikwang’s, pulling him closer. “He didn’t—?” Dongwoon’s voice chokes off.

          But Kikwang hears what Dongwoon can’t say.

          He shakes his head slowly, giving that smile another try—hopefully one that won’t look so bitter this time. “He didn’t,” Kikwang says in a small voice. “I’m okay, Dongwoon-ah.”

          Dongwoon’s eyes are suddenly a little too bright, a little too raw around the edges. His grip on Kikwang’s hands tightens, and Kikwang can’t help but glance down and hope that that’s as tight as it’ll get because Dongwoon is frighteningly strong (and when it’s too tight, it hurts—it hurts, but at the same time a part of Kikwang is grateful because it means that Dongwoon won’t let go—right?). “Hyung,” Dongwoon says shakily, “would you be able to say what you said to me to one other person?”

          Kikwang blinks—opens his mouth. Closes it. Huffs a little sigh. Bites his lips. “I,” he digs his teeth against the inside of his cheek, “I—I guess—I mean—who—”

          “Doojoon-hyung?” Dongwoon asks in a quiet voice—nervous. “Could you say it to Doojoon-hyung? Would you let me tell Doojoon-hyung?”

          Oh.

          Oh.

          That’s—

          It’s not really—

          Kikwang wasn’t expecting that—he doesn’t think it’s the best of ideas.

          He knows what Dongwoon wants to do.

          “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang begins hesitantly, “I mean—I know you believe me and all, but I really don’t think—”

          “He’ll believe you, too,” Dongwoon interjects fervently (desperately?). “I promise—I swear Doojoon-hyung will believe you. And if he doesn’t, I’ll make him.”

          Kikwang doesn’t get it.

          He honestly doesn’t.

          He doesn’t understand at all.

          He doesn’t understand, first of all, how Dongwoon could believe him this quickly and this easily. Then, he doesn’t understand why Dongwoon seems so upset. Next, he doesn’t understand why Dongwoon wants Kikwang to tell Doojoon so something can be done about this when the best solution is clearly just to leave it alone the way it would’ve been if Dongwoon hadn’t been so adamant in knowing what was wrong in the first place. Lastly, Kikwang doesn’t understand why Dongwoon isn’t even angry—doesn’t understand why Dongwoon is holding onto Kikwang so tightly that the older man can’t even think of being left behind.

          He has too many questions.

          So he settles with just one (before he has to get his jacket).

          “Why do you believe me?” Kikwang asks softly.

          For the first time since Kikwang had woken up from his nap—for the first time since Kikwang had started telling everything that had started one week ago—

          Dongwoon smiles hesitantly.

          “’Cause I kept looking after everyone else stopped,” the younger man says.  

 

 

 

Kikwang is afraid that Dongwoon is going to break his phone. Or Doojoon and Yoseob’s door. Or break his phone against Doojoon and Yoseob’s door. Whichever situation becomes reality, Kikwang is sure that it will involve Dongwoon performing some sort of property damage and he hopes that it won’t be Doojoon and Yoseob’s door because he imagines that that would result in multiple weekends of Dongwoon repairing it on pain of otherwise having Yoseob sulk, offended, for the rest of eternal forever.

          “Maybe—”

          “They’re home, hyung,” Dongwoon says, stubbornly, glaring daggers at the screen of his cell phone. “They—are—definitely—home.” He jabs his fingertip against the touchscreen. “They just aren’t picking up,” he mutters, “or answering the door.”

          Kikwang blinks. “I know,” he says, “that they’re home. I was going to say that maybe they’re having .”

          Dongwoon’s head slowly turns towards the other man. “What?” His eyes are wide and staring, unblinkingly.

          Kikwang returns the stare. “I—y’know. They could be having .”

          Dongwoon’s mouth falls open, eyes staring at Kikwang in a sort of great offense—except Kikwang doesn’t know what that offense is because he doesn’t understand why the younger man looks so offended at the statement of Doojoon and Yoseob having . It’s most likely what they’re doing, after all. From what Hyuna tells Kikwang, it’s something that they do often, apparently.

          Like—really often.

          Like—if Doojoon and Yoseob are not present in the office at the same time, it’s probably because they are having in the bathrooms or in Doojoon’s own private office. And it’s Dongwoon’s duty to find them if they’re in the men’s restrooms and Hyuna’s duty to find them if they’re in Doojoon’s private office.

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says, in a highly offended tone to match his highly offended expression, “why would you even say that?”

          Kikwang knows he shouldn’t laugh, even though he’s pretty sure that whatever the reason for Dongwoon’s highly offended self is will probably be ridiculous as the younger man’s face right now, but he can’t stop the smiling from breaking against his lips—a sound of laughter puffing out of him. “Doojoon-shii and Yoseobie can’t have ?” he asks teasingly, nudging Dongwoon with his shoulder.

          Dongwoon scowls. “It’s not funny—I want you to walk in on them like ten-thousand times about to get it on, and then come back to me and tell me what’s so funny.”

          “Love to,” Kikwang continues cheerily, and almost bursts into full-blown laughter at the sight of Dongwoon’s face. “They’re hot, Dongwoon-ah.”

          Dongwoon wrinkles his nose, looking offended all over again and this time Kikwang does laugh, leaning into the younger man and burying his face against Dongwoon’s arm. “I mean—sure—but they’re—they’re Doojoon-hyung and Yoseob-hyung.”

          Kikwang meets his eyes, amused. “That—”

          The door opens.

          Yoseob blinks out at them.

          Kikwang and Dongwoon blink back.

          From the looks of things, Yoseob is more or less —with a blanket held haphazardly around his waist. His cheeks are red, his hair stands on end at some places and points in utterly chaotic directions at others, and his lips are pink and swollen. “Um,” the translator says, “so—hey.”

          “Hi,” Kikwang says back automatically because he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to react to this (especially considering Dongwoon’s now-highly-offended-expression making its return).

          Dongwoon sighs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          The first thing they see after Yoseob leads them into the apartment’s living room is Doojoon in the kitchen—shirtless Doojoon with only boxers in the kitchen, getting water from the refrigerator with hair in the same state as Yoseob’s, cheeks flushed, and body shining with sweat. He turns around to face them as he brings the bottle of water to his lips, taking a few swigs before replacing the top and putting it on the counter. Dongwoon remains offended and sits down on the couch.

          Kikwang just continues to stand next to Yoseob.

          “Um,” Doojoon says, exchanging glances with the translator. “So—we would’ve answered the door sooner—we heard the bell the first time—it’s just—like—”

          “It’s okay, hyung,” Dongwoon sighs. “Just—no details, thanks.”

          “Sorry,” Yoseob offers, glancing to Kikwang and then back to Dongwoon.

          Dongwoon shrugs. “It’s fine—really—just,” he looks at Doojoon, “I need to talk to you.”

          Doojoon blinks—looks at Yoseob—looks at Kikwang—looks back to Dongwoon, and blinks some more. “Right now? Here?”

          Kikwang’s heart thuds nervously—he stares down at his feet instinctively because he suddenly feels far too aware of Yoseob standing close beside him.

          “Could we do it in the study?” Dongwoon asks, and Kikwang hears him stand up—hears Doojoon padding around the granite island and into the living room. Kikwang glances up just in time to see Doojoon exchanging a confused look with Yoseob as the older man follows Dongwoon down the hallway that leads into the bedrooms—into the study room at the end of the apartment.

          The door closes after the two and Kikwang’s heart is beating even faster now—speeding up with every passing second that he stares at that door. It’s behind that door that Dongwoon is doing something that Kikwang’s given up trying to do years and years ago—something that, really, he hasn’t even ever honestly tried to do anyway because there was never any point in doing so (it’s not like anyone would’ve believed him—sometimes Kikwang thought that they didn’t want to believe him because that would mean having to do something about it and Kikwang isn’t worth that much trouble).

          Yoseob is putting on a sweatshirt that was lying on the coffee table. He glances to Kikwang and raises his eyebrows with a small smile. “Want to go outside?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Doojoon and Yoseob’s apartment isn’t all that far away from Dongwoon’s—isn’t all that different from Dongwoon’s either. It’s part of a relatively new complex, and the only real difference is that rather than overlooking downtown Seoul, it overlooks the Han River. Kikwang goes out first, leaning against the railing of the balcony alone until Yoseob finishes dressing and joins him. It’s a clear night—cold and cloudless with the kind of frosty air that stings Kikwang’s cheeks.

          Yoseob told Kikwang once that Doojoon’s apartment was the first place Yoseob drove Doojoon to.

          Kikwang watches the translator’s profile—dark bangs blowing against his forehead when the winter breeze nips past them. Yoseob is the one who spends the most time with Kikwang at the office, dragging him this way and that—complaining about Hyuna to him, telling him not to listen to her every whim because she just thinks he’s cute that’s all and she’ll squish Kikwang with her heels if he keeps it up. Yoseob is easy to talk with and Kikwang likes him.

          He wonders if Yoseob likes him back.

          “So,” Yoseob starts, coughing a little and breaking the silence. He looks at Kikwang, suddenly sheepish. “I just—I know it’s random and all—but—I mean, ahjusshi and I were talking about it a few days ago.”

          Kikwang blinks.

          “He doesn’t get to talk to you all that often,” Yoseob goes on, “so he told me to tell you whenever I get the chance. Just—like—he hopes he’s not pressuring you or anything.” Yoseob’s voice is careful—hesitant, as he watches for Kikwang’s expression. “He doesn’t want you to feel pressured to stay with Dongwoonie just because, y’know?”

          Kikwang thinks that maybe it’s, like, a trend these days—for everyone to confuse Lee Kikwang as much as possible until suddenly left will be right and right will be up and up will be sideways. “What?”

          Yoseob bites his lip, leaning more heavily onto the railing, arms hanging over the edges and swinging towards the ground far below. He tips his head upward towards the night sky, eyes thoughtful. “It’s just—Dongwoonie’s always been alone, right? But he probably felt more alone when all of his hyungs started getting so caught up in their own bull that they didn’t even notice him hurting.” He turns and smiles humorlessly at Kikwang. “So—yeah—we kind of dumped all that onto you, huh? I mean—I think we all know you love him. But just in case that changes—y’know? It happens.”

          There is confused, then there’s bewildered, then there’s not even having one-ing-third of a clue of what’s happening, and Kikwang estimates that he would be somewhere in that range. Perhaps even less—he thinks he probably only has one-sixteenth of a clue. Yoseob makes it sound like a job—or, maybe not that—but Yoseob makes it sound like there’s some sort of duty that the others have towards Dongwoon since Dongwoon is the maknae and they’re the hyungs.

          And while that’s true, while that makes sense, Kikwang doesn’t understand why Yoseob is making it sound like now Kikwang has to join in the duty too. He doesn’t understand why, with the words Yoseob uses, it starts to sound like an obligation—because, honestly, Kikwang would love to be obligated, to be permanently tied to Dongwoon like that. To have some sort of surety in that Dongwoon needs Kikwang when clearly that’s the stuff myths are made of.

          “That’s funny,” Kikwang says softly, glancing at Yoseob out of the corner of his eyes. “You make it sound like Dongwoonie needs me or something.”

          The returning expression that Yoseob gives him makes Kikwang think that maybe Kikwang isn’t the only one who has less than a third of a clue of what’s going on right now—which mildly spells not-so-good if they’re having a conversation and not really know what they’re saying to each other because both of their antennas seem to be malfunctioning. “Um,” Yoseob says, peering at Kikwang through squinted eyes, “that’s because he sort of does. Did you hit your head on, like, a countertop while Dongwoonie was ing you or something?”

          Kikwang stares. “How—wait—how—”

          “Everyone does it in the kitchen,” Yoseob waves his hand dismissively. “You don’t have to lie—we all know it’s unsanitary, but so is not washing your hands after you go to the bathroom.”

          Kikwang can’t stop staring.

          Yoseob laughs. “But, no—seriously—what kind of ed up statement was that? Of course Dongwoonie needs you.”

          “He wants me,” Kikwang corrects (and even then, he doesn’t like saying it because it sounds like a lie when it comes from his own mouth—is he even allowed to say that? Is he even allowed to think that when he doesn’t know if it’s true or not?). “But I don’t think he needs me.”

          The corner of Yoseob’s mouth turns up into a tiny smile. “When you love someone,” he says faintly, “it’s kind of the same thing.”

          Kikwang’s eyebrows furrow disbelievingly. It’s not—it’s not the same thing at all. Dongwoon wanting Kikwang and Dongwoon wanting Kikwang is already different in itself. Kikwang knows that on at least one level the younger man wants him—Kikwang obviously can know that Dongwoon wants Kikwang for . It’s at the very least one thing Kikwang can find stability in—that Kikwang can know for sure. On any other level, all Kikwang can do is make the most educated of guesses.

          “It’s not,” Kikwang says. “It’s not the same thing at all.”

          Yoseob sighs, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. “Okay, look,” he says, putting his arms out on the railing, hands motioning as if about to demonstrate a math problem. “Say you and Dongwoon end things, right?” he glances at Kikwang, who feels his mouth drop open. “Hypothetically,” Yoseob adds hastily. “If you guys broke up—honestly—you’re going to either have to go back to the club or do whatever else, right? Although, y’know,” he smiles humorlessly, “I bet that Dongwoonie would let you stay anyway—I bet he’d buy you whatever you needed even if you guys did break up.”

          If this gets any more confusing—anymore mind-numbing—Kikwang is going to have a migraine for the rest of the night. Also, he thinks that maybe Yoseob is the one who’s had a little too much kitchen and therefore hit his head against the countertop one too many times (because Kikwang’s learned that it really is a matter of balance and flexibility on both his and Dongwoon’s part). Everything Yoseob says neither makes sense nor sounds even remotely close to the truth.

          “I—” Kikwang begins.

          “You don’t think so,” Yoseob grins. “Yeah—I get that part. I’m still explaining, so shut up.”

          In spite of himself, a smile slips onto Kikwang’s lips (he likes Yoseob).

          “You’d go to back to the club or do whatever,” Yoseob says, “but what would Dongwoonie do?” The translator raises his eyebrows.

          Kikwang blinks. “What do you mean what would he do?” he asks blankly because he feels like that’s obvious—like that kind of question doesn’t even warrant a reply. “He’d just—I don’t know—move on? Find someone better?”

          Yoseob looks as confused as Kikwang feels. “What—I don’t even get what that means,” Yoseob says. “What do you mean find someone better? And ing no, Dongwoonie’s not going to move on. I don’t even want to think about what Dongwoonie would do if you broke up with him—”

          “Why’re you making it sound like he needs me more than I need him?” Kikwang interjects because it’s now past the point of confusing and heading towards frustration. He knows that any other person in any other relationship would be happy that this is being told to them, but Kikwang is just lost out of his mind and puzzled as and he’s getting irritated too because Yoseob is making him hope.

          Yoseob is making Kikwang hope for something that Kikwang knows isn’t true. Kikwang should already be grateful enough that Doojoon, by now, hasn’t hurled Kikwang out for feeding Dongwoon lies about a respected sunbae doing something that probably was partially Kikwang’s fault anyway.

          “I’m not,” Yoseob says quietly, and the translator’s eyes are suddenly wide—surprised as they look at Kikwang now. “But—I just—it’s like you don’t know how much he loves you at all.”

          “Maybe I don’t,” and Kikwang has no idea why he’s half-shouting now—doesn’t know how he and Yoseob are suddenly on opposing ends of the balcony. They aren’t fighting, but Yoseob looks confused and taken aback and Kikwang just feels frustrated (feels everything that he’s tried to hold in coming out and Yoseob hasn’t even done anything). “Maybe I ing don’t know because I don’t know why he would.” (He doesn’t know why anyone would aside from the obvious reasons—aside from those reasons that can be seen and touched and held and ed and and kissed—aside from those reasons—what is there?).

          Kikwang is frustrated and tired and stressed the out from feeling like this—he hates it. There—he hates it. He hates it and hates it and hates it. He hates feeling like exactly what Dongsun said he was—he hates feeling like a dirty dish towel because he never felt like one until now—until he started being with Dongwoon. Because before, Kikwang was a dirty dish towel being used by dirty hands—just as dirty as he was, hands that were just using him to wipe themselves off and then that was that.

          Not Dongwoon.

          Dongwoon doesn’t just toss Kikwang to the side after he uses him. Dongwoon folds Kikwang up, puts him in the washing machine with all of his other clothes (clean clothes) as if he doesn’t care if Kikwang dirties them, dries him in the drier, irons him, puts him in his closet as though he’s worth something and all of this makes Kikwang feel what he’s never had to worry about. Dongwoon’s hands are clean, and no matter how many times he might wash Kikwang, when clean hands use a dirty dish towel, they just get dirty themselves.

          And Kikwang doesn’t want that to happen.

          He hates how Dongwoon looks at him—he hates how Dongwoon looks at Kikwang like he’s the world because Kikwang isn’t. It’s the way Doojoon looks at Yoseob and the same kind of feeling that Kikwang got when he listened to Junhyung talk about Hyunseung. Except it shouldn’t be—it shouldn’t even be close to any of that because Yoseob is smart, is funny, is witty, is kind, is intelligent, is determined so of course Doojoon loves him.

          And Hyunseung is beautiful—from what Dongwoon’s told Kikwang, Hyunseung is strong and sharp and smart and weird (ing weird, Dongwoon says, shaking his head and grinning) and exciting and captivating and it makes sense that Junhyung loves him—that Junhyung would chase him to another country—that Junhyung would give up everything for him. That kind of thing makes sense.

          Kikwang is pretty—incredibly good-looking—yeah. Okay. He knows. How can he not?

          But then—

          That’s it. It ends there.

          And Kikwang is left with a thousand questions as to why Dongwoon supposedly loves Kikwang as much as everyone, and Dongwoon himself, says he does. It doesn’t make sense, and Kikwang doesn’t understand why Yoseob is trying to put logic into something that doesn’t contain the tiniest fraction of reason.

          Yoseob looks like he wants to say something further—like he wants to at least reply, but has no idea how to. The translator’s mouth is open, blankly, and his eyes are blinking in confusion—in slight, semi-shock and still mostly incredulity. His face scrunches up as Kikwang tries to get his breathing back to normal—Yoseob opens his mouth, clearly intending to try saying something this time around, when Doojoon suddenly comes through the doors of the balcony.

          “Yo,” the older man says, looking casually from Kikwang to Yoseob. Kikwang stares—Doojoon is looking at Kikwang indifferently, the way he always does, even though Doojoon now definitely knows. Doojoon even gives Kikwang a small smile. “I think you should go get our maknae,” Doojoon says with that faint smile, “He’s kind of not budging—I think he’s pissed at me.”

          “What’d you say to him?” Yoseob frowns.

          “Later,” Doojoon says lightly, reaching out and catching Yoseob’s hands—he pulls the translator toward himself, and then looks again at Kikwang. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, eyes and voice clear. “I believe you—honestly.”

          Kikwang lets himself be pulled inside by a confused Yoseob—and Kikwang knows that their expressions are probably mirroring each other right now because how can Doojoon believe him just like that? Why would Doojoon believe him? He’s pretty sure it’s not that Doojoon is gullible—so—he—Kikwang just—he’s—completely confused. As always. Nothing new anymore there, really.

          “Don’t look so down,” Doojoon smiles, pushing at Kikwang’s shoulder lightly. “I know I shouldn’t say that—you have every right to be as down as you want to be with all that’s happened—but—seriously, Kikwang-ah, I believe you. It’s okay, all right?”

          Yoseob is looking back and forth from Doojoon to Kikwang to Doojoon to Kikwang. “Go drag Dongwoonie home,” Yoseob says with a faint smile. “It’s probably almost his bedtime or something.”

          And all Kikwang can do at this point is shuffle off in the direction that Yoseob steers him in, towards the room that Doojoon indicates, because it’s like he’s set himself on autopilot now. There’s only so much mind-numbing material that someone can receive in the course of a few hours before their mind goes into complete shutdown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Doojoon and Yoseob’s study looks like a library, except filled less with books, and more with atlases and rolls of antique maps. There are newer, glossier maps that line the walls like wallpaper, and globes of all sizes positioned here and there on the shelves. All the furniture is brown or black and leather and from everything that Kikwang’s heard about Doojoon and Yoseob, this room probably describes them as a couple the best. The entire world is mapped out over and over again in this room in every which way possible and Kikwang doubts there’s a city where those two haven’t been yet.

          Dongwoon is sitting on one of the black sofas—a one-seat with puffy armrests that stands next beside the main table in the room. His elbows are resting on his thighs, face in his hands. Kikwang pads towards the younger man slowly, placing a hand lightly on Dongwoon’s forearm. “I think we’re supposed to leave now,” he says, hesitantly playful. “Doojoon and Yoseob probably want to get back to what they were doing before we came.”

          Dongwoon lifts his head and meets Kikwang’s eyes.

          That look is back—that expression—terrified like a small, lost child—frozen (desperate?).

          “Why does everyone keep hurting you?” Dongwoon whispers, and Kikwang isn’t sure that Dongwoon is even speaking to Kikwang—it feels like it’s something Dongwoon is asking himself so Kikwang doesn’t know how to answer—doesn’t know if he’s supposed to answer.

          Kikwang slides his hand down Dongwoon’s arm and slips his fingers into the younger man’s own hand. “I’m okay,” he says with a tiny smile. “I’m okay, Dongwoon-ah—honestly. And it’s not everyone—”

          “It should be no one at all,” Dongwoon cuts in darkly. “Why would anyone hurt you?”

          Kikwang smiles unsurely, humorlessly (bitterly?). “I’m hot,” he says.

          Suddenly—abruptly—unexpectedly, Dongwoon smiles back. A humorless smile that’s not unsure at all. “Yeah,” the younger man says, and takes Kikwang’s other hand as well. “You are, hyung. And sometimes—when you’re around bastards like that—I wish you’d wear a paper bag over your head or something—or I wish they were blindfolded.”

          “Why?” Kikwang says, and feels his voice rising heatedly, because even though this is exactly his own train of thought, it still hurts (stings) when Dongwoon says it out loud. “So they can’t see me? So they won’t—”

          “I wish,” Dongwoon says, his voice oddly calm and soft, “that they couldn’t see you and all they could do was talk to you—for just one hour, I wish they’d just talk to you without looking at you.”

          Kikwang frowns, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

          The younger man smiles again—something a little bit warmer and gentler. “If they still hurt you after that,” he says, “then they just aren’t human, hyung.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

          They go home.

          They go home with Kikwang still confused because even though Dongwoon seems to think that he’s explained it clearly to the older man, Kikwang doesn’t understand the explanation at all because he thinks that’s hardly an explanation to begin with. They go home after Doojoon pats Dongwoon on the back, whispering something into the younger man’s ear, and Dongwoon says he’ll tell Kikwang once they get back. They go home after Yoseob hugs Kikwang (and Kikwang hugs back) and whispers, “Ask him what you asked me,” right into Kikwang’s ear.

          When Kikwang draws back and meets Yoseob’s eyes, sees Yoseob’s little smile, he almost doesn’t want to go home right then because he’s starting to feel something that’s been so long gone (dearly missed) ever since Hongki left the club. It’s something that Kikwang’s been distracted from missing for a while because of Dongwoon, but now, Kikwang is starting to miss it again and he’s glad that maybe (maybe?) he’s found it again in Yoseob.

          “Okay,” Kikwang mouths, and finds it in himself to smile back at the translator before he heads out the door after Dongwoon.  

 

 

 

 

When they get back, Dongwoon shuffles through the apartment the moment the door closes behind them (and Kikwang locks it because Dongwoon is already past the living room), making a beeline for the bedroom. By the time Kikwang reaches the doorway, padding toward the bed, Dongwoon is already lying on it—feet still on the floor, hands resting on his stomach. Kikwang barely reaches the edge of the bed (about to sit down beside Dongwoon) before the younger man grabs him by the waist and tumbles their bodies together on the bed.

          Kikwang laughs, the sound muffled against Dongwoon’s chest as the older man is crushed between Dongwoon’s body and the mattress. “’Night, hyung,” Dongwoon murmurs, his voice teasingly sleepy.

          “You won’t have a hyung in the morning if you sleep with me like this,” Kikwang says, smiling.

          Dongwoon loosens his arms the older man and rolls off of him—Kikwang straightens up, straddling Dongwoon and sitting back against the younger man’s stomach. He slips his hands into Dongwoon’s and threads their fingers together. “How do you want me to sleep with you then?” Dongwoon grins.

          Kikwang his lips hesitantly, and gives a tiny smile. “Actually, I kind of wanted to do something else first.”

          The younger man’s grin fades into slight confusion, eyebrows raised at the change in Kikwang’s tone. “Are you going to ask me what Doojoonie-hyung decided to do?” Dongwoon asks, almost nervously. “Because he really hasn’t told me any—”

          Kikwang shakes his head slowly, untangling his hand from Dongwoon’s so he can reach up and brush his fingertips through the younger man’s bangs. “Something else,” he says quietly, and his heart is gradually gathering speed.

          Dongwoon sits up and their faces are suddenly inches apart. The younger man tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly and eyebrows knitting together.

          “It’s another stupid question,” Kikwang says, smiling faintly. “Way stupider than my last one.” He tugs lightly at a lock of Dongwoon’s hair. “Still want to hear it?”

          “If it’s as easy to answer as the last one, then I definitely want to hear it,” Dongwoon says firmly, and grins a little, threading his hands together at the base of Kikwang’s back.

          The smile on Kikwang’s lips suddenly feels fragile—he doesn’t even know why he’s smiling because there’s nothing to smile about right now. It’s just that the smile keeps together everything that’s threatening to fall apart. He has no idea how Dongwoon will answer, but at this point, Kikwang has nothing to lose anyway. His teeth dig into his lower lip for a moment as he strings the words together in his head. Kikwang brings his eyes to meet Dongwoon’s hesitantly.

          “Why do you love me?” he asks the younger man, and hates how it sounds so trivial—so whiny, so unimportant when voiced aloud but that’s the only way Kikwang knows how to put it. “Like—I mean,” he adds because maybe he should clarify, “other than me being hot.”

          Dongwoon frowns—narrows his eyes even further, really, until he’s more or less squinting at Kikwang. The younger man doesn’t squint like that at Kikwang very often (usually only when he wants to mock how Kikwang’s eyes vanish when the older man laughs or smiles). “What?” Dongwoon shoots blankly.

          Kikwang blinks. “What?” he echoes back because he personally thinks he was pretty clear in how he phrased his question—it’s a stupid question, but Kikwang thinks it was at least asked pretty clearly.

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says, eyes still squinting as if he’s trying to locate a hidden beanstalk growing out of Kikwang’s ear, “I don’t love you because you’re hot.”

          It’s Kikwang’s turn to squint. “I’m not hot? Why do you keep saying that?”

          Dongwoon thumps his forehead down on Kikwang’s shoulder—the younger man’s own shoulders shake silently and Kikwang hears Dongwoon whisper, “Oh my God,” right before he comes back up to lock gazes with Kikwang. The younger man’s expression is faint and almost incredulous—maybe even slightly amused. “You don’t love anyone because they’re hot,” Dongwoon says. “You’re attracted to someone because he or she’s hot. That’s not why you love someone, hyung.”

          “I’m not stupid,” Kikwang says, almost irritably (he knows he shouldn’t get angry—shouldn’t have any irritation in his voice whatsoever but he’s starting to hate how people keep assuming he doesn’t know anything at all). “I know that—that’s why I’m asking the question, Dongwoon-ah. You don’t love someone because they’re hot—so why do you love me?”

          Dongwoon’s expression changes with Kikwang’s tone—shifts from slightly amused and lightly incredulous to surprised (confused) and almost hurt at how Kikwang’s voice bites. Kikwang knows he shouldn’t be snapping like this—that it’s not Dongwoon’s fault Kikwang can’t seem to come up with reasons as to why Dongwoon would love Kikwang (why anyone would) the same way Doojoon and Yoseob love each other—the same way Junhyung and Hyunseung love each other.

          “I—wait,” Dongwoon’s voice is uneven and confused and he stutters. “Hyung—I don’t—wait—”

          Kikwang gets off of Dongwoon, and crawls back to his own side of the bed, swinging his feet to the floor and closing his eyes—scrunching them shut and gritting his teeth because he never should’ve asked. It was such a stupid question—a stupid idea to ask, and the only reason Yoseob thought of it was because Yoseob is someone that people can love—Doojoon loves him and has more than enough reason to. Yoseob’s never been in Kikwang’s place—has no idea what it’s like to never know a single reason (to never have a reason) why someone might fall in love with him.

          Yoseob’s never known what it’s like to feel worthless ever since he’s been old enough to remember.

          He feels Dongwoon’s hand slipping hesitantly, slowly, over his—hears the rustle of blankets as Dongwoon moves across the bed to sit beside Kikwang on the edge. He watches as Dongwoon’s legs appear next to Kikwang’s, feet resting on the floor beside the older man’s own. “It’s—I just—I don’t really know how to answer that,” Dongwoon says quietly. “I—I have an answer—but—what do you want me to—”

          “It’s okay,” Kikwang cuts him off before the pain in his chest grows anymore. “Forget it, Dongwoon-ah,” he says and tries to make his voice as light as possible. Dongwoon’s already put up with too many of Kikwang’s stupid, unnecessary requests. He curls his fingers with Dongwoon’s, holding the younger man’s hand tightly. “Thanks, by the way,” he whispers. “For—Doojoon—I mean—for believing m—”

          “Your jokes ,” Dongwoon says abruptly.

          What?

          What?

          Kikwang stares.

          The younger man is staring straight ahead, expression oddly determined for some reason, mouth tight. “Sometimes you’re hilarious, but most of the time your jokes —but they’re still funny even though they and sometimes they’re so stupid it’s cute.” Dongwoon his lips, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “And I think, that if we’d gone to the same school or something, you would’ve been the sunbae I’d keep asking to tutor me because of how ing smart you are. You’re so smart that Doojoonie-hyung told me he wished he could hire you so we’d never have computer problems ever again.”

          Kikwang’s heart hurts (he thought it would be nice—that it’s something that’s supposed to make your heart feel warm and flutter when you’re complimented, but right now all he feels is a fist tightening around his heart). He doesn’t know why, but every word that comes out of Dongwoon’s mouth is just another word that Kikwang’s afraid to believe (all words that he wants to believe, but it’s too scary to).

          “I forget a lot that you’re my hyung,” Dongwoon goes on, still not looking at Kikwang. There’s a smile on the younger man’s face now, though, for some reason. It’s a tiny curve to Dongwoon’s lips—curiously there and a little vague. “Like—most of the time, I forget about the club and all of that even though that’s how I met you.” He glances to the side then, looking at Kikwang from the corner of his eyes briefly. “I’ve only ever met the ones at the club—like Hongki-shii,” Dongwoon says lightly, “but—seriously—the way you are, all the way up until you’re climbing on top of me, I don’t think I’d ever be able to tell if I didn’t know.”

          Now, it’s not even that Dongwoon isn’t looking at Kikwang because the younger man is. At least, it feels like Dongwoon’s gaze is on him, but it’s Kikwang who can’t meet it right now. Kikwang can’t bring himself to look at Dongwoon currently because the older man’s ears feel far too warm, and the fist around his heart is squeezing and squeezing and despite that fist, his heart is beating faster and faster—and all of that agitation to the poor organ just doubles the pain.

          Are these words really for Kikwang? (Is he really allowed to take them? Believe them?)

          Suddenly, Dongwoon lets go of Kikwang’s hand and slips his arm around the older man’s waist, fingers curling against Kikwang’s hip. The younger man brings their bodies closer, legs touching and absolutely no space at all between their sides. Kikwang bites the inside of his cheek. “Actually,” Dongwoon says and now, he even sounds like he’s enjoying this—like he’s talking about this just to talk about it rather than answering Kikwang’s (stupid, ridiculous, unnecessary) question. “My jokes are pretty crappy too—right? But you laugh at them anyway.” Dongwoon grins. “Or maybe you’re just the only one that thinks I’m funny.”

          He can’t help it.

          His lips break into a smile.

          “I don’t know if you know,” Dongwoon says, grin fading a little bit, and voice losing its lightness. He looks into his lap, gaze thoughtful. “But—that—those times, like when Junhyung-hyung and Hyunseung-hyung were having their problems, and Doojoon-hyung and Yoseob-hyung weren’t there, and Hyuna was trying to deal with all of it too—and I was pissed off about Jonghyun-hyung always being a bastard to Kibummie when I thought I could do so much better,” he turns his eyes to Kikwang, “you were the only one next to me.”

          Kikwang holds Dongwoon’s gaze steadily.

          “You listen to me,” Dongwoon says quietly, “you made me fall out of love with someone that I’d loved for years. You don’t care if I’m whining about my life when yours would always be a thousand times worse. You know what it’s like not to have anyone—not to have any parents. You’re so ing selfless—you’re so nice that it’s almost stupid.”

Dongwoon’s tone turns dark. “Like that time you were hurt and you ing stopped me from beating the out of the guy—you were trying to hide it and let me you even though you were hurt—and you didn’t even blame him. You made up some bull excuse for a guy you didn’t know—who hurt you—and you did the ing same for Hwang-ing-Dongsun and I don’t know how you do it, hyung. I’ll never understand how—but—you, it’s just—you’ve been through so ing much and you’re still happy.”

The younger man’s arm is bruise-tight around Kikwang’s waist right now and he wants to ask Dongwoon to loosen his hold just a little bit but the words won’t even form. Kikwang can’t speak right now because his mind is in a whirlwind (the way it always seems to become when he’s around Dongwoon). Dongwoon’s face lightens infinitesimally as he nudges Kikwang. “Good enough for you, hyung? I can go on if you want me to—but if you want me to finish, you won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”

          Honestly?

          Kikwang doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to think anymore—he has no idea what he wants right now, and doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to sleep tonight. He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to sleep with all of this swirling around in his head.

It’s just—it’s not—it’s not even a bad thing. None of this is bad, and he thinks that maybe that’s the problem. That he expected for Dongwoon to say something else (not quite sure what), something that—just—wasn’t any of this, and Kikwang doesn’t understand how Dongwoon can even make the fact that Kikwang’s jokes sound like a good thing (is that even a reason for someone to love Kikwang? Does that even count? Is it valid?).

          He stands up slowly, facing Dongwoon and straddling the younger man’s lap. Kikwang gazes into Dongwoon’s eyes as steadily as he can (not every steady at all—he just hopes that he’s not shaking—noticeably). A part of Kikwang thinks that maybe this is it—maybe this is where he needs to draw the line, where the doubting and wondering and pondering and if’s and but’s all need to be cut off and thrown out. A part of Kikwang thinks that maybe the rest of Kikwang needs to finish realizing that Dongwoon is different—needs to realize that Kikwang is ing stupid for not expecting the younger man to say something exactly like this because Dongwoon is different.

          Kikwang’s always known the difference between Dongwoon and everyone else before him in Kikwang’s life. It’s just, now, he thinks that maybe he’s only thought about the obvious differences. Maybe he just needed to realize, to find out, exactly how different Dongwoon is (has been and always will be).

 

 

 

 

 

 

          “You okay, hyung?” Dongwoon offers a tiny smile—hesitant, almost like he’s afraid of what’s whirling and swirling around in Kikwang’s mind right now in reaction to everything Dongwoon’s just said.

          Kikwang smiles back—a firmer smile, certain and reassuring (and reassured). “For the record,” he says, leaning in and by the way Dongwoon is already twining his arms around the older man’s waist Kikwang is glad that the younger man seems to always so easily understand everything without any words wasted between them, “your jokes a lot more than mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

          That’s the difference between Dongwoon and everyone else (the difference between the people who surround Kikwang now and the people who used to surround him). Dongwoon kept looking after everyone else stopped—Dongwoon sees what everyone else didn’t bother to.

          Dongwoon sees what even Kikwang himself didn’t even know existed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Kikwang is already drifting off to sleep, balancing on the precarious edge of unconsciousness when he feels Dongwoon press against the older man’s back, arms around Kikwang’s waist underneath the blankets (that Kikwang sort of wants to kick off despite how cold it is outside because right now he’s sweaty and and sweaty and just really sweaty). He doesn’t understand how Dongwoon even has enough strength to move, let alone pull Kikwang close like that because Kikwang personally feels utterly limp. And really wants to sleep (his mind, tonight and throughout the past week, has been surprised and shocked and blown to exhaustion, and his body—throughout the past few hours—has also been blown to exhaustion—amongst other things).

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon whispers through the darkness.

          Kikwang sighs, and turns around against the mattress, lying on his side with his face inches away from Dongwoon’s. “What?”

          Even through the darkness, the smile that dances across Dongwoon’s lips is clear and one of the younger man’s hands comes up to cup Kikwang’s face—thumb along Kikwang’s bottom lip, dragging over his cheekbone, up the bridge of his nose, down his hairline, grazing over the side of his face before finally stopping to through Kikwang’s hair. “You know it’s not why I love you,” Dongwoon says impishly, his smile turning mischievous, “but the whole hot-as- thing is really a great bonus, hyung.”

          Kikwang rolls his eyes (and breaks into a smile so wide that it kind of hurts his face). “Thanks, Dongwoon-ah,” he laughs (he was planning on repressing it but he’s been around Dongwoon long enough to know that it won’t work anyway). He grins and pats Dongwoon’s cheek. “You’re kind of hot too.”

          Dongwoon raises an eyebrow, catching Kikwang’s hand as it draws away from the younger man’s face. He threads their fingers together. “Kind of?” he snorts. “Hyung, I’m a god.”

          Kikwang blinks slowly. “Yeah,” he says after a moment of staring. “Your jokes definitely a lot more than mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon doesn’t go to work for the next few days.

          Doojoon has apparently given him those days off to give Doojoon some time to speak to his father, to speak to his mother, and to speak to Dongsun. And apparently, as Yoseob tells Kikwang over the phone, Doojoon can’t speak to Dongsun if Dongsun is dead and it probably wouldn’t be the greatest thing to have Dongwoon on trial for murder. Dongwoon’s protests on how he does have self-control are more or less useless to Doojoon and Yoseob’s ears and both of them have completely stopped taking calls and texts from Dongwoon’s cell phone.

          They’ve also stopped contacting Dongwoon for the time being, only giving information to Kikwang—with Yoseob telling him that it’s about Kikwang so why should they tell these things to Dongwoon first? “Dongwoonie’s why we met you,” Yoseob says to Kikwang over the phone on the second day of Dongwoon’s office-banishment-period, “but he’s not why we’re friends with you.”

          Kikwang thinks that this is going to be an entirely new problem he’ll have to deal with—trying to keep on believing Dongwoon’s words because it’s hard to believe Kikwang is special to Dongwoon when Dongwoon’s always been surrounded with people far greater (like Yoseob—like Doojoon). But he’ll try—he will. Dongwoon doesn’t lie, doesn’t hide what he feels from Kikwang—so the only thing Kikwang can do is believe him (it’s not that he doesn’t want to believe Dongwoon—it’s just that sometimes it’s still hard to see how Dongwoon can really think that about Kikwang when everything around them always points otherwise—when there are far better people in Dongwoon’s life who Kikwang could never compare with).

          But in spite of all that, there still seems to be something that Dongwoon finds in Kikwang and in Kikwang only, and while Kikwang still isn’t exactly one-hundred-percent sure of what it is, he supposes that as long as Dongwoon is beside him and he’s beside Dongwoon, that’s all that matters—worrying about all the reasons in between is pointless.

          Plus—there’s also the possibility that there might not even be a reason.

          It’s not like Dongwoon’s ever been the most reason-based person anyway.

          The younger man throws Kikwang an irritable look as the older man walks into the living room. “No,” Dongwoon says, arms folded and glaring at the screen of his laptop as it rests on his lap. “I’m filled with reason. Doojoonie-hyung and Yoseobie-hyung are the ones who’re unreasonable.”

          “Because they don’t want you to go to jail?” Kikwang asks, smiling faintly, as he pads past Dongwoon towards the windows. It’s early in the morning and the blinds haven’t been opened yet to let in the winter sunlight.

          “You don’t go to jail for battery and assault,” Dongwoon mutters. “Not if there’s no evidence.”

          Kikwang stops in front of the younger man, taking the laptop off of Dongwoon’s lap and putting it down on the ottoman. Their gazes connect and Dongwoon takes Kikwang’s hands, fingers twining together as Kikwang stands between Dongwoon’s legs. “How is there no evidence for battery and assault?” Kikwang says, amused.

          “You burn it,” Dongwoon says with a straight face.

          “That’s murder,” Kikwang says, blinking.

          Dongwoon’s jaw is tight. “No. It’s called capital punishment and it’s perfectly what that -up deserves.”

          Kikwang huffs a tiny sigh—a tiny smile—and runs the backs of his fingers hesitantly along Dongwoon’s cheekbone. “Yeah—this is exactly why Yoseobie and Doojoon-hyung are giving you days off.”

          Dongwoon merely continues to look sullen until his eyes glance to the side and something lights up in them—something like realization as he looks back to Kikwang’s face. The younger man grins slightly and Kikwang raises his eyebrows. “It’s nice to hear you call them like that,” Dongwoon says lightly.

          “What?” Kikwang blinks.

          “Yoseobie and Doojoon-hyung,” Dongwoon smiles.

          Kikwang rolls his eyes, biting at his own smile. “Yah,” he stops Dongwoon’s face and yanks at the younger man’s hair (“Ow—hyung, what the ”). “I can’t have friends?”

          Dongwoon grins (wincing a little and rubbing at his head from where Kikwang pulled his hair). “Nah,” he wrinkles his nose. “Who the hell wants to be friends with you?”

          “I’ll ing have you know,” Kikwang says, climbing onto the sofa and straddling Dongwoon’s lap, “that they like me better than you—so there.”

          Dongwoon’s hands rest on Kikwang’s thighs. “Really?” Dongwoon asks playfully, raising an eyebrow as his hands slide higher, gripping the waistband of Kikwang’s sweatpants. The older man feels warm fingertips slipping beneath his shirt and Kikwang slides his own hands underneath Dongwoon’s sweater. “Y’know,” the younger man says, teasingly thoughtful, “they only like you more because you’re hot.”

          It doesn’t hurt his ears anymore so much, Kikwang thinks.

          Because the way Yoseob and Doojoon and Dongwoon mean it, hot and y and attractive never only entails what they can see on Kikwang. So it doesn’t hurt Kikwang’s ears anymore—it’s not confusing to Kikwang anymore. Because, now, he understands why it’s a complement even though he didn’t do anything to look this way.

          “You don’t think I’m hot?” Kikwang challenges coolly, as he sets to Dongwoon’s jeans.

          Dongwoon cups Kikwang’s face, brings their lips close. “I’ll show you what I think,” he whispers against Kikwang’s mouth, grinning.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

          You meet his eyes as he comes out of Doojoon’s office (you’re glad Kikwang didn’t come to the office today—you’re glad that Yoseob took him out somewhere).

          His face is expressionless, maybe hints of something shaken, something upended just in the light of his eyes, but otherwise he’s straight-faced as he tugs neatly at his tie and adjusts the lapels of his suit jacket. You’re within speaking distance of him (since you’re next to go into Doojoon’s office—that’s why you’re standing here after all).

          You know exactly what he’s just been told—you know that the papers he’s holding in one hand more or less spell out his banishment from the majority of the business world—exiles him from ever getting a position even nearly as high as the he has now (no longer has now). Personally, when Doojoon detailed to you what his parents say they could do, you thought it was absolutely nothing—absolutely pointless.

          You still do.

          Banishing Dongsun from high society, taking away all of his assets, more or less making him a social pariah—silenced forever on pain of having even more taken away—you personally think that’s nothing. Compared to what he did and said to Kikwang, it’s nothing. And while, in actuality, they could do a lot more—it would have to be at the expense of Kikwang’s own safety (Kikwang would have to relay his story time and time again and Dongwoon doesn’t want to think about what that would feel like).

          That’s something Dongwoon doesn’t want to risk (not just safety—even worse, it might force Kikwang to relive what no one should ever even have to go through once again and again).

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

          You aren’t angry—there’s no fury when your gaze connects with his for that moment. You don’t feel any rage bubbling up inside of you the way you did when you first found out—and the days that followed, the days you were forced to stay away from the office.

          It’s all gone and, as you look at him, all you feel is pity.

          Pity that isn’t reserved solely for him—pity for him, and pity for every single person who’s ever hurt Kikwang the way you could never understand. You never understood why so many people hurt him—could never and will never understand. So that’s why, you think, that there’s pity. There’s no other way for you to describe the feeling that pools inside your chest.

          It’s pity because you feel sorry for him—and for all the others.

          You pity them for never taking the chance to know Lee Kikwang past the face, past the body.

          Really—it’s a shame.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Also.

          You think that Doojoon can probably forgive you just this one time (you’re the maknae after all, and you’re allowed to be a little immature here and there).

          Which is why you dust off your knuckles against your pants and ask Hyuna to call security so they can please carry Hwang Dongsun-shii off the premises—and maybe make sure that he’s properly conscious (and his nose isn’t broken too badly) before he’s allowed to drive.