Jongdae is the one to speak first, and Yixing wonders if there's some sort of tally going – who reaches out first – who gives in, who lets their shared weakness win. “Hey,” he says softly, drink held in one hand. Yixing knows even without looking that it's alcoholic.

It's the only vice Jongdae has.

“Hey,” he says back, awkward despite their voluminous history.

Jongdae takes a sip of the amber liquid in his glass. Whiskey, Yixing thinks. Probably malt. No doubt expensive. “How are you?” He asks. It's a useless question, just an excuse to start a conversation neither of them are sure they truly want.

“Fine,” he tells him, watching as the shadows deepen Jongdae's already sharp cheekbones. Over a decade later, and he still looks like he needs several square meals. Does he ever eat? “You?”

“Mhm, fine,” he laughs at their shared answer. Yixing doesn't probe, doesn't ask what he's been doing with himself. He doesn't want to know – he doesn't want to hear about the girl SM force him to date, or the men he sleeps with behind her back.

He just wants to see him. To pretend – just for a moment – that they can be something resembling friends.

“Your album did well,” he says eventually, “didn't it?” There's no point asking. He knows it did – knows because he spent hours scouring the internet to see how well Jongdae was doing, for a glimpse of what he looked like this comeback. He owns every single one of Jongdae's albums. Pre-orders them every time, even though Jongdae always sends him one with the same note. What do you think of this one?

He can never say how much he cherishes the fact the note is always handwritten.

Jongdae takes a large gulp of his drink, wincing a little as it burns his throat. “Yeah. Could be better,” he gives a one-shouldered shrug, “but I'm not in trouble, so that's good.”

The words aren't exactly modest, but Yixing knows he doesn't mean to sound arrogant. They never expected him to do so well – it sounds horrible, but it's true. He'd never been one of the popular ones; his fans, while somewhat vocal, had never reached the same height as Kyungsoo or Baekhyun's – so when his first solo album outsold theirs, it had been a shock.

For the first two, Yixing had been as ecstatic as Jongdae. After the third one, it had started to wear.

He's not a jealous man – at least, he doesn't think he is – but even the kindest individual would have some trouble with their other half excelling in their shared dream. He'd disappeared. Gone back to being a backing dancer, occasionally singing if he got the chance.

It's not a bad life. Certainly easier than Jongdae's. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when he realises he could never reach the heights Jongdae has. Part of it is his ethnicity; Korea would never accept a Chinese man singing in Korean by himself, not truly. And he'd never have made it in his home country, not after EXO. Another part of it is that Jongdae is just a better singer.

He's always known that, always loved Jongdae's voice – he's never begrudged him that. He was a better dancer; Jongdae was a better singer – that was how it had always been.

He swallows down the bitter words, and instead gives the other man the compliment he deserves. “I liked it.”

Jongdae looks up, surprised. He's never told him that before. He generally avoids any talk of Jongdae's music. Jongdae gathers himself. “Thank you,” he still looks shocked, “it was one of my better ones.”

Yixing says nothing of how the lyrics struck him as particularly personal. He knows Jongdae doesn't want to discuss the pain lacing every song. “They're always good,” he looks down at his hands, not ready to admit this face-to-face.

“So you do listen,” Jongdae says slowly, as if this is all news to him. Yixing wonders why this is such a surprise. Did he really forget how sentimental he is? “I always wondered...”

“Hard not to,” Yixing snorts wryly, “they're all over the radio.” All over his iTunes library, he means. He's fairly sure they're the most-listened to albums.

Jongdae doesn't respond, still too caught up in his little revelation. He holds his glass near his lips, but doesn't take a drink, instead setting it down on the surface next to him. “Why didn't you ever reply?” He asks suddenly.

Yixing doesn't say anything. He just looks at him.

Jongdae turns away. “I'm sorry,” he mutters, voice uneven. “I'm sorry, okay. I never meant...” He swallows again. “I'm just sorry,” he finishes lamely.

He knows that the right thing to do is to tell him that it's not his fault. That he deserves his success. That he forgives him. But all of those things would ring false, and he loves Jongdae enough not to lie to him.

“I'm sorry too,” he says instead, and knows he means it. He's sorry for how it ended – for being too weak to deal with his jealousy, too cruel to end it cleanly.

“I thought about giving it all up, you know.” The words are barely audible, as if Jongdae is afraid of being overheard. The words send a jolt through Yixing's stomach, and he fights to keep the shock off his face.

Jongdae would never...he couldn't – this isn't true. “Why?” His voice shakes, and he regrets the question as soon as it's out of his mouth. He doesn't need to know. He doesn't want to know. He's spent so long establishing a life without Jongdae, and yet – he knows one little word from Jongdae could bring it all crumbling down.

“Don't ask me that,” Jongdae laughs, the sound harsh. His hand trembles, the ice in his glass clinking. “Just don't.”

They both hear the unspoken words, as they always do. It happens every time they run into each other. Every reunion is fraught with unsaid emotion, wordless anger – neither of them able to articulate what they really feel. They just give in to their bodies' reactions to one another.

The first touch is tiny, Jongdae's finger tips grazing his arm hesitantly, afraid to make the first move. The second is less tenuous, not as fleeting. Yixing takes a hold of his other hand.

They regard each other carefully. “So,” Yixing says, aware of the way his body strains to be released. The warmth he always feels around the other man is unavoidable, no matter how much he tries to deny its existence.

“So,” Jongdae repeats, voice low, unintentionally inviting. Yixing closes his eyes, unable to stop the onslaught of memories.

This shouldn't be happening, but Yixing finds it hard to care. He tries so hard to forget Jongdae most of the time that being in close contact with him is dizzying. They're only human. Their weakness is inherent.

His hands are surprisingly steady as he reaches into his pocket, and brings up his room key. “108,” he murmurs, dropping it in Jongdae's outstretched hand.

Eyes wide, Jongdae nods. They've done it before, too many times to count. He knows the rules.

Yixing turns away, a mixture of emotions churning in his gut. As he walks back to the tense little group on the sofas, he can feel Jongdae's gaze burning into his back.

He refuses to regret his choice.

***

Their excuses to get out of the reunion are pathetic, but no one says anything and he's thankful for that. They take separate cars – a necessity when Jongdae is still famous enough for people to care about who he's seen with – and arrive at different times.

Jongdae is waiting for him when he slips into the room, the door left slightly open. There are no words. Talking will ruin the spell, and he doesn't want to talk any more. He just wants to feel.

It's like coming home, he thinks hazily, as his back hits the bed and Jongdae climbs on top of him. The feel of Jongdae's body against his is too familiar, the heat trailing through him making a mockery of his attempts to forget how much he missed him.

The first kiss is more of an exploration than anything else, one hand in Jongdae's hair – kept military-short this comeback – and the other down his pants. He loves the way he moans, the way his mouth nibbles down his neck as Yixing wanks him off.

He forgot how beautiful Jongdae's voice could be in real life.

The second kiss is more heated, harder. Desperate, even, as the clothes come off and he takes his time discovering what has changed and what has stayed the same. He finds a tattoo he's never seen on Jongdae's hip, and as his tongue laps against it Jongdae speaks. “It's a stupid form of rebellion,” he mutters breathlessly, back arching as Yixing gently.

Yixing understands, but doesn't say anything, instead too interested in the way Jongdae's twitches. He's a physical sort of a man, always has been, and his mouth closes around Jongdae's , he loves the little 'oh' sound he makes.

They're quick with each other, like gluttons stuffing down everything within their sight. They've been starved too long, and Yixing drinks in the way Jongdae kisses a sloppy line down his abdomen, hissing a breath through his teeth when he blows him in return. When they , Yixing can barely breathe, the push and pull setting his body on fire.

They cling to one another, the bed creaking every time Yixing s. Their hands interlinked, above their heads, as Yixing drives inside and causes Jongdae to babble something incomprehensible about his dancer's hips.

The I love you slips out unintentionally, but he finds he doesn't mind, too busy burying himself in Jongdae's warmth, fingers tracing the angles of his face.

“I miss you,” Jongdae breathes, catching his fingers in his hand.

Yixing kisses him to keep him from saying anything else.

Because he's dangerously close to saying I miss you too.