Most of the time, Kyungsoo really hates his parents.

He doesn’t have any concrete memory of either of his parents ever giving a about him, not ever. Not when he was eleven and making dinner for himself every weekend. Not when he was thirteen and paying for all of his school supplies with money earned from two summers of yard work and dog walking. And definitely not when he was fifteen and pissed off, purposefully failing classes and causing trouble, begging for attention with every day skipped and curse uttered.

But now, especially on nights like this, Kyungsoo can’t help but be grateful for his parents near constant absence.

Yifan is sitting rigid on Kyungsoo’s formerly pristine bed spread, his straw-blond hair hiding his dark eyes from view. He has one arm curled protectively in front of his torso, his long fingers pulling at the fabric of his tee shirt. A purpling, palm shaped bruise wraps around his wrist, and another, this one darker and more defined, colors the pale skin of his throat.

Kyungsoo was sat in front of him, kneeling on his slightly dingy carpet with his hands on Yifan’s knees.

The house was totally silent but for the soft hitch of Yifan’s breathing and the shifting of clothing as Kyungsoo waited patiently for Yifan to speak.

He doesn’t have to wait for very long. Yifan’s breathing quiets until its practically soundless, a habit he indulges in whenever he feels uncomfortable.

Kyungsoo sits up straighter and grips Yifan’s knees tighter.

“I need some burn cream and an ice pack. And maybe some paper towels, or napkins or something.” Yifan’s voice doesn’t tighten in shame like it used too, but it is wet and hoarse, painful sounding.

Kyungsoo nods and pats Yifan’s thigh before rising and making his way to the hall closet, where he keeps the first aid supplies.

“I got it. Make yourself at home.”

Yifan snorts, and a smile dances at the corner of Kyungsoo’s lips as he leaves the room.

He wastes no time in retrieving the items Yifan had requested, and he’s back in his room in under a minute.

Yifan is standing in front of Kyungsoo’s full length floor mirror, in the middle of removing his shirt. In the reflection, Kyungsoo can see the grimace stuck on Yifan’s face as he disrobes; sees the sweat beaded on his creased forehead and the blood coloring the corner of his pursed mouth.

Dropping the supplies on his bed, Kyungsoo is at Yifan’s side before the older boy can blink. Yifan feels Kyungsoo’s chilly fingers brush against the small of his back as he too gripped the thin fabric.

“Lift.” Kyungsoo orders.

Yifan raises his arms as high as he can bear, stifling a moan that was half pain, half anticipation of relief.

Kyungsoo lifts the black fabric quickly, careful not to aggravate the dark bruising that mottles Yifan’s back. The shirt finally off, Kyungsoo tosses it onto his bed as Yifan lowers his arms and turns to face the shorter boy. Kyungsoo fights to keep a neutral expression.

Scattered haphazardly over Yifan’s chest are four small, circular burns, each about the size of a pencil eraser. One of them almost disappears into Yifan’s right underarm, while another is dangerously close to the sensitive peak of his left . The skin around them is shiny and tight, and the borders of the burns themselves are blackened and puckered pink.

Kyungsoo wants to cry. He settles for grabbing Yifan’s shaking hand to lead him back to the bed, sitting him down with a gentle push.

“Dad’s smoking again.” Yifan whispers it like a secret, his mouth curling up in a bitter grin that draws attention to the blood staining his teeth.

Kyungsoo simply nods, blinking frustrated tears from his eyes.

He squeezes a dollop of the goopy burn cream onto his fingertips, staining them blue as he warms it with the pad of his thumb. He dabs the small marks delicately, wincing in time to Yifan’s steadily stiffening shoulders. As Kyungsoo works on his chest, Yifan takes the ice pack and tilts his head back, pressing it tenderly to the bruising on his throat.

Kyungsoo blows gently on each burn once they’re thoroughly covered in turquoise goop, soothing the ache and setting the cream to help minimalize the inevitable scarring. He finishes with a feather light kiss beside each one, the muscles in Yifan’s chest relaxing bit by bit with each pass.

By the time Kyungsoo is done, Yifan has moved the ice pack from his neck to his wrist.

Kyungsoo grabs the paper towels and rips one in half, folding it into a small, neat square. Yifan laughs.

“You’re so weird.”

Kyungsoo’s cheeks heat up against his will, and he pinches Yifan’s thigh through his jeans in retaliation. Yifan laughs again, some darkness clearing from his eyes, and Kyungsoo finds himself grinning along.

He reaches up from his spot on the floor to gingerly take Yifan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. His tilts it up gently, surveying the damage.

There’s some hardly noticeable bruising around Yifan’s left eye that’ll probably be gone by morning. It’s not swelling, at least. a corner of his napkin, Kyungsoo brings it to the corner of Yifan’s swollen mouth, wiping tenderly at the corners.

As the blood clears, a wide split is revealed in the center. Kyungsoo winces in apology as he wipes over it, Yifan grimacing at the sting. It’s not worthy of any stitches, but it’ll smart for a few days as it closes up. As Yifan prods tentatively at his lower lip, Kyungsoo gives his brow the same treatment.

The bruise isn’t deep, and the skin around it is still soft and smooth with no tension in it.

“Don’t worry, Wu, you’ll be pretty again in no time.” Kyungsoo quips fondly, brushing the tips of his fingers across the bridge of Yifan’s nose.

Yifan smiles down at him, the pained wrinkles around his eyes fading as he’s finally able to relax. The tension bleeds out of him like blood from an open wound, and Kyungsoo visualizes a dark, heavy cloud being cleared from the room.

“Hey, can I stay here tonight?” Yifan asks, unnecessarily.

Kyungsoo simply shoots him a look, eyebrow raised, that has the older boy fidgeting where he sits.

Kyungsoo stands and collects the bloody tissue and ointment, leaving to go dispose of the tissue and return the cream to its spot next to the ace bandages in the first aid closet. He makes sure to hide the paper towels beneath some day-old potato skins. This is one instance where he’d prefer that his parents didn’t show interest.

Back in his room, Yifan has moved from the bed to Kyungsoo’s rolling desk chair. Yifan had once explained that the smooth plastic covering the back support felt wonderful on new bruises.

“You want your pajamas?” Kyungsoo asked, gesturing towards his bureau.

Yifan nods once before stilling suddenly, a wince pulling at the corners of his mouth. His hand goes up to press the ice pack at his throat again.

“Yes, please.” His voice is a husky rasp.

Kyungsoo clenches his fists and goes to rifle through the bottom drawer. He pulls out the set of sleeping clothes Yifan had brought over the twenty-seventh time he’d slunk over to the younger boy’s house, bloodied and bruised and too scared to go back home.

They’re simple, black cotton sweatpants and a white tee shirt that Kyungsoo secretly thinks must have belonged to Yifan’s mother. He’s never asked.

Yifan takes the clothes and strips down with all the grace of a rheumatic eighty-year-old. He gets the pants on with no problem, but seems to be debating whether or not it’ll be worth the hassle to put the shirt on.

“I wouldn’t. I don’t think the burn stuff is dried yet.” Kyungsoo speaks up helpfully.

Yifan just shrugs and tosses it on the chair he’d just vacated. Kyungsoo sighs long-sufferingly and goes to retrieve it, folding it meticulously before putting it back in the drawer. Yifan huffs a breathy laugh as he moves to the bed and goes to lie down on his back.

His face twists in a grimace and the muscles in his arms tremble as he tries to control his fall onto the pillows against the headboard. Kyungsoo’s skin crawls with the need to do something, to help him and soothe his many hurts, but he resists. Yifan is uncommonly proud, most likely a defense mechanism born of the many years he’s spent being constantly berated and belittled by his poor excuse of a father. He’s obsessed with being strong and independent. The only time Kyungsoo ever sees Yifan show any semblance of weakness is when he’s just arrived at his doorstep after a bad night, and the fear, pain, and indignation has yet to clear from his eyes.

A soft noise draws Kyungsoo’s attention back to the bed.

Yifan is gazing at Kyungsoo imploringly, his lower lip stuck out and his hands out and making grabby motions. His eyes glitter with mischief, and Kyungsoo doesn’t even try to stop the stupid smile from blossoming across his face.

He climbs in next to Yifan, having already been in his pajamas when Yifan had arrived.

The taller boy wraps his arms around Kyungsoo, maneuvering until his cheek rests against the point of the smaller boy’s narrow shoulder. Kyungsoo brings a hand up to run his fingers through Yifan’s light hair; slightly wispy on top from the many colors it had been dyed.

The house was silent as the two boys huddled close, their breathing and heart beats synchronized.

Normally, Kyungsoo would be perfectly content to lay with his boyfriend, wrapped up in each other to enjoy the quiet.

But tonight, he just can’t.

Yifan’s injuries are worse than they had been in months. His father had found a job, he’d cut back on his drinking, it seemed like things had been getting better. Even Yifan himself was starting to be less jumpy, less inclined to flinch at the slightest movements.

So this, whatever it is, can’t be ignored. No matter how much either of them wants to just forget.

“Wu?”

Yifan makes a quiet noise in response, burrowing his face deeper into the fabric of Kyungsoo’s baggy sweatshirt. Kyungsoo swallows down the guilt he feels and continues.

“I thought that things were, I don’t know… better?”

Yifan doesn’t necessarily tense up, but his breathing does get quieter.

“Me too.” Yifan’s throat still sounds bad, but the ice pack is on Kyungsoo’s desk. They both stay where they are; frightened that the barest twitch could skew the delicate line they’re walking.

“So what set this off, do you think?”

There’s a few beats of silence before Yifan answers.

“I came home late.”

Kyungsoo has to fight to keep from clenching his fist in Yifan’s hair and shaking some sense into his dense head. Even Kyungsoo knew how stiffly Yifan’s father upholds curfew, it’s one of the only rules the bastard enforces.

So why had Yifan broken it?

“Why the hell would you—”

“Why?” Yifan spits, cutting Kyungsoo off mid-sentence. The taller boy sits up suddenly, twisting into a position that obviously aggravates his wounds to look Kyungsoo dead in the face. His thick brows are drawn down in pain, but he keeps his gaze locked onto the younger boy’s.

“Because him, that’s why.”

There’s a fierce light burning behind Yifan’s eyes, and his hands are clenched into bruising claws around the smaller boy’s thighs. Kyungsoo winces, but Yifan either doesn’t notice, or is too caught up in his head to react.

“That bastard doesn’t own me, and I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe him , Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo can tell Yifan is about to start actually panicking soon. His pupils are huge and dark, and his breath wheezes out of his swollen throat in sharp, painful sounding pulls. He has to calm down. Kyungsoo puts his hands over Yifan’s and looks him in the eye, grounding him.

“Yifan, you’re hurting me.”

Yifan’s face changes so quickly then, the angry scowl replaced with a look of absolute, internalized horror. He yanks his hands back so fast that he falls backwards, his bruised back connecting solidly with the thick oak bedpost at the corner of the mattress. He doesn’t flinch, but Kyungsoo does. The younger boy reaches out to comfort him, but Yifan flinches violently away. Kyungsoo is starting to regret asking what he had.

Yifan pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, hiding his face away in the space between his elbows.

“God, Kyungsoo, I’m so sorry,” Yifan chokes out. His large hands weave into his long hair, roughly yanking on the strands, pulling some out with muted pops as the follicles tear. “ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean too, I swear.” Yifan sounds absolutely distraught now, and his knuckles are white with the force of his grip on his hair.

 And then, as if Kyungsoo wasn’t already feeling bad enough, Yifan goes and whispers something else in that tiny, scared voice.

“I don’t wanna be like him, Soo. I just don’t wanna be like my dad.”

Kyungsoo’s heart tears right in half.

Of course Yifan would react badly to finding out he was accidentally hurting somebody, given who his father was. Does he really feel like he’s going to turn into that drunken son of a ? Is it really that bad?

Kyungsoo slides forward onto his knees and places his hands over Yifan’s trembling ones, gradually getting him to loosen his grip.

“Wu, baby, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

Kyungsoo pulls Yifan’s arms up towards his chest, forcing him to raise his head. His eyes are huge and wet, regret pouring from them in a near-tangible flood. He opens his mouth to refuse Kyungsoo’s forgiveness, but a gentle shake of the younger boys head has him shutting it immediately, cheeks flushing in shame.

“You are not going to turn into that man, Yifan. You’re too good for that.”

Yifan simply lowers his eyes in self-deprecation, too used to disappointment to hold hope for anything.

Kyungsoo pulls Yifan forward, until the taller boy is half resting in Kyungsoo’s lap, his posture stiff with barely concealed pain.

“You know how I know you’re too good for that?” Kyungsoo’s voice is shaking, but he smiles playfully down at the back of Yifan’s head. Yifan twists, slowly, so that he can look up at the smiling boy above him, his gaze questioning, if not a little wary.

“I know because I love you, Yifan. And I could never love someone like that man. Not in a million lifetimes.”

This is hardly the first time one of them had confessed to the other. Not even close. Yifan was a closet sap with a pension for dramatic and romantic declarations. Kyungsoo was more of a casanova, albeit a goofy one. ‘Anonymous’ roses left in school desks and chaste kisses stolen between dorky laughs was more his style. Either way, they were both big on expressing their love for each other, and in pretty obvious ways.

But this felt different, somehow.

Maybe it was the quiet of the house, or the yellow-blue bruising radiating heat through Kyungsoo’s sweater from Yifan’s back. Or maybe it was the tears in Yifan’s eyes, or the lump in Kyungsoo’s throat. Neither really read too much into it.

Yifan just smiled softly, the smile that showed too much gum and revealed the sneaky dimples in his cheeks. Kyungsoo snorted the laugh that only Yifan was special enough to hear, and leaned down to press his lips to the heated skin of Yifan’s cheekbone. It was hardly a kiss, just a gentle reassurance of everything Kyungsoo felt for his scarred, beautiful idiot of a boyfriend.

Yifan understood.

He pulled Kyungsoo down by his shoulders, laying him down beside him on the comfortable down duvet. They were both on their sides, facing each other. Kyungsoo almost felt a little self-conscious, being confronted with the full force of Yifan’s sleepy, content face, a face that made girl’s swoon and guy’s seethe. But it was the look in Yifan’s eyes, the pure, unadulterated adoration that swam there, that helped Kyungsoo’s ego re-inflate a bit.

 They were lying on the bed horizontally, Yifan’s feet sticking off the side. Normally it would irk Kyungsoo, make him grumble and grump until Yifan conceded in flipping them the right way.

But right now, he really didn’t give a damn.

 

 

A/N: Is it obvious I like the fics where it gets worse before it gets betters? Super angst before super fluff? Well it should be. Comment with thoughts, concerns or questions!