Glitterburn || 閃耀小溪

Fic: Incandescent [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 16:22:41 GMT

Title: Incandescent
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: R
Summary: As Changmin was only too happy to tell the world on Moonlight Prince, he likes candle wax.
Content notes: Sensation play.

Incandescent
He’s trying to study, and the guy next door is playing loud music.

Changmin lets out a slow breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. He tightens his grip near the back of his head then releases it, relaxing his hand down onto the dining table. He needs to concentrate, needs to cram as much knowledge into his mind as he can before he goes to bed.

Candlelight flicks and weaves, sending shimmers of illumination across his books. It’s late. Darkness edges the room, bringing with it the slight chill of night. He should put on a sweater or something; he’s only wearing an old, pale green t-shirt and a pair of striped sleeping shorts. He should get up and turn on the lights so he can see properly, but he likes to study with a row of candle-flames beside him.

Nudging a book closer to the candles, he gazes at the long licks of fire, bright enough in the middle to leave sun-spots on his vision and ragged at the tip where the flame wavers.

Fourteen candles are arranged along the left side of the table. Some nestle inside glass jars. A few cluster in a saucer, little stubby things, their overspill already fused together in gradations of cream. Here are short, fat candles with deep hollows where the wick burns; over there are tall, narrow candles ribbed like stalagmites. All of them are the same off-white of paraffin; all of them are scented.

His mother once told him that scent aids memory. When he was a young teenager, she’d light candles in his room and tell him to focus. It didn’t always work, but it’s a belief he’s carried with him, a habit he’s created, and now he doesn’t like studying without warmth and scent and gentle light.

The candles have myriad fragrances. Vanilla, sandalwood, jasmine, rose, frankincense—a sweet, touching richness that hangs in the air.

The bass line thuds through the wall, a dull whump-whump. Changmin frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t help. He huffs a sigh that disturbs the nearest flames, then returns to his books.

The volume cranks up even louder. Changmin grits his teeth. Tension knots his spine. This is too much. Pushing back his chair with sharp irritation, he crosses the room and bangs on Yunho’s door, then kicks it for good measure. “Shut up!”

The door opens. Noise blasts out. Yunho peers at him. “What?”

Changmin makes a turn it down, fuckwit gesture.

Yunho gives him a long look, then closes the door.

The music continues unabated. Changmin shakes his head, rolls his shoulders to release some of the tension, then goes back to the table and sits down. He stares at the dance of the flames, breathing in the warm scent, struggling to find calm and focus.

And then the music is silenced. Not turned down, but silenced mid-song.

Changmin relaxes. He pulls his books nearer and continues reading.

Behind him, Yunho’s door opens. Closes.

The words blur on the page. Changmin stares, watching the characters swim in the uneven light. He tries to concentrate, tries to attend to the paragraph in front of him. He’s read it three times now and he still doesn’t know what it says. Neither does he care; all his awareness is reaching behind him. He knows Yunho is looking at him, and the knowledge makes his pulse jump, makes his blood slide cold and then race hot. His breathing gets softer as he strains to hear beyond the faint hiss-crackle of the fourteen flames beside him.

He wishes the music was still playing. He longs for noise, because then he could ignore Yunho’s presence, then he’d be able to concentrate on his studies and not on the man watching him.

Changmin imagines Yunho standing there, lounging against the doorjamb, gaze dark on the sweep of Changmin’s shoulders and his pale nape and the way the t-shirt dips at the back. He can imagine the intensity and the intent in that gaze as it starts to kindle and burn.

Hunger makes a fist inside him. Changmin shivers just once, reaction to a breath of cold passing over him. It tightens his body, pebbling his nipples and raising the fine hairs on his forearms.

He moves his left arm closer to the row of candles and absorbs the warmth of the flames, but his teeth are set and his thighs tremble, his right foot jogging up and down until he stops it.

There’s a sound, soft and careless. Yunho has pushed himself away from the door and is coming towards him.

Changmin wants to turn around in his seat and look, but he doesn’t. He can’t. His gaze jitters from the open pages of his books to the flames. They stand straight and true, and then they waver, the lick of fire twisting and fattening and elongating, and then they all judder and puff delicate traceries of black smoke, and Changmin knows Yunho is right behind him.

A whisper of cloth, an exhalation of breath. Changmin starts to curl his hands inwards. Every inch of his exposed skin feels sensitised, charged, waiting. He swallows. His mouth is dry.

A touch. He expected the warmth of Yunho’s hand; instead there’s a slither of fabric, cool and insubstantial. It tickles across his nape and comes to rest over his shoulder, spilling down over his chest. Changmin tears his gaze from the candles and looks at the strip of dark silk. It’s one of Yunho’s ties.

Changmin’s breaths come faster. The flames bow and jerk.

Yunho takes a step closer. He’s almost pressed against the chair. He twitches the tie in silent question.

“Yes.” The word emerges from Changmin tight and aching.

He needs this. He needs the blindfold. It’s not like when he was younger, when he’d discovered this pleasure by accident. That was probably the last time he was innocent. Maybe that’s why he likes revisiting this so much.

These days he can’t surprise himself. It’s not enough to spill wax across his skin and feel the shock of it, the burn and cling and the spread of warming relief. These days he needs to be surprised. He needs Yunho to guide the direction of the wax.

And yes, there’s pleasure in anticipation when he can see the tilt of the candle, the guttering of the flame as it rights itself, the clear gather of molten wax in the hollow of the candle-tip; when he can hold his breath until his heart pounds and he can moan in pleasurable, agonised wanting as he waits for the wax to drip; but it’s nothing, nothing, to the anticipation of those hot, grip-kiss touches when he’s blindfolded.

Yunho gathers the silk and runs the cool sheen of it up the side of Changmin’s neck and across his cheek, and Changmin moans softly, so softly. Then Yunho takes both ends of the tie and settles it over Changmin’s eyes.

He does it gently, taking his time and fastening the knot with care. His fingers tremble; he’s as moved by this as Changmin, but Changmin’s needs come first.

“Good?” Yunho asks, and Changmin nods. His eyes are closed behind the blindfold. He likes the soft pressure of the silk over his face. He enjoys the feel of it warming from his skin, the sound of it when he turns his head and his hair brushes over it. He lets his senses glide. He can hear the flickering of the candles. He can hear Yunho’s breathing. He drifts—

—then jumps when Yunho touches his throat. It’s just the back of Yunho’s fingers, a slow caress upwards. Changmin lifts his head. Yunho catches his thumb beneath Changmin’s chin and makes him tilt back his head, further, further. Changmin’s lips part in protest and invitation.

Yunho holds him there, the position very slightly uncomfortable. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Changmin makes a noise. Not something soft and sexy but loud and embarrassing in its demand.

“Wait.” Yunho sounds amused. He leans down, his breath warm and ticklish as he comes closer. Changmin’s shoulders are aching, the tension locked back into his spine and spreading. He tries to push up from his seat, but Yunho’s free hand comes down onto his left shoulder and holds him still. He strokes Changmin’s throat, down and up and down, and a few other noises unlatch and stumble free.

“I love you,” Yunho whispers, mouth shaping the words over Changmin’s lips.

Still more noises. They mean things like I know and I want you and Please, more than this and Give me what I need, but it’s easier to make these declarations in the form of anxious, breathless moans.

Yunho kisses him. A slick of fire, wet and burning; the hint of tongue, teasing. Changmin reaches for it, opening his mouth. Yunho gives him more, nips at the bow of his top lip, sucks hard and then plunges in his tongue. Changmin groans into the kiss, rousing an answering purr from Yunho.

The angle doesn’t allow Changmin to control the kiss, but he tries regardless. He uses tongue and teeth, rakes kisses across Yunho’s face, bites the ripe swell of Yunho’s lower lip, licks and licks until they’re both panting.

Yunho pulls away. “Stand up,” he says, gruff and dark. “Take my hands.”

Head still swinging from their kiss, Changmin pushes back the chair. He grabs at Yunho’s hands as he lurches to his feet. The chair didn’t go back far enough; he bumps against the table. The jars and saucer rattle. Changmin catches his breath, imagining the candles toppling, wax spilling, flames spreading. He turns his head, but the blindfold is secure across his eyes.

“It’s okay.” Yunho slides an arm around him and strokes his back, easing him closer. “Kiss me.”

The moment of anxiety is soon forgotten. Changmin takes charge of this kiss, teasing pleasure from Yunho’s mouth, tasting the faint memory of cigarette smoke and coffee.

Yunho runs his hands down Changmin’s back and over his ass, first above the shorts, then below. Changmin mews at the contact and tries to push forward. Yunho stops him, slipping a hand around to the front of Changmin’s shorts to take hold of his cock.

A gasp jolts Changmin; his hips stir as Yunho strokes his dick. Then Yunho is rubbing up against him, his own erection thick and solid. Changmin kisses him, hungry and wanting, then makes a disappointed noise when Yunho pulls away again.

“Wait.” There’s the sound of paper being gathered and books being shut, all of it very precise and methodical, and then Yunho makes a low, impatient growl and knocks the study materials off the table onto the floor.

“Sit,” Yunho says, and Changmin steps backwards. He knocks into the table again and corrects his position, feeling the edge pressing against the back of his thighs. He wriggles his ass onto the table and perches there.

Yunho lifts the hem of the t-shirt. Changmin raises his arms and lets Yunho take it off him. There’s a soft thump as it drops to the floor. Yunho’s hands trace over his body, fitting around his ribs and stroking up. He thumbs Changmin’s nipples, a brief strummed caress that sends a shiver through him, and then slides up to smooth over his shoulders. Yunho’s palms press down. “Lie across the table for me.”

Changmin tries to work out where he is in relation to the candles. He gives up. It doesn’t matter. Trusting Yunho to guide him, he leans back, rolling himself flat across the table. He keeps his hands above his head, wrists crossed. His legs hang over the edge. On tiptoes, he can touch the floor.

“Changminnie,” Yunho says, and there’s wonder as soft and dark as smoke in his tone. “Changminnie, I want you naked. I want to look at you.”

Desire trembles through him. Changmin lifts his toes from the floor and squirms a little, attempting to assist Yunho in taking off his shorts. He gets one leg free of his underwear, then feels the fabric slide down his other leg and onto the floor. He jabs his toes at it, scuffling it out of the way.

There’s a long pause. Yunho is looking at him, admiring him spread out and naked. Excitement spirals. Changmin tries to remain still, his pulse jumping, awareness screaming. He points his toes, feeling the strain go through his thighs.

“Gorgeous,” Yunho says. “Oh, you’re gorgeous. I’m going to spill heat all over you, baby. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Changmin hears the need in his voice. Arousal hammers through him. He writhes, rolls a quarter-turn to his right, and then Yunho halts him. He’s close to the row of candles; three, maybe four inches away at most.

Changmin stops mid-squirm. The heat of the flames is gentle against his naked flesh. He opens his eyes behind the blindfold. The weave of the silk is dense, too thick for him to see through directly, but he can see a glow limning the edges of the blindfold. He holds so still he starts to sweat, mouth open as if drinking in the light.

“I won’t let you burn.” Yunho’s voice is closer. He’s changed position around the table. “You won’t burn, but...

A puff of breath, fierce and swift. Changmin jerks as a spray of hot wax spatters over his chest.

His moan of appreciation at the sharp ease of it breaks off when Yunho blows out another candle. More wax splashes, patterning over Changmin’s ribs and across his tensed belly. His breath leaving him in a single desperate exhalation, he rolls flat onto his back. His cock bobs, oozing wetness. Changmin stretches his arms high above his head, grasps at the edge of the table with both hands. His fingers flicker, restless and awkward. He arches his back, hips stuttering; he rocks on his tiptoes, his thighs trembling.

Yunho moves again. He puts his hands on Changmin’s knees, pushing them apart. Changmin dances his toes across the floor. This position feels so open. The long muscles pull all through his thighs. He’s aware of the pulse swift and deep through his femoral arteries. Yunho lays a finger over the vein, high up in the crease where right leg and torso meet, and Changmin writhes, pinioned by his vulnerability, his breath gasping, blood pounding.

His fingers twist and knot. He slicks his lips with his tongue, but the saliva dries too fast and he needs to do it again. Everything’s too hot. He’s burning. He’s desperate for the soothing clasp of the wax over his skin, for the delicate sting of its kiss.

Changmin’s lips work around words he can’t express. Yunho takes pity, leans over him and slides two fingers into his open mouth. Changmin makes a muffled noise of gratitude. Closing his teeth around Yunho’s fingers below the knuckle, he sucks. He moans, long and low, hips rolling as he thrusts against Yunho.

Things tilt and slide, getting away from him, but he has Yunho’s fingers hooked into his mouth and it’s as if he’s caught on a line, frantic and striving but safe. The heat of the candle flames glow beside him. There’s the scent of vanilla and sandalwood; the scent of his body, ripe with sweat and musk. There’s Yunho’s cologne, the headiest scent of all, and the taste of his skin as Changmin nibbles at his fingertips, as he swirls his tongue and makes Yunho groan and say Changmin, oh fuck in a voice rich with lust.

Yunho slips his fingers free and drags them, glistening, down Changmin’s chin, tracing his throat, over his chest, where the wetness of saliva mixes with the gloss of sweat. Yunho rubs his fingers over Changmin’s left nipple. It’s already furled tight. Now it puckers even more as Yunho rolls it between thumb and forefinger, pinching and pinching until Changmin’s mouth drops open and he pants for breath, stabbing his toes at the floor as his thighs strain and quiver.

“Yes,” Yunho says. He bends down, his hair tickling over Changmin’s chest, and licks the very tip of Changmin’s nipple even as he pinches harder.

Changmin cries out. He squirms. Yunho releases him and he moans again at the rush of sensation into his bruised nipple.

Before he can process it fully, he hears the flare of a candle-flame above him. Molten wax spills across his chest, over his right nipple. A flash of pleasure ignites, too brief to be of any use. Changmin grunts and lifts his chest. There’s a flickering wash of heat as Yunho brings the candle lower, and then a fall of hot, spattering rain.

It’s so good, so sweet. Changmin jerks and writhes. His dick is rock hard, wetness sticky-smearing over his belly. The wax is cooling, flaking off where it’s already peeling free of his skin. He needs more. “Please,” Changmin begs, voice slurring as if he’s drunk.

“Here.” Yunho takes his right hand and guides it to the saucer. “Touch it.”

Changmin dips his fingers into the pool of soft wax. The surface is just a thin crust; his fingertips break through into the molten warmth beneath. He moans at the sensation, the wax sticking to his skin.

Yunho makes him lift his hand. Makes him wrap it around his cock.

“God, the heat coming off you,” Yunho breathes, admiring. “You should see how huge your dick is. How swollen.” His hands are on Changmin’s splayed thighs. He dips his head and nuzzles at Changmin’s balls. “So high and tight. You want to come, don’t you? Fuck your hand, baby. Let me see you do yourself. Work it good and hard.”

Changmin wriggles his fingers around his shaft. The wax is cooling, drying. It starts to slough off when he takes a firm grip on his dick and begins to stroke it. His fingertips feel pink beneath the cling of the wax. The skin feels new. He gasps for air and heaves up on the table, pushing his weight through his toes.

Yunho sucks at Changmin’s balls, licks the insides of his thighs. Buries his face lower and curls his tongue over Changmin’s perineum.

Changmin pumps his dick faster, harder. Sweat rolls and trickles. He’s too hot, head tossing from side to side, the blindfold damp. His skin sticks to the surface of the table. Pre-come slides over his fist. Ribbles of wax crack. He sees light behind his eyes and reaches for it.

“Oh yeah,” Yunho urges breathlessly. “That’s it. A little more. Come on, baby.”

Changmin can’t see, can’t breathe. He’s falling. He’s flying.

Yunho licks into Changmin’s hips, thrumming deep, open-mouthed kisses over the path of the arteries, tugging at his pubic hair. Changmin writhes and begs, chasing his orgasm. It’s close, so close, but he’s not there yet. He can’t touch it, he can’t catch it.

“More,” Yunho says, and he draws down Changmin’s ball sac, stretching it out.

Changmin’s back arches in shuddery increments, higher and higher. His hand blurs. Everything’s tight, a spring wound to breaking point.

“More,” Yunho says again, and Changmin gasps, gasps. He wants, he needs—

Hot wax spills across the insides of his thighs, into the hollows of his hips. He moans, flinching and jolting, orgasm almost upon him, and then Yunho says, “Now,” and directs a delicate runnel of wax over Changmin’s taut-stretched balls.

Changmin howls. Tension snaps. Pleasure rears up to balance the pain. Ecstasy punches through him.

He comes in constellations, a thick wet heat to match the patterns of wax cooling and drying, danced all over his body.

haeym drew this. OMG. Please all bow to her skills.

Haeym's tumblr ♥

The 3 sentences AU meme

glitterburn — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 14:43:57 GMT

Because clearly I am bored and rather than finish what I should be doing, I'm procrastinating wildly.

Give me:
- A pairing/combination of characters
- An alternate universe

...and I will write you three sentences (or more if I feel like it).

Last year this ridiculousness spawned various spin-offs, including a novel, a deranged mini-series, and a fic that I still think is pretty good. No guarantees that I'll be similarly inspired this year; three sentences is all you may get. Umm, first ten to comment, shall we say? Watch me only get two comments now XD

ETA: Obviously I need to be familiar with the fandom, which cuts out most mainstream stuff since I like obscure shit.

ETA 2: Got the ten, thank you!

In other news, I'm going yarn-bombing tomorrow. This will only be of interest to acornmama.

Fic: Dress You Up (In My Love) [TVXQ RPS | AU] 2/2

glitterburn — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 12:33:57 GMT

The second challenge is menswear. Changmin doesn’t like menswear. It’s not his metier, but it’s Yunho’s fashion raison d’être. Changmin ponders his plan of attack, or maybe attaque, since he seems to be spending a lot of time thinking in French phrases.

The design brief calls for casual wear. Rather than attempting to make a pair of jeans, Changmin decides to go for a more preppy look. This is as close to urban as he’s ever going to get, and he’s pleased with the result.

“Yo,” he says when he finishes, “check it.”

Yunho looks slightly appalled. “Please don’t talk like that ever again.”

Mindful of the need to have the clothes walk for the judges, they agree to act as models for one another. Changmin dresses Yunho in beige chinos and a blue-checked utility shirt with a slightly structured collegiate knit cardigan. Yunho flattens his hair and brushes it forward, then picks up Changmin’s satchel and swings it around.

Changmin stares. It’s like gazing at an alternate life, and it’s almost disturbing. “You look, um... Actually, you look really cute like this. Cute in a hot way. Hot in a preppy way.” Time to shut up.

Yunho grins and ruffles a hand through his hair to restore it to its usual textured style. “You wanna play Hot For Teacher later? You can be sexy Professor Shim and I won’t have handed in my homework like a bad, bad boy and you can punish me.”

“I’ll make you write lines,” Changmin says, ignoring the stir of excitement. His libido is so predictable; he really shouldn’t indulge it. Not all the time, anyway.

“I must not sit at the back of class and touch myself while staring at Professor Shim’s long legs and luscious mouth,” Yunho chants.

“Whilst,” Changmin corrects. He straightens the collar of Yunho’s shirt, adjusts the drape of the cardigan, then steps back and surveys the whole look. “That’s good. Anyway, we already agreed on tonight’s forfeit.”

“No law against adding a bit of role play to it.” Yunho goes over to his workbench and hands Changmin the clothes he’s made for the challenge—a pair of skinny jeans, a grey graphic t-shirt, and a purple hoodie with a detachable hood.

“Let’s see who wins.” Changmin gets undressed, blushing as Yunho makes growly noises of appreciation. He wriggles into the jeans and pulls at the seat, then fiddles with the waistband. “I can never find a pair of jeans that fits properly,” Changmin says with a sigh. “Not a criticism; just a general observation. It’s not just your jeans, it’s everyone’s. And people wonder why I always wear suits.”

“I’m working on that,” Yunho says, going down onto his knees and adjusting the hems. “I don’t care how many pairs I have to cut and sew, one day I am going to make you the snuggest, sexiest, most comfortable jeans you’ve ever worn in your life.”

“I’d like that.” Changmin looks over his shoulder at his reflection in the full-length bevelled mirror they’d borrowed from their bedroom for the duration of the contest. “These aren’t those jeans, though. I mean, they’re perfectly nice, but...”

“Not your style,” Yunho finishes with a smile. “It’s okay.”

“None of this is my style.” Changmin pulls on the t-shirt and hoodie and thinks he looks like a bit of a prat.

“Just as this isn’t my style, either, but it’ll give the judges a laugh, at any rate.” Yunho bounces up and kisses him. Changmin murmurs approval at the sweet, lingering taste of pineapple lumps, then they pull away as the buzzer rings.

Spoon, Milhye, and Jiheun all arrive together. Tonight the refreshments consist of Chinese takeaway and beer, picked up by the judges en route to the studio. The judging process is much more casual this time, which is either an indication of how hungry everyone is or else it’s an indictment on menswear.

Yunho rolls up the sleeves of his cardigan and utility shirt before he helps himself to the food. Changmin bristles, itching to pull the sleeves down again, but he supposes that Yunho is simply being practical. Clothes just do not look good with kung pao chicken blobbed all over them. As soon as this thought enters his mind, Changmin wishes he hadn’t made beige chinos, because Jiheun’s sauce-drenched plate of Szechuan beef is alarmingly close to Yunho’s knee.

Whatever. It’s not like he’s going to win, anyway. Changmin tries to relax.

“Girlfriend,” Spoon says, waving a sweet and sour prawn at Changmin, “it’s just wonderful that you’ve arranged all this for your darlin’. You two are so cute.”

Changmin takes a sip of beer. “I just hope he’ll learn from the experience.”

“I’ve already learned a lot!” Yunho leans forward and digs through the bowl of rice, scattering grains across the chairs. “Yesterday’s forfeit, for example...”

“I meant I hope you’ll learn to manage your time better when you tackle a work project,” Changmin says loudly, hoping to stave off further discussion about forfeits.

Milhye gives them both a quizzical look. “Forfeit?”

Too late.

Jiheun’s eyes gleam. “Oho, was it something good?”

“If ‘good’ is a synonym for ‘sexyfilthydirty’, then you have to tell us,” Spoon declares. “In detail. Otherwise we ain’t judging nothin’.”

Changmin wants to sink his head into his hands.

“It was Changmin’s idea,” Yunho tells everyone, as if Changmin is some kind of wild kinkster with a ravenous sexual appetite, which might actually be true when he’s in the mood but right now it’s just embarrassing. “We play for forfeits to encourage the spirit of competition.”

“Competition,” Jiheun repeats, and the judges splutter-snort into their dinner.

Yunho looks confused. Before he can ask questions, Changmin says briskly, “Yes. Because a competitive spirit is needed when one wants to be a winner.”

More sniggering from the judges.

“So!” Milhye says brightly. “What was yesterday’s forfeit?”

Yunho beams. “Changmin took me dogging.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and then Spoon shrieks, “Honeypie! Why’re you telling me this now?”

“You had a date last night,” Yunho says.

Windmilling his arms, Spoon yodels, “Darlin’, if you’d told me what sort of nasty times you were planning, my date would’ve involved watching you two cuties get it on under that damn bridge!”

Changmin raises his eyebrows.

Spoon looks flustered. “Not that I know where to go. Spoon has class. He’s not one for making an exhibition of himself, if you know what I mean.”

Jiheun laughs so hard she knocks over her plate of Szechuan beef. It splatters all down the beige chinos, just as Changmin had predicted.

“We should’ve brought the puppies,” Yunho says, wiping at the sauce. It just smears into the fabric and makes it look a hundred times worse. “They’d have cleaned this mess up in seconds.”

“Pup—dogs should not eat Chinese food.” Changmin goes into the kitchenette and fetches a damp cloth, for all the good that’ll do.

Yunho takes the cloth and scrubs at the stain. “What about Chinese dogs, can they eat Chinese food?”

Sometimes Changmin wonders why he bothers.

The judges exchange glances. “I think we’ve reached a decision,” Milhye says.

“You have?” Yunho looks over at them. “You didn’t ask us any questions yet. Changmin got the price points right this time. Please factor that into your decision.”

“That’s okay.” Jiheun grins. “Changmin’s the winner.”

“What?” Startled, Changmin almost spills his beer. He rights the bottle before it can fall and stands there blinking at the smirking judges. “I’m the winner?”

Spoon nods. “As you so often tell us, girl.”

Well, this is unexpected. The judges have minds of their own. Changmin isn’t sure what to make of that. He glances at Yunho, who’s looking a bit anxious.

Jiheun has been studying their reactions. Her grin becomes a cackle. “I think I can guess what the forfeit is tonight.”

Blatant curiosity written over his face, Spoon asks, “What what what?”

Rather pleased by the way things have turned out, Changmin slides an arm around Yunho’s waist and pulls him in close, all hot and predatory.

“Oh, I’m right!” Jiheun claps her hands.

Milhye just shakes her head, trying not to laugh.

“Say what?” Spoon wrinkles his nose.

“Winner gets to top.” Changmin nips at Yunho’s ear, then nuzzles his neck. “Don’t worry, bunny. I’ll be gentle.”

* * *
“I was thinking,” Spoon says. He’s the first of the judges to arrive for the final challenge, and he sprawls amongst the cushions on the sofa bed and sips at one of the lurid pink alcopops infesting the fridge. “Your forfeit last night wasn’t all that. It was only a forfeit ‘cos girlfriend here won. If Yunho had won, it’d be business as usual, right?”

“We recorded it,” Changmin says.

Yunho drops the bottle-opener and goes pinker than the alcopop.

Spoon almost chokes on his drink. “Baby doll, you made a sex tape?”

Expression calm and haughty, Changmin nods. “We certainly did.”

“Honey, I am so breaking into your house and robbing you. I need to see this.” Spoon is practically hyperventilating.

“We have dogs,” Changmin reminds him. “They’re trained to kill.”

“Those mutts?”

“Don’t be mean about the puppies.” Yunho retrieves the bottle-opener and sets out a few more opened alcopops. He’s regained control, but his smile is just the slightest bit nervous. “And there is no sex tape, Spoonie. Changmin is winding you up.”

“Yes.” Changmin flashes Yunho a look from beneath his lashes, hot with the memory of Professor Shim punishing bad boy Jung. “I was just joking.”

Spoon pretends to fan himself as he sits back against the cushions. “Lord have mercy. Even the thought of it has made me come over all unnecessary.”

Jiheun texts to say she’ll be delayed due to a class running over. Milhye arrives and examines the final two looks on the forms.

The third challenge was to create something chic yet street. In Changmin’s opinion, the words ‘chic’ and ‘street’ shouldn’t go together, except perhaps in a sentence such as There’s Shim Changmin walking down the street; doesn’t he look chic in his Armani suit?

Determined to lose this challenge, Changmin has made a grey silk asymmetrical shirt-dress that not only breaks the budget, it’s also spectacularly vile. He almost feels bad when he sees Milhye’s bewildered expression as she studies the garment. It’s probably the worst thing he’s ever made. Worse than his first student project, which was avant-garde and just plain hideous. He’d made better clothes when he was nine years old and sewing ball gowns for his sisters’ dolls.

Yunho’s look, by contrast, is superb. Using the same chrysanthemum print that went into the tracksuit jacket of the first challenge, he’s made a snug-fitting, variable-length skirt with a cute ruched panel at the sides to hide the cords that adjust the length. To go with it, there’s a loose-draped black cotton/lycra mix top with capped sleeves and a mandarin collar. It’s quietly stylish and still manages to look edgy.

“This,” Changmin had said earlier, “this has joie de vivre.”

Yunho had smiled. “And no buttons.”

Now Milhye gestures to Yunho’s look. “If Jiheun and I are going to model again, can I please wear this?”

“Certainly.” Yunho takes the clothes off the form and ushers Milhye towards the bathroom so she can get changed.

Spoon stares at Changmin’s horrible dress. “Girl,” he says, “you know what I’m going to say.”

“Ugly, ugly, ugly?” Changmin guesses.

“That sounds so much better when Kyu says it.” With a sigh, Spoon reaches for another of the pink alcopops. “Tell Spoon the truth now, sugar. Did you really make a sex tape?”

Changmin meets his gaze, as unblinking as a basilisk. “As Yunho said...” he begins, and then the buzzer rings. He gets to his feet. “That must be Jiheun.”

“Saved by the bell,” Spoon says, pouting. “Don’t you think I’ll forget this, girlfriend! I will find out, one way or another. Even if I have to bribe your dogs to bring me that tape!”

“What tape?” Jiheun demands as she comes bounding into the room, kicking off her high heels and slinging her jacket aside.

“Girlfriend and studmuffin made a sex tape last night.”

Jiheun’s eyes widen. “For real?”

Yunho flaps his hands and gets tangled in the tape measure draped around his neck. “It was all Professor Shim’s idea! I was a good boy! Except for the bit where I was very bad and needed correction, and... Ohhh, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“I knew it!” Spoon falls off the sofa bed.

Changmin decides that Professor Shim didn’t punish naughty student Jung hard enough. Next time he’ll use a cane rather than his hand.

Milhye emerges from the bathroom wearing the look Yunho created. Everyone admires it.

“Jiheunie,” Yunho says cheerfully, “that means you’ll be wearing Changmin’s shirt-dress.”

Jiheun eyes the garment with disfavour. “Surely you mean ‘shit dress’. I’m not wearing that. It’s—”

“Ugly, ugly, ugly!” everyone says together.

Changmin thinks this judgement is a little harsh. It’s not that bad. Okay, maybe it is. But still, it’s made of silk. Someone would probably buy it. If it was on sale. And they’d probably unpick the seams and make something nicer out of it. But still.

Quelling his inner Bad Loser, Changmin once again reminds himself that this contest wasn’t about him. Through deviousness and forward planning, he’s managed to shepherd Yunho through the difficult last few days of a work project.

Changmin congratulates himself on a job well done. Never again will he allow Yunho to slack off when there’s a deadline. Even if he’s in Italy, Changmin vows to set aside a good ten minutes of their Skype dates to chastise Yunho for being a slug. Although considering the results yielded last night, maybe Professor Shim should take charge of all chastisements in future.

Needless to say, Yunho wins the final challenge. They whisk away the alcopops in favour of champagne and toast Yunho’s success in the contest and in finishing his collection for Evisu. Despite constant needling questions about (a) the alleged sex tape, and (b) what the forfeit is tonight, Yunho manages to keep his mouth shut and Changmin remains similarly tight-lipped.

They look at each other across the chatter and laughter of their friends and toast one another silently. Anticipation squirms through Changmin. He’s looking forward to giving Yunho his reward. It’s something he’s never done before; he’s never really been interested in it, which seems odd now he thinks about it, but even so...

Changmin can’t wait to get dressed up.

* * *
Four months later, they’re still playing this game. Although naughty student Jung was retired from action some time ago, Professor Shim is still a favourite. Last time, the good professor had got himself into a pickle when he’d set fire to his spaghetti carbonara and had to be rescued by a sexy fireman who’d carried him to safety and then ravished him. The burning the food part had actually been rather difficult to achieve, but Yunho had insisted on a real fire to ‘add verisimilitude’ to the performance.

Changmin wasn’t sure how his boyfriend knew a word like ‘verisimilitude’, but perhaps Professor Shim’s elocution lessons have had a part in extending Yunho’s vocabulary, amongst other things.

But even Professor Shim pales beside the awesome seductive power of Peach.

Stunning, sexy Peach only comes out to play on special occasions. They make a date every few weeks when Changmin’s at home. He’s spent most of this month in Milan and he’s missed Peach. This is the first time in ages he’s had the opportunity to get dressed up, and he’s going to enjoy every second of it.

These days Changmin has an extensive collection of garments tailored especially for Peach, made by himself and Yunho. In addition to the original outfit that went to Evisu, which was the height of modest discretion in comparison to the rest of the contents of his dress-up wardrobe, Changmin has lots of slutty clothes—dresses and tops and skirts and hotpants—made in a variety of tight, clinging, shimmery, see-through, or slick fabrics.

Changmin wanders around the studio, preparing for the evening ahead. He’d taken a nice relaxing bath before he came here, using liberal quantities of almond and sandalwood bath oil, and he feels sexy already.

He’s pleased to note that Yunho has tidied up after himself today rather than leaving the place looking like a tip; such is the authority and allure of Peach. Changmin pulls down the sofa bed, fluffs out the duvet, and rearranges the cushions into an inviting scatter. A handful of bubble-packs of lube are distributed beneath the cushions, and then he goes to the windows and closes the drapes. After dimming the spotlights, he examines the selection of Peach’s clothes set out on a hanging rail.

Yunho’s latest fashion interest is in items made of PVC. Changmin is of the opinion that PVC is for slappers and hookers. He hesitates over choosing a PVC skirt that laces up the back—there’s no way he’ll be able to get into that without assistance—then decides on something less flashy but equally trashy.

He wore loose, comfortable clothes to come here. Now he strips off and gets dressed as Peach, starting with underwear—a Rigby & Peller thong, slithery-soft black lace with ecru and rose embroidery and satin side-ties. It gives him a kick that this little scrap of nothing cost four times the amount of the rest of his outfit put together, and that’s without factoring in the shipping costs from the UK.

Next he squirms into a clingy, tight black lycra/jersey mini-skirt that simply won’t stay put at mid-thigh and always ends up riding higher and higher at the slightest provocation. Finally he selects a disgustingly cheap, satin-look polyester top—ugh, so awful, polyester—that barely sits on his shoulders and is cut to drape low at the front and back. If Peach had tits, they’d fall right out of this nasty top. As it is, the polyester flirts over Changmin’s chest and makes his nipples all perky.

He pulls at the hem of the skirt then stands straight, feeling it creep up in slow increments. Changmin considers whether or not he should wear stockings, then decides on bare legs. After the first time they’d played like this, he’d wondered about shaving his legs just for these occasions. Yunho had refused to contemplate it. He didn’t want smooth, he’d said; he wanted that slight roughness of hair. As a compromise, Changmin always uses body butter after his bath. If he can’t defuzz, then at least he can have soft skin.

With another ineffectual tug at the skirt, Changmin goes over to the mirror, summoning his role with each dainty step. Peach, he thinks, is somewhere between a slapper and a hooker. Yunho gave him the name, and Changmin feels like a peach when he’s dressed up like this, pretty and ripe and ready to be devoured.

As for Yunho... Changmin isn’t sure what role he’s supposed to be playing, because although Yunho comes up with complicated scenarios in advance, as soon as he’s through the door and lays eyes on Peach, everything goes out the window and the role play aspect gets forgotten in favour of desperate rutting.

Changmin doesn’t mind in the slightest.

He looks in the mirror and combs his hair with his fingers, then inexpertly parts it and arranges it into two little pigtails fastened with sparkly purple hair-ties. Although he draws the line at wearing make-up, he does have some lip-gloss that tastes of ginger. It makes his mouth look shiny and obscene, and he never regrets using it.

A quick check of the time. He’s almost ready. Now for the finishing touch—shoes. He squeezes his feet into a pair of mules with kitten heels. This is the only thing about being Peach that he doesn’t like; he can’t find shoes big enough to fit him. They don’t usually stay on long enough for them to pinch or rub, but as Changmin admires his complete look in the mirror, he wishes he had prettier shoes.

There’s a knock at the door.

Changmin stares at his reflection, eyes widening, lips parting. Anticipation tickles all over him. He waits for Yunho to knock a second time, then sways across the studio and opens the door.

“Hi.” Yunho stands there, hair still damp from the shower, his cologne sharp and spicy. He’s wearing a suit and tie and he’s clutching a glossy carrier bag with braided handles. His gaze rolls over Changmin, hot and greedy, and then he steps across the threshold, drops the bag, and grabs hold as the door swings shut behind him.

They kiss, open-mouthed and fierce. Yunho takes a handful of Changmin’s ass and squeezes. His fingertips skim bare flesh. Changmin shivers and makes a hungry sound, a dirty little noise that Yunho echoes.

Changmin pulls away, licking his lips. He strokes a hand over Yunho’s suit jacket and gives him a coquettish look. “I like a man who dresses up for me.”

“Me, too.” Yunho grins, backs Changmin against the wall, and kisses him again. Changmin lifts a leg and wraps it around Yunho. They hump and grind together, their kisses getting wetter. Desire spools out, heavy and urgent. Changmin gasps as Yunho licks and kisses down his neck. Tilting his head, Changmin lets Yunho graze at the soft skin of his throat and across his collarbones. Heat fills him. Senses burning, Changmin holds onto Yunho’s shoulders and revels in the fantasy.

“Changminnie,” Yunho murmurs.

“Peach,” Changmin corrects. “But I can be Changmin for you.” Now wouldn’t that be a mindfuck.

Yunho lifts his head and puts a hand to Changmin’s face; caresses his cheek, his mouth. “Peach. Gorgeous Peach.”

Changmin squirms against him. “What do you want, honey?” Sliding a hand between their bodies, he cups Yunho’s erection. “Mm. Just what have you got for me?”

A helpless groan falls from Yunho’s lips. “A present.” His eyes flutter closed as Changmin strokes him through the suit trousers.

“A big present, I hope.” Changmin tries not to giggle.

With an effort, Yunho extricates himself and backs away, all flushed and excited. “A real present. Sit down, baby. Let me show you.”

Oh yes, the carrier bag. He’d almost forgotten. Deciding not to pout just yet, Changmin sashays across the room. The skirt rides up, but this time he doesn’t bother to pull it down. Behind him, Yunho makes a weird sort of noise, like he’s choking on his own drool. Pleased with the reaction, Changmin surreptitiously adjusts the position of his dick in the lacy panties then sits on the edge of the bed in a very demure fashion.

Yunho brings the bag over. There’s a large box inside. Going down onto his knees, Yunho removes the box, opens it, then lifts out a pair of boots.

Changmin stares, lustful greed pulsing in him. These aren’t just boots. These are hooker boots. Seriously fucking sexy hooker boots. Thigh-high and made of the softest black leather polished to a high gloss, they’re fastened with smoked silver zips and boast six-inch spike heels and two-inch platforms to spread his weight evenly through the soles.

He’s so in love with the boots that Changmin breaks character for a moment. “Where...?”

Yunho looks up at him, smiling. “The Estonian guy decided on a career change and went into shoe design and manufacture.”

“But,” Changmin says, trying to match the heavenly reality of the fuck-me boots with the memory of the quiet little Estonian whose chief contribution to Stitched Up had been to leave large quantities of vodka in the boys’ apartment, “his own shoes were cheap and falling apart and—” the worst crime of all, “unpolished.”

“Still are, for all I know,” Yunho says cheerfully. “But he makes the most gorgeous shoes for other people.”

Setting down the boots for a moment, he takes Changmin’s feet and places them in his lap. With care, he eases off the mules and lines them up on the floor beneath the bed. He plays with Changmin’s bare feet, running his fingertips all over them, then picks up the left boot and encourages Changmin to slip his foot inside.

The boot is lined, slithery and cool with satin. Changmin bites back an indulgent moan. God, it feels like really good sex. Yunho will turn him into a fetishist or something. He wiggles his toes, ridiculously pleased by the perfect fit, and flexes his leg as Yunho zips up the boot, the zipper rough-purring all the way up.

Yunho helps him with the right boot. Changmin admires them. They were hot in the box. Now they’re actually on his feet and encasing his legs, they’re beyond glorious. “You had these custom made for me?”

“For Peach.” Yunho finishes zipping up the second boot. His hand trembles. He’s quivering with excitement. “Walk for me?”

Changmin isn’t sure about wearing such killer spike heels on the stripped floorboards of the studio. Peach, however, has no such compunction. He gets up, and after a few tentative steps to the other side of the room, he turns and does a catwalk strut, the sound of the heels so percussive it’s like machine-gun fire.

Yunho looks as if he’s about to come.

Changmin halts right in front of Yunho. Finding his balance, Changmin puts one foot against Yunho’s chest and presses down just enough that the heel digs in. Changmin summons his haughtiest look. “Down, boy.”

Uttering a noise that sounds something like grahhahh, Yunho tumbles backwards.

Feeling like that Bond girl who killed men by crushing them between her thighs, Changmin steps between Yunho’s splayed legs and places the toe of his boot teasingly, threateningly, over Yunho’s balls.

“Oh baby,” Yunho moans, lifting his hips.

Wickedness and power fizz through Changmin, making him heady. He licks his lips and pouts. “Oh. So sad. Peach’s shiny new boots have a scuff.”

Yunho jerks up his head. “Where?”

Changmin flexes his leg. The toe of his boot lifts from over Yunho’s balls as the spike heel drives down and taps hard against the floor, the sound loud and sharp enough to make them both jump.

They stare at each other. There’s absolute lust in Yunho’s eyes. Revelling in such blatant admiration, Changmin tosses his head, pigtails bobbing, and gives a soft, wavering sigh.

Yunho circles a hand around Changmin’s ankle. He doesn’t break their gaze. “Where’s the scuff?”

Changmin gestures vaguely. “Attend to it. I won’t accept shoddy goods.”

Gently, carefully, Yunho increases his grip on Changmin’s ankle and makes him put his foot down flat on the floor. Then Yunho wriggles around and stretches out at Changmin’s feet. He lowers his head and kisses the toe of Changmin’s right boot.

Changmin thinks he might just die now. “You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” Yunho says, tongue flickering as he processes the taste of the polished leather. “Let me. Let me please Peach.”

Yeah. Peach would love to have a hot, sexy man licking her boots. Changmin stands a little taller, puts a little more attitude into his stance. “Make sure you do a proper job of it.”

Yunho licks over the foot and moves upwards, leaving a wet trail on the leather. He moans and humps the floor, eyes closed as he concentrates. The sound goes straight to Changmin’s dick, makes him ache and roll his hips, head tilting back as craving swims through him.

There’s the softest caress against bare skin. Yunho’s hair brushes the inside of Changmin’s thigh; he’s almost reached the top of the right boot. Changmin quivers at the touch. Unable to resist, he strokes his hand through Yunho’s hair and mews when Yunho’s lips pass from cool, slick leather to warm, sweat-dampened skin.

“Oh, Yun, please,” Changmin says, then recalls Peach and corrects himself: “Lick me there.”

Ever willing, Yunho licks at the few inches of thigh between the top of the boot and the hem of the skirt. He’s respectful about it. He doesn’t take advantage of his position to snuffle up into Changmin’s crotch, although he says, “Ohhh God, I can smell you, I can taste you, I wanna suck you so bad, baby.”

“Not yet.” Changmin taps his left foot. “You haven’t finished your task.”

“Oh, Peach is so cruel.” Yunho flashes him a thrilled, ecstatic look and drops back down onto the floor to start all over again.

By the time Yunho has made his leisurely, tortuous way up the left boot—and this time Changmin is certain that Yunho is doing it deliberately slowly, just to punish Peach for being so demanding—Changmin can barely stand upright. He sways on the spike heels, and Yunho wraps both arms around him to hold him up. At the same time, Yunho gifts tiny, soft love-bites up Changmin’s left thigh, then shoves up the clinging skirt and nuzzles higher, tongue curling to tickle at Changmin’s balls stuffed into the inadequate lacy covering of his panties.

Changmin grabs onto Yunho’s shoulders. “I’m going to fall.”

“I’ll catch you.” The skirt is shoved up higher and twisted around Changmin’s ass. Yunho nibbles at the knickers. “Fuck, these are hot. What are they made of, cobwebs?”

“Lace.” It’s getting difficult to remember how to form coherent speech. Changmin’s breathing is increasingly swift and ragged, coming faster as Yunho soft-mouths at his balls through the lace, around the lace. The fabric is tight, restrictive, wet with pre-come and saliva. Changmin can’t bear it any more. He pulls the skirt all the way up around his waist, then takes Yunho’s hand and places it high on his hip. “They unfasten at the sides.”

Yunho hums around a mouthful of Changmin’s balls then slurps away and tugs at the thin satin ribbon. “Oh, so they do. I like these knickers. Buy a dozen next time.”

Changmin totters on his heels. Peach would probably totter, too, if she had a lapful of horny man eating at her as he stripped her of her soaking wet panties. The ties on the other side of the knickers come undone. Yunho nips at the lacy crotch and pulls the garment right off with his teeth.

The thong drops to the floor. Yunho rises to his feet, eyes blazing with lust. “Enough foreplay,” he says, then picks Changmin up and carries him the short distance to the bed. They fall across it, kissing frantically, hands everywhere.

Changmin yanks at Yunho’s clothes. Yunho helps, throwing his jacket across the room and loosening his tie. Changmin scrabbles at the shirt, unbuttons most of it and puts his hands all over Yunho’s chest, moaning his appreciation. Yunho unfastens his trousers and kicks them off, then strips out of his underwear. He rubs against Changmin’s thighs, hot and hard.

Seizing hold of Yunho’s tie, Changmin rolls them over. He knocks two cushions onto the floor and rucks up the duvet, spike heels catching on the Egyptian cotton as he settles himself. Skirt up around his waist, his top falling off one shoulder, Changmin slides back and wiggles against Yunho’s cock. His hair has almost worked free of the purple sparkly ties. He blows out a breath. “Do you like my pigtails?”

“Love them,” Yunho assures him. “I love your pigtails. Oh, Peach, you’re so succulent.” He slides his hands over Changmin’s body, worshipping chest, belly, hips. He strokes patterns across Changmin’s thighs above the tops of the boots, then slides his touch around to grip Changmin’s ass and pulls him down. “Ride me.”

Changmin gropes across the duvet for lube. Grabbing two packs, he tears them open and slicks the gel all over Yunho’s stiff cock then fingers himself, eyes closing in pleasure at the teasing touch.

“Hurry,” Yunho begs, impatient. He holds onto Changmin’s hips as they position themselves just right, then bucks up.

Changmin grinds down nice and hard, mouth open on a shuddery moan at the blissful burn of being stretched and filled. He moves at a trot, the promise of orgasm shimmering up his spine before he’s even begun to get what he wants.

Yunho fucks into him. The musky, sweaty scent of sex mingles with the smell of leather. The boots creak, counterpoint to the squelch of the lube and the bouncing squeal of the springs in the mattress.

Joyous laughter spills out of Changmin. He strips off his top and scrawls both hands through his hair, pulling out the pigtails and mussing his hair even more, shimmying as he arches and poses. Yunho shafts into him harder, faster, and Changmin feels incredible; he feels so fucking sexy and triumphant.

“What does Peach need?” he snaps out.

Yunho gurgles. “Cream.”

“That’s right!” Changmin flicks his head forwards, hair tumbling into his face. “Peach needs cream! Are you gonna give it to me?”

Yunho goes cross-eyed. “Oh fuck, baby.”

He seizes Changmin around the waist and rolls them over. Changmin whines in protest as Yunho slips out of him, then stops the sound as Yunho kisses him. Changmin curls backwards. Yunho spreads himself out on top of Changmin, quivering as he holds still, and then he slides back in, all the way to the hilt.

Changmin arches up, head going back, long, gasping moans forced out of him.

They fuck, finding a glorious deep rhythm together. The angle is just right to send pleasure burning through him. It’s rough but oh so good: so good it’s unbearable, so good it makes him clench down hard.

“Changmin. Peach. Baby,” Yunho babbles. “Ohhhh, so tight. So amazing. So close. I’m gonna. Oh God. Please.”

“Yunho,” Changmin snarls. “Make me come. Make. Me. Come.” He spikes Yunho with his heels, and Yunho gasps and lurches forward, driving even deeper.

“Yes.” It comes out as a shout. Changmin doesn’t care. His throat aches with the need to shout and yell and scream his satisfaction. He holds on tight, rutting and shoving, frantic, frenetic. “God. Yes. Yes. Do it now.”

Yunho makes a desperate sound and bucks, orgasm hammering through him. Changmin thrashes, caught on the same hook, and then climax pours through him, sweet and merciless.

When they can move again, they share languid kisses and gentle caresses and cuddle together, streaked with lube and sweat and seed.

“Guess you liked the boots,” Yunho says.

Changmin smiles. “Guess so.”

Yep, Changmin congratulates himself smugly, he really does have the best ideas—and playing dress-up was the very best one of all.

Fic: Dress You Up (In My Love) [TVXQ RPS | AU] 1/2

glitterburn — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 12:26:26 GMT

Title: Dress You Up (In My Love)
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin; Changmin/Yunho
Rating: NC17
Summary: Yunho’s on a deadline and has lost all his design inspiration. Changmin has an idea that proves mutually beneficial.
Notes: AU. Very early birthday fic for diagon ;) Fashion!HoMin, comes between Perfect Fit and Roman Holiday.
Content notes: Dogging. Cross-dressing. Boot worship.

Dress You Up (In My Love)
Changmin opens the door to his studio, juggling the extra-large wild cherry latte, the pumpkin and cinnamon muffin in its bag, the book of swatches he’d taken home to peruse last night, and his leather satchel. His keys snag on his scarf as he takes quick steps across the stripped wooden floorboards and puts everything down on the nearest table. Extricating the keys, he returns them to his pocket and unwinds the scarf from his neck as he glances at his workspace.

There’s a crumpled paper bag on his drawing table, abandoned right on top of the sketches he’d been working on yesterday. Changmin goes a little closer. Picking up a mechanical pencil, he pokes open the bag and looks inside.

Pear drops.

Making a disgusted face, Changmin backs away. Pineapple lumps he can deal with. Pineapple lumps are quite nice. But pear drops—they’re simply unacceptable. It’d be bad enough if they did actually taste of pears, but they don’t. They taste of evil, but in a bland, cloying way, plus they’re the colour of phlegm during a bad cold, and...

Changmin feels sick now. His hand slips and he knocks the pear drops into the nearest wastepaper bin.

Mood improved, Changmin looks around the studio. He remembers the good old days when this place was beautiful and austere, all clean lines and immaculate surfaces, angle-poise lamps positioned just so and fabric carefully laid out on the cutting table and forms like blank canvases waiting for his art.

That was before Yunho. Now the forms all have names painted on their necks, there’s a bolt of cloth hanging from the latch that opens the skylight—how did Yunho manage to get it up there?—and there’s a paper pattern on the floor and another obscuring the prettily-arranged images on Changmin’s mood board.

A tumbled pile of CDs clutter Yunho’s drawing table alongside a sheaf of Gwangju warehouse manifestos. There’s the signed photo of Siwon that always manages to fall in the bin whenever Changmin strolls past and which suffers the same fate again now. Several sketchbooks of different sizes lie closed, pencil shavings littering their surfaces, and there’s three coffee mugs lined up in a row. One is half empty; the others have a circle of dregs dried onto the bottom.

Yunho’s shoes are still by the door. The sofa bed is still in its sofa form. Yunho has never been able to work out how to open it, no matter how many times Changmin has demonstrated the technique. That can mean only one thing.

With a sigh, Changmin picks up the wild cherry latte and goes into the largest of the two fabric rooms.

Yunho is asleep on several rolls of coloured cotton, head pillowed on a tacky leopard-print fake fur, body blanketed by silk and jersey knit.

Changmin looks down at him with a surge of snuggly warm affection. Yunho works so hard. Not only is he designing for Evisu and taking care of their apartment and their two insane dogs, Lagerfeld and Pucci, who had somehow barged into their lives courtesy of a friend of a friend who was possibly on the run from the police—Yunho was rather vague about the details and Changmin decided not to ask questions—he’s also overseeing the market stalls in Gwangju and keeping his business partner Donghae in order, plus maintaining a social life with all the friends they’d made on Stitched Up and giving the occasional guest lecture on urban style at the university Jiheun attends.

He does all this whilst Changmin flies back and forth to Milan for his work at Versace. Perhaps it’s not the best way to conduct a relationship still in its first flush of excitement and passion, but Yunho never complains at Changmin’s absences or his grouchiness while he waits for the jet lag to clear or just his grouchiness, full stop.

Even so, Yunho shouldn’t sleep on the fabric.

Changmin nudges his boyfriend’s feet. “Hey. Sleeping beauty.”

“Hrghhh.” Yunho stirs amongst the cloth and shuffles a bit as he wakes. He blears up, focusing first on the coffee and then on Changmin’s face. A smile brightens Yunho’s dozy features. “Oh,” he says, “it’s an angel.”

“Got you a muffin, too,” Changmin says.

Yunho’s smile flicks onto full beam. “Not an angel, a seraph!”

“Threw away your skanky pear drops.”

The smile dims slightly. “They’re still in the bag, right?”

Changmin gives him a withering stare. “You are not fetching them out of the bin.”

Carefully Yunho moves the silk and jersey knit to one side, then he sits up. “I didn’t want them anyway,” he says, but there’s that look on his face and Changmin knows he’ll have to toss the pear drops out of the window unless he wants to spend the rest of the day tasting the manky things whenever he steals a kiss.

Yunho gets to his feet and replaces the rolls of cloth on the shelves. Changmin keeps hold of the latte. He’s learned from experience not to hand over hot beverages until Yunho is out of the fabric room. He watches Yunho put things away and realises that the shelves have been rearranged.

“Yesterday these were all ordered according to palette,” Changmin says, frowning. “Please explain your logic regarding the current arrangement.”

“Ah.” Yunho combs his hands through his hair, attempting to make it lie flat. “See, I was trying to finish up my collection and I had this amazing idea to order all our fabric alphabetically, first by type of cloth and then by colour. So here,” he touches the nearest set of shelves, “we have velour and velvet and voile, and you can see I’ve arranged it alphabetically by shade and hue.”

He seems proud of this completely ridiculous achievement. Changmin stares. “How long did this take?”

Yunho yawns. “Um, a couple of hours?” He smiles.

Changmin narrows his eyes.

“Five hours,” Yunho says. “Okay, six. Eight. Eight!”

Changmin turns around and leaves the fabric room, carrying the coffee with him.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Yunho bounces after him, does a handstand that morphs into a forward roll, then vanishes into the bathroom before Changmin can inform him in extensive detail why it’s a terrible idea.

While Yunho is performing his morning ablutions, Changmin puts down the coffee and rustles a hand into the paper bag to steal a piece of muffin. He needs the sugar hit and he’s not going to risk eating a pear drop from the bin. By the time Yunho emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, Changmin is wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth and half the coffee has gone.

Yunho’s happy expression falters only a little.

Refusing to feel guilty, Changmin busies himself rearranging his mechanical pencils. He flicks a look at Yunho. “I missed you last night.”

Yunho brightens. “I missed you too, baby.”

“No,” Changmin says with emphasis, “I really missed you.”

“Oh.” Comprehension dawns. Yunho tries to grab at him. “Oh. Were you horny, baby? You should’ve come over. You should’ve called me.”

Changmin turns away. Never mind that he’d been so horny he’d had to give himself three orgasms before he could fall asleep. He is never going to admit that. Nor to the fact that he’d jerked off watching episode seven of season five of Stitched Up. He’s never going to get tired of that episode. It has so many highlights: Yunho in the filthy-hot outfit Changmin had designed for him; their bantering in the work room while the sexual tension wound tighter and tighter; plus, the outfit Yunho had made for him had been sexy as all fuck. By the time Changmin reached orgasm he’d been so worked up he wasn’t sure if he was getting off to Yunho or the clothes.

“I wouldn’t have interrupted your work,” Changmin says, trying to bury these distracting thoughts. “You’re on a deadline.”

“I’d have pushed it back for you.” Yunho gives him a soppy look.

That’s the thing. Changmin knows he would.

These days, Changmin plans for every last eventuality. He blocks off a schedule and manages it to perfection, always leaving himself extra time for unforeseen circumstances such as sewing machines blowing up and garments melting. But Yunho... He always leaves things to the last minute, and while it worked in his favour on Stitched Up, in real life it’s a less desirable trait, especially when a third party is waiting on him.

Changmin frets about this. He’s tried to instil best practice and lead by example, which is the main reason they’re sharing the studio, but most days Yunho ambles around chatting on the phone or trying to decide which is the second-best Aqua song of all time, ‘My Oh My’ or ‘Doctor Jones’. This debate had been partially resolved when Changmin said that actually, everyone knew that the second international album was better and he rated ‘Bumble Bees’, which made Yunho go quiet for a good half hour.

“Anyway, I wasn’t horny,” Changmin lies. “I missed you because Pucci ate something bad at the park and he was sick on the kitchen floor. I had to clear it up, and Lagerfeld decided the mop was his new chew-toy and rather than stay back like a good dog he kept attacking the mop and then he rolled in the sick and... It was really disgusting.”

Yunho looks appalled. “I hope you bathed Feldie.”

“No, I just let him go around the apartment smelling of doggy vomit.” Before Yunho can take him at his word, Changmin continues, “Of course I bathed him. And then Pucci decided he was feeling better and practically broke down the bathroom door trying to get in, so I opened the door because I didn’t want him to chew the handle off again, I didn’t want to be trapped in there like last time, and I don’t know how he did it but in the meantime Lagerfeld managed to turn on the taps and then—”

“Changmin.” Yunho’s expression is very serious. “A pug cannot turn on taps.”

“Your dog,” Changmin says pointedly. “You taught him everything he knows. He can turn on taps.”

“Really? Wow. He always acts so clueless when I’m around.”

“It’s an act,” Changmin says. “I’m starting to think it’s a common denominator in all males from Gwangju. Act clueless to get the cuddles, but when necessity calls for it, be very practical.”

Yunho frowns. “Why would it be necessary for Feldie to turn on the taps?”

Changmin wishes he’d bought two of those muffins. The sugar hit is wearing off. “I don’t know! Maybe the water wasn’t warm enough for his liking. Why are we having this conversation?”

“You started it.” Yunho drains the last of the coffee and tosses the cardboard cup at the bin. It misses. “We have such smart puppies. We could make money off that, you know.”

“Our life is already a circus.”

“But it’s fun.” The smile is back in full force as Yunho goes over to retrieve the cup. He flips it into the bin then says, “Oh dear, Siwon’s fallen in the bin again.”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Maybe.” Yunho pulls out the photo and gives it a wipe with his shirt cuff. “A sign that I should put it in a frame to keep it safe.”

Over Changmin’s dead body. Next time that picture is going in the shredder. Keen to change the topic, he says, “Why don’t you show me what you were working on last night?”

“Um.” Yunho looks pained. He turns a few pages of the sketchbooks and waves a hand at the paper patterns. “I’m... They’re...”

Dread licks across the back of Changmin’s neck. “Jung. The designs. Show me.”

“Oh, Changmin.” Mouth turning down, Yunho gathers the sketchbooks. “I don’t know what’s wrong lately. The only way I seem to be able to generate any creativity is by leaving it to the last minute and sort of forcing it out of me, but that’s horrible, like I’m design-constipated or something. And I’m fairly certain the end product is, well, shit.”

He shoves the sketchbooks at Changmin and takes a walk to the far side of the room. The drapes are closed. Yunho fiddles with the pull-cord and finally opens the curtains, then stares out of the window at the streets below.

Changmin turns his attention to the sketches. He flips through the books, then studies the discarded paper patterns and the length of fabric hanging from the skylight, then looks at the designs again.

They’re okay. They’re workmanlike. But they’re not Yunho.

“They lack joie de vivre,” Changmin says as kindly as he can.

Yunho gives him a bewildered look. “Maybe. But they have buttons.”

There’s no arguing with that. Changmin decides it’s best to move on. He closes the sketchbooks and directs an enquiring look at his boyfriend. “Now what?”

That was the wrong question to ask. Panic flashes through Yunho’s eyes. He scrunches into himself for a moment and then straightens up, swinging his arms and wandering in a circle. “I have three more days to complete three fully-realised looks.”

“Yes,” Changmin encourages.

“No.” Helplessness torpedoes through Yunho. He sinks down onto the sofa bed, shoulders slumped. “I’m completely out of inspiration. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Nonsense.” Changmin hopes he sounds brisk and supportive rather than bossy and know-it-all. “The same thing happened to me at St Martin’s. I had temporary burn-out. All I needed was to take a break then give myself a fresh challenge, and I produced some of my best work.”

Not strictly true, but he’s not going to tell Yunho that. It’s not like Yunho can take a break, either, because the Evisu deadline is frighteningly close. Changmin decides to focus on the challenge aspect. “I don’t advocate leaving things to the last minute,” he says, “but it’s been a strategy that’s worked for you before in a competitive environment.”

“During Stitched Up, you mean.” Yunho’s smile is wan.

“Exactly. So let’s have a competition.” Determined that this is the answer to the problem, Changmin claps his hands in delight at his own brilliance. “Yes! A competition. You like winning. I like winning. Let’s compete against one another in a series of timed challenges, just like on Stitched Up, and each challenge will be one of the three designs you need to complete for Evisu.”

Yunho gives him a beady look. “You’re couture. You don’t even like urban fashion.”

“One should be able to turn one’s hand to designing anything. Even urban fashion.” Changmin is proud of himself. He can be diplomatic. “Besides, it’s good practice to be flexible. In case I ever go on one of those TV shows again. Daniel Franco did it on Project Runway in seasons one and two. Not saying that I’d be idiot enough to go back on Stitched Up, but...”

“You’d really do this for me?” Yunho asks. He’s all starry-eyed, as if Changmin had offered to bring him the moon.

“I love you.” Changmin scowls, which probably isn’t the appropriate expression to match his tender words. “Ugh, why do you have to make this a big deal?”

Yunho smiles and smiles. “Changminnie,” he says, and there’s hearts and flowers in his voice. He flings himself into Changmin’s arms and hugs tight, and Changmin holds him close and breathes him in, sleepy warmth and minty toothpaste and wild cherry latte.

“Anyway.” Changmin clears his throat and lets go. “Instead of prizes, the contest will be about forfeits. And to make things fair, we’ll ask our friends to be the judges. Milhye would do it, and didn’t you say Spoon was in town? And I’m sure Jiheun could spare some time after class.”

He’s totally making this up as he goes along, but Changmin thinks this sounds pretty damn good. He makes a note to ask their friends to judge Yunho the winner every time. Changmin can put aside his competitive nature for the next three days if it helps Yunho through this rough patch.

Enthusiasm gleams from Yunho’s expression. “What kind of forfeits?”

“Well...” Changmin edges closer and patters his fingers over Yunho’s thigh. “Loser gives the winner a blowjob, for example.”

Yunho’s enthusiasm goes supernova. His grin lights the whole room. “I might lose on purpose. I love sucking you off.”

Time to up the stakes. “Loser gives the winner a blowjob in the back seat of their car tonight, parked up at the Han River.”

Yunho’s eyes widen. “You want us to go dogging?”

“No!” Changmin jerks back, horrified. Then he thinks about it properly. The idea of an audience is actually rather hot. Perhaps if they wear masks. Or ski masks; he’ll need the access. “Maybe,” he says cautiously, not wanting to rule it out. His dick certainly likes the thought. “Winner decides where it takes place.”

It’s not just his dick that likes it, either. The zipper on Yunho’s jeans is having a hard time of it right now, with an emphasis on ‘hard’. “Changminnie, you’re so dirty,” Yunho tells him, all breathless and hot. “You’re almost a skank, suggesting such a thing.”

“It was just an example,” Changmin says, playing innocent.

“Posh boy has a mind full of filth.” Yunho kisses him, then pushes away from the drawing table and picks up his phone. “I’m gonna call Milhye, Spoon, and Jiheun to see if they’re free this evening.” He turns and beams at Changmin, real excitement shining in his eyes. “And then you better bring your game face, baby, ‘cos I’m feeling all inspired!”

Changmin permits himself a smile. He has the best ideas.

*
Turns out that Spoon has a hot date and can’t make it, but Milhye and Jiheun both arrive at seven o’clock sharp, full of eager anticipation. Changmin ushers them into the studio and invites them to sit on the sofa bed while Yunho opens a couple of bottles of Prosecco. Some chairs have been placed in front of the sofa bed to serve as a makeshift coffee table, and on them are arranged three boxes of pizza and a large tub of ice cream.

They’d worked from nine to five, then Yunho had gone home to shower, change, and take the dogs out for a walk while Changmin tidied the studio. He was proud of himself for resisting the urge to edit his outfit. Now he’s had time to study it with a dispassionate eye, he thinks the top is too much. It’s pretty enough on its own, but teamed with the skirt he thinks it’s overkill.

As for Yunho’s look, Changmin can’t decide if it’s fabulous or just bizarre. That’s the problem with urban clothing, in Changmin’s opinion. So much of it resembles a piece of sacking that’s been kicked around the floor before being sewn into a shapeless blob. Not that Yunho has made a shapeless blob, but the aesthetic is similar.

Changmin is glad he had the great idea of asking Milhye and Jiheun to be the judges, because frankly he can’t decide which design is better suited to the Evisu line.

Both looks are on the forms, concealed from the judges beneath plain drapes of muslin. Lagerfeld had tried to pull one of the drapes off earlier, but after a sharp scolding from Changmin, the pug had crawled beneath the sofa bed and put his nose on the floor. He’s still there now, sulking and moping.

Pucci is ambling around the room, wagging his huge, fluffy tail. Changmin keeps an eye on the Leonberger. Even though this is just for fun, his nerves are jangled at the prospect of the contest. Even though he’s doing all this to be a supportive boyfriend, Changmin is a Shim and the Shims are winners, so stage-managing a loss goes against everything in his DNA. Butterflies of anxiety flutter in his stomach, and Changmin is about to scold Pucci for nothing at all when the Leonberger’s tail smacks into the signed photo of Siwon and knocks it down the back of the radiator.

Maybe it’s a sign. Changmin makes a note to reward the gigantic beast with a doggy treat later when Yunho isn’t looking.

At last they’re ready. Lagerfeld is coaxed out from beneath the sofa bed and curls up between Milhye and Jiheun, who’re getting stuck into the wine and pizza. Pucci lies down on the floor beneath Yunho’s drawing table and assumes a bored expression.

“Right,” Changmin says, standing beside his form. “You know why you’re here. I ask you to judge fairly and honestly—” he emphasises the words and Jiheun sort of swallows her lips trying not to laugh, “and bear in mind the needs of the client, in this case Evisu, when you make your final decision.”

“You should host Stitched Up rather than Jaejoong,” Milhye remarks.

“I dress too well.” Changmin signals for Yunho to put down the Prosecco and get ready to reveal their garments. “On the count of three. One, two—”

Yunho yanks the drape off his form. “Ta-daa!”

Stifling a sigh, Changmin carefully removes the muslin from his look.

Milhye and Jiheun sit and stare in silence for a while. It’s nerve-racking. Changmin thinks maybe he should’ve put on some music. Even Aqua would be an improvement on this tense hush.

“It’d be better if these were on actual human beings,” Jiheun says at last. “Just a suggestion, take it or leave it.”

Reaching for her wine, Milhye tuts. “You can’t be Zhou Mi. He never judges the runway show.”

“He’s the only one with a critical eye.” Jiheun smirks. “Okay, do you want to be Jaejoong, Kyuhyun, or Madame Oh?”

Milhye wrinkles her nose. “Do I have to choose? Oh, all right—I’ll be Jaejoong.”

“You’re dressed too well,” Changmin says, nonplussed. “Be Madame Oh.”

“I’ll be Kyu,” Jiheun announces, pouring more Prosecco. “Ugly, ugly, ugly!”

Lagerfeld jumps up, yaps, then leaps onto the floor and starts turning in circles.

The girls laugh. “Ugly, ugly, ugly,” Jiheun chants again, and the pug spins in the opposite direction, barking wildly.

Changmin shakes his head and gives Yunho a disparaging look. “Jung. Your animal will make itself sick.”

“Did you teach Lagerfeld to do that?” Taking pity on the dizzy dog, Milhye picks him up and gives him a cuddle.

“He did,” Changmin says, jerking his chin at Yunho. “He thought it’d be funny.”

“It is.” Jiheun grins and helps herself to a slice of pizza. “How many times did you say it on the show, anyway?”

Changmin pauses. He doesn’t actually know.

“Seventeen instances were broadcast,” Yunho says, “compared to fifty-five instances of Kyuhyun saying it. It took me until episode eight to get Feldie to do that trick, though, by which time Changmin had pretty much stopped using it as his catchphrase.”

Lagerfeld yips.

“Precisely,” Changmin agrees. “Ladies, the garments? Do you want to ask us any questions?”

“Price points,” Jiheun says, sitting forward. “Since it’s for Evisu then they have a strict pricing structure and specific fabrics and colours, right? So whose look can be manufactured to the cheapest price point to ensure maximum profit?”

Changmin looks over at Yunho. “I... didn’t think of that.”

“I did.” Yunho’s smile is a little bit smug.

“Naturally. You work for them.” Annoyed that he hadn’t thought to factor in cost, Changmin grits his teeth. “Guess I’ll lose points for that.”

“Afraid so.” Milhye pretends to put a cross on an imaginary scorecard. “Designer Shim, do tell us about your style decisions.”

“I decided to use an unusual palette,” Changmin begins, shooting Yunho a glare. If he loses this challenge, it’s only because of Yunho’s hare-brained idea of rearranging the fabric store. Changmin hadn’t been able to find anything. He gestures at the skirt, knee-length and pleated with a button-down front fastening, all in brown satin with stripes of orange velvet. “The palette is...”

“Something my granny would wear,” Jiheun finishes for him.

“And the top,” Changmin continues. “I wanted it to be fun yet structured.” He looks at the garment again. It’s an eau-de-nil cotton vest with crossover support at the bust and a gathered ruffle at the low-waisted hem. The ruffle is wrong, he’s sure of it.

“Mm.” Milhye picks anchovies off her pizza. “The proportion is off. The ruffle is eating the skirt.”

“It is,” Jiheun agrees. “Pleats and ruffles are so 80s. You really shouldn’t.”

Changmin sweats. This is the hardest critique he’s had since St Martin’s.

“I think the skirt is cute,” Yunho offers.

“You’re not a judge, your opinion is invalid.” Jiheun is turning out to be some kind of dictator. Until now, Changmin had always thought she was a sweet girl. She waggles her eyebrows at Yunho. “Designer Jung, you hot stud. Tell us about your look.”

Hot stud? Appalled by the obvious favouritism displayed by the judges, who have now drunk the best part of two bottles of wine, Changmin wonders if he can overrule any decision they make—if indeed they’re capable of making a decision.

Yunho slings an arm around his form and leans against it, beaming at his giggling audience. “It’s simple enough. Right price point, right fabric. A denim mini that’s essentially a deconstructed pair of jeans. An asymmetrical slit here and an off-centre fastening to give a bit of interest, and for the top I made a tracksuit jacket out of this really gorgeous print...”

Changmin sniffs. The print isn’t gorgeous, it’s a weird outsize floral thing, red and white long-petalled chrysanthemums on a black background, but whatever.

Jiheun and Milhye look at each other and scrunch their faces.

“I think they really need to walk,” Milhye says.

Jiheun nods. “Like I said half an hour ago.”

Yunho tilts his head, flirting. “Would you model for us? Both of you?”

Of course they say yes. Changmin dresses Milhye and Yunho dresses Jiheun, and it’s almost like being back on Stitched Up for real, except this time when the models offer their opinions, they actually know what they’re talking about.

More Prosecco is opened. Milhye looks through Yunho’s CDs and puts on the Bomfunk MCs, which is hardly the right kind of music to walk to but at least it’s not Aqua. Changmin tries to lessen the effect of the ruffle with some sneaky tacking stitches. Jiheun calls him a cheating cheat who cheats. Yunho says he’ll film them walking on his phone so they can make an informed decision as to the winning look, but when the girls start to strut, Pucci jumps up and walks with them. Yunho laughs so much he can’t keep his phone steady, and the evening descends into chaos.

Yes, it really is just like being on Stitched Up.

Approximately forty minutes later, the girls are back in their own clothes and are trying very hard to appear sober as they make their deliberations. It takes them all of ten seconds to declare that it’s a close call, but in their opinion Yunho is the winner.

Yunho takes a bow.

At first Changmin is disappointed, then he’s annoyed, then he’s annoyed at feeling annoyed, and finally he gets a warm glow of satisfaction at the realisation that all his careful planning had turned out exactly the way he’d wanted.

It also means he gets to give Yunho a blowjob just as soon as their guests leave.

Inventing some spurious excuse as to why it’s time for them to go now, Changmin escorts the girls downstairs. Milhye and Jiheun stagger out to the waiting taxi, shrieking with laughter, blowing kisses, and promising they’ll be back for more tomorrow.

By the time Changmin gets back upstairs, Yunho has cleaned things away and even put the empty bottles in the recycling bin. Lagerfeld and Pucci are wolfing down a pile of doggy treats from the top of a pizza carton.

Changmin grabs the tea towel out of Yunho’s hand and throws it onto the floor, then pins Yunho against the door and leans in close. “You’re the winner,” he breathes. “I’m going to go down on you. I’m going to blow you until you can’t stand up straight.”

Yunho fists a hand in Changmin’s shirt and drags him nearer. “Not in front of the puppies.”

They kiss, hot and avid. Yunho snakes his arm around Changmin’s neck. When they break for air, he says, “Let’s take them home and get them settled.”

“And then?” Changmin asks, just about resisting the urge to hump Yunho’s thigh.

Yunho gives him a wicked smile. “Then we’re going to the Han River.”

*
Changmin is so glad he had this idea. He knew he was going to lose the first challenge, which is of course why he hadn’t had much to drink. He knew he’d be driving. Sometimes his perspicacity amazes even him.

He parks the car beneath the shadow of one of the bridges over the Han River and closes all the doors with the central locking. He hopes he got the location right. There’s a couple of other cars parked not too far away but there’s no one peering in the windows and neither of the vehicles is rocking back and forth. Either the passengers are shy or they’re voyeurs hoping to see some action.

Yunho seems a bit jumpy. He unfastens his seatbelt and sits forward, then back. He stares at the other cars and then fumbles for the light above the rear view mirror. He looks determined. “We have to put the light on.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Yunho blinks up at the light. “So other people know we’re, uh, that we’re going to...”

Changmin gives him a look and switches it off. “This will only work if we’re anonymous.”

Yunho turns it back on. “But Donghae says—”

“Donghae? Donghae goes dogging?” Changmin’s not sure why he’s so surprised by that. “Okay. I don’t want to know.” He flicks the light off again. “And it stays off this time, unless you want us plastered all over the scandal rags tomorrow.”

The car parked diagonally opposite them suddenly flashes its headlights.

Yunho scrunches down in his seat. “What does that mean?”

“How should I know? You’re the dogging expert.”

“Maybe I should call Donghae and ask.” Yunho starts to reach for his phone.

“You will not!” Changmin grabs for Yunho’s arm. They stare at each other. The night runs darkness over them, sharp lines and curves of light and shadow describing Yunho’s features. His eyes glitter, darker than the river. The car engine ticks as it starts to cool. Now the heaters aren’t on, a chill begins to settle.

“This isn’t as sexy as I thought it’d be,” Yunho says. He sounds mournful.

Changmin will make this sexy. He knows he can. If there’s one thing he’s learned from having Yunho as his boyfriend, it’s that distraction is key—and it can work both ways. He tugs on Yunho’s arm. “Let’s get in the back.”

They slide their seats forward and then clamber through the gap. Yunho bangs his head on the roof. Changmin gets his foot stuck between the gearbox and the driver’s seat. Eventually they sprawl across the back seat, scuffling and rearranging themselves on the cool, smooth leather.

The crunch of tyres on asphalt makes them go still. Another car pulls up nearby, its headlights off.

“Maybe they think we’re selling drugs.” Yunho sounds worried now.

“They don’t.” Changmin did not go to all this effort for nothing. Yes, they could climb back into the front and go home and he could give Yunho a blowjob in the comfort of their own bedroom, but he’d made all these plans and—and... Oh, who’s he trying to kid, he thinks it’ll be really hot. He just needs to distract Yunho some more.

“Kiss me,” Changmin says, making his voice a sultry purr. “It’s dark in here and—” he tries to think of something believable, “I’m scared of the dark.”

That works. Yunho turns to him, all solicitous. “Oh, baby. Come here.”

They fit against one another and kiss. Gently at first, and Changmin can tell Yunho’s still got half his mind on the other cars. Not content with this, Changmin puts one hand around Yunho’s nape and strokes up over the razored softness into the thick texture of his hair. Splaying his hand, Changmin grasps at Yunho’s hair and brings him closer.

Yunho moans, the sound rich and hungry. He flickers his tongue over the seam of Changmin’s mouth, and Changmin opens for him. They lick at each other, delicate, and then Changmin nips at Yunho’s lower lip. Yunho love-bites back. Their kisses get harder. Now it’s Changmin who moans. He shifts position to sit astride Yunho’s lap, keeping his head low and wrapping both arms around Yunho’s neck, tongue slippery and plunging.

Yunho’s hands go to Changmin’s waist beneath his jacket, fingers cool against the sliver of bare skin. Changmin shivers, his body tightening. Yunho feathers another gentle caress and Changmin grinds against him, a swift roll of the hips that makes them both groan.

Desire builds, hot and sweet. Their kisses are bolder, wetter. Changmin shimmies again, his cock aching. He can smell their arousal now, a warm scent of need that’s familiar and exciting.

“I love you,” Yunho whispers against Changmin’s mouth. “I love you.”

Changmin murmurs agreement and strokes a hand over Yunho’s cheek. When he next breaks the kiss and opens his eyes, Changmin sees that his cunning plan has worked. The car windows have fogged up. Unless someone shines a flashlight in on them, they should be able to remain anonymous, just two bodies in search of pleasure.

He puts Yunho’s hand high up on his thigh. “Touch me.”

Expression dazed, Yunho gazes at him. “Changminnie...”

“No names.” Fuck, the idea of it is making him really hot. “Pretend I’m a hooker.”

A smile quirks Yunho’s lips. “You’d kiss me less if you were a hooker.”

“Not if you paid extra.” Changmin kisses him deep and hard as if this proves his point. “Or imagine I’m some trampy little Gwangju slut. I can do your dialect. I can. Wanna hear, big boy? Wanna hear me talk like a skank?”

“God, no. Don’t.” Yunho humps him, holding Changmin’s thighs and rutting up, leaving Changmin in no doubt just how much Yunho is turned on. Changmin hopes it’s not his execrable imitation of a southern accent that’s got his boyfriend so hot.

They kiss again, and then Changmin eases away. Yunho sprawls back against the seat, loose-limbed and with his eyes half-lidded as he watches Changmin slide off his lap and squirm down into the foot well.

With slow deliberation, Changmin unfastens the fly button and draws down the zipper. He does it mostly by touch, trying to keep his gaze on Yunho’s face. In his peripheral vision he sees movement—a figure outside. Two figures.

Excitement flares white-hot, the thrill of it so strong it sends a kick of lust all the way through him. Changmin says nothing; he merely smiles appreciatively as he frees Yunho’s dick from jeans and underwear.

Yunho doesn’t appear to have noticed their audience. His attention has narrowed, his gaze fixed on Changmin’s mouth. He makes tiny greedy noises and rolls his hips, offering his cock.

“All for me,” Changmin says. It comes out rough and unsteady, and he feels possessive. Not just because of their audience either, although that brings a whole new dimension to what they’re doing. He imagines those guys looking in through the fogged windows and glimpsing Yunho’s gorgeous huge dick. God, that’s hot, but not as hot as the reality right in front of him. Only he can smell and taste and touch it, and it’s all for him.

“Just for you, baby.” Yunho wraps a finger in a lock of Changmin’s hair and urges him closer. “Put your mouth on me. Please.”

Changmin tilts his head, teasing. He breathes over Yunho’s cock, admiring the heft of it and the taut skin, the bead of pre-come leaking from the slit and leaving a wet trail down the thick shaft. Full of anticipation, Changmin nuzzles at it then licks, lapping up the full length of Yunho’s dick before easing his mouth around the swollen crown and giving it a long, luxurious suck, moaning his approval at the same time.

“Ohhh. Oh yeah.” Yunho thumps both hands on the seat either side of him, hips canting as he thrusts forward. “Oh baby, that feels... It feels—oh.”

Changmin sucks on him. The wet sound seems so loud, almost as loud as the thudding of his pulse. Despite this and the background of Yunho’s soft, low moans of pleasure, still he’s aware of faint noises outside. He pulls off. Playing as much to the audience that can’t see everything as to the audience that can, he mouths all around Yunho’s cock, licking and sucking every inch from tip to root, and then he buries his face between Yunho’s spread thighs and nuzzles against his balls, loves into all that heat and musk and hair, all that contradiction of soft and hard.

Greedy now, Changmin makes Yunho all wet. He loves this; loves pleasing Yunho, loves hearing the babble of incomprehensible nonsense that’s one long litany of ecstatic adoration. Changmin knows it’s all for him—not just Yunho’s dick but everything Yunho is, and it’s such a fucking turn-on.

“Baby,” Yunho gasps, high and excited, “people are watching. Oh God, they’re watching us. Oh, that’s—that’s...”

It’s something, all right. Yunho’s cock thickens, gets even harder, pre-come spilling from him. His hands claw at the seat, and God, he smells so good. Changmin hums and curls a lick at the underside of Yunho’s shaft.

“Take it. Suck me.” Yunho slides down in the seat, head tilting back as his hips work. “You want me to beg? I’m begging. I’m begging so hard.”

Changmin laps at the glistening pre-come. “How many people are watching?”

Yunho writhes. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“I want to know.” Changmin is amazed that he sounds so calm.

Rolling his head from side to side with a helpless moan, Yunho glances outside the car. “Ten. Maybe ten guys. Oh fuck.”

“They want you,” Changmin says, voice low. “They’d love to be me, sucking on your big stiff dick.”

“Maybe they want you,” Yunho counters, trying to get his cock back between Changmin’s lips. “Please, baby. I’ll do anything.”

“Give them something more to see. Undo your shirt.”

“Oh, don’t make me,” Yunho says in tones that suggest he’s more than willing to be made in every way possible. He pulls at his shirt, hands unsteady as he unbuttons it and lets it fall open, and then his head tips back and he arches up, feet pressed down hard on the floor.

“Like that,” Changmin says. “Like that,” and strokes him, takes Yunho back in his mouth as he runs a greedy hand over Yunho’s belly up to his chest.

Heat burns across Yunho’s body, igniting the smell of fresh sweat and the spike-sweet scent of his cologne. Changmin splays his hand and strokes rough touches across Yunho’s chest, groping him, lightly scoring his fingernails over the skin. He swallows more of Yunho’s dick and brushes his thumb over a nipple.

Yunho jerks and mews. Changmin relaxes his jaw and takes more, breathing deeply through his nose, filling his head with Yunho’s scent and taste. He pinches Yunho’s nipple and Yunho gasps, hips working and working, and he says, “Stop, oh God, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m—”

Changmin pulls almost all the way off and gets one hand around Yunho’s cock. He strokes as he sucks, feeling the quiver and snap of tension. Yunho shudders and cries out, the sound of Changmin’s name garbled and tight as he twists and bucks, riding the orgasm.

Semen floods Changmin’s mouth. He swallows, the seed hot and slightly sweet-tasting—legacy of the Prosecco, maybe. He moans and some of it overspills, dribbling from his lips and down over his hand. That makes it all seem even dirtier, and when he’s sucked every last drop from Yunho’s cock, Changmin licks it from his hand to the muffled sound of applause from outside.

The windows are fogged so much the condensation has started to streak, making clear stripes through the mist. Changmin looks up at the shadowy faces of the anonymous men watching them and smiles. His own dick is rigid, his body aching with need, but he ignores it in favour of the delicious languor spreading through him. He murmurs kisses over Yunho’s quiescent cock and tucks it away, then unfolds himself from the foot well and curls up on the seat with his head on Yunho’s bare chest, happy and satisfied.

He may have lost the competition this time around, but right now Changmin feels like a winner.

* * *

Part 2 >>

Fic: The Minor Fall and the Major Lift [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 09:59:38 GMT

Title: The Minor Fall and the Major Lift
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17
Summary: Yunho wants to impress Changmin by playing Chopin. One problem—he can’t play Chopin.
Notes: PWP for haeym!

The Minor Fall and the Major Lift
Changmin comes home to find a grand piano in the middle of their apartment.

He pauses just over the threshold and unlaces his shoes, taking his time about it. He removes them, lines them up neatly on the rack, then spends a moment rearranging Yunho’s shoes. They’re never paired correctly and instead lie in a jumble, which always leads to Yunho complaining that he can’t find anything

“Hey, baby,” Yunho calls out, glorious sunshine in his voice.

“Hi.” Studiously ignoring the fact that Yunho is sitting at the piano wearing a sexy, severe black suit and a big, happy smile, Changmin wanders into the room. He steps around the furniture, which has all been shoved out of place to accommodate the grand piano, and goes into the kitchen as if he’s seen nothing untoward. It’s only when he’s safely out of Yunho’s line of vision that he allows himself to go a little weak at the knees.

Yunho in a suit is quite Changmin’s favourite thing at the moment. Sometimes it’s Yunho in ripped denim and scoop-necked vests, sometimes it’s Yunho in leather trousers, and at other times it’s Yunho naked between freshly-laundered sheets, but right now, Changmin has a thing for Yunho in a suit.

He has such a thing for it that it’s almost enough to distract him from the presence of the piano.

Almost.

Taking a deep breath, Changmin pushes himself away from the wall that was holding him upright. He peels off his socks and mates them together, wiggling his toes on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, then pads around and opens a few drawers, rattles a couple of things as if he was really busy and had better things to do with his time other than marvel at the grand piano in their living room.

Finally he gives in and emerges from the kitchen. Yep, the piano is still there. A Steinway, he notices. Its lid is down. The wood is black and glossy, probably ebony, and it’s polished to such brightness it rivals the shine of Yunho’s smile.

“I bought a piano,” Yunho says.

“Really?” Changmin is proud of the level of disinterest in his voice. He doesn’t look at the piano again. Instead he adopts what Yunho always calls his judging face and turns this expression on his beloved. “I didn’t notice.”

“Maybe I should’ve asked you first, huh.”

Changmin raises his eyebrows. “Like you asked me about that stray pig you brought home? A stray pig. Whoever heard of a stray pig?”

“Okay, that was a mistake.” Yunho pats the Steinway. “But this. This, Changminnie—this is a piano.”

“I’m familiar with the instrument.”

Yunho’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m going to play for you.”

Oh, this is too easy. “Like you play the drums?”

A glimmer of hurt goes through Yunho’s expression. “I’ve been practicing,” he says. “Come and turn the pages for me.”

Changmin stands there, then throws his balled-up socks on top of the pile of crap occupying an armchair and goes over to the piano.

He knows he’s going to regret this. They were all taught the basics soon after they joined the company, but the last time he ever heard Yunho play anything on the piano it was a mangled rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, even though it wasn’t anybody’s birthday. Yunho had played it eighteen times before someone took him away from the instrument. He hadn’t even been drunk, that was the really terrifying part.

The piano is spectacular, but not as spectacular as the man sitting at it. Changmin tries very hard to ignore the suit. It’s gorgeous, perfectly tailored to accentuate Yunho’s shoulders and his high waist, and now he’s come closer Changmin can see the faint, almost illusory pinstripe running through the cloth. It’s a seriously sexy suit. Yunho looks sophisticated even though he’s beaming up at Changmin and his hair is sort of flopping over one eye in a really irritating, endearing way.

With an effort, Changmin drags his gaze to the sheet music. “Chopin?” Well, he totally failed at keeping the surprise out of his voice there. “Chopin’s Etude No.10?” Failed again. Try harder, Shim.

Yunho rolls his shoulders, tilts his head one way and then the other, stretches his hands in front of him and—ugh—cracks his knuckles, then sits up straight and places his fingers over the keyboard. “I like Chopin.”

“Yes, but the Etudes are...” Ambitious. Fast. Complicated. Impossible, “quite a challenge,” Changmin finishes diplomatically.

“You know me, baby, I love a challenge.” Yunho flashes him a cheeky look that’s no doubt meant to convey a wealth of meaning. Changmin thinks he’s just been compared to Chopin. Presumably it’s meant to be flattering. But hey, it’s better than being compared to ‘Gangnam Style’.

“Okay.” Changmin readies himself, moving closer to stand to Yunho’s right. He studies the score, acquainting himself with the proliferation of notes dancing around the staves. God, it’s really difficult. If Yunho can pull off even the first page of the movement, he’ll be impressed. With this in mind, Changmin tosses his head so his hair flicks back and says, “Impress me.”

Yunho arranges his hands over the keys. There’s no tension in him; he’s completely relaxed, certain and confident in his abilities. He moves his hands over the keyboard without actually depressing any of the keys. Warming up, maybe. It is a difficult piece, after all.

Changmin watches the movements without comment, quite content to admire surreptitiously. Yunho has sexy hands, sharply elegant and graceful. He always knows what to do with his hands, too. Not just when they’re dancing or giving interviews or in bed, but all the time. Fascinated, Changmin follows the silent, delicate gestures.

It’s a surprise when a note rings out. Middle A. It sounds wrong. Changmin is accustomed to pitching at middle C, and middle A throws him just a little. Instinctively he hums, lifting the pitch, and then Yunho dabs at middle C and the notes modulate, curling around the room. Yunho smiles up at him and Changmin smiles back.

“Now,” Yunho says, and begins to play.

It takes Changmin a good forty seconds of staring at the score and trying to reconcile the notes he sees in front of him with the notes he’s hearing before he realises that Yunho is not, in fact, playing Chopin’s Etude No.10. Not only is the melody completely in the wrong time, it also doesn’t sound like Chopin. It’s a nice enough tune, familiar even, but Changmin can’t quite—

“Jung Yunho!” Changmin splutters, realisation sudden and horrifying. “You’re playing Celine Dion. Oh my God. You’re playing Celine Dion! Why. Why are you doing this to me?”

Instead of looking ashamed, as any normal person would be, Yunho just grins and—just fantastic—starts singing.

That fucking song from Titanic. Changmin cringes. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the mauled English lyrics or the fact that Yunho has just discovered the sustain pedal and ‘My Heart Will Go On’ suddenly thunders through the room.

“Stop!” Changmin yells.

Not that Yunho listens to him.

“Celine Dion gives me hives!” Changmin roars.

Briefly he considers how much pleasure he’d get from slamming the lid down over the keyboard, but the management wouldn’t like that. It was bad enough trying to explain away his fractured wrist before the Keep Your Head Down promotional activities. He is never going kite-surfing again, no matter what bullshit Yunho tells him about it being ‘fun’. He should never have listened to that idiot in the first place. Even so, he really shouldn’t slam down the piano lid and crush Yunho’s fingers because—because...

“Please stop.” Changmin grabs at Yunho’s hands. The awful melody falters into a blat of discord. The notes fade into silence. Only then does Changmin become aware of how close he is to Yunho. He stares at the weave of the cloth in Yunho’s suit, suddenly conscious of the lemony-musk scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body.

Yunho flexes his wrists, fingers depressing a bunch of keys to form a minor chord. Changmin makes a soft noise and releases his grip.

Silence falls again. It seems louder this time. Changmin can’t move. His pulse is racing, his breaths becoming faster, shallower. There’s a brief sprinkling of musical notes as Yunho slides his right hand free of Changmin’s loose grasp, then he curves his arm around Changmin’s waist and brings him closer, turns him around. At the same time, Yunho pushes back the piano stool just a little and spreads his legs.

They gaze at each other. Changmin faces away from the piano, the back of his thighs edged against the keyboard. Yunho moves forward on the stool again. Changmin sways backwards. He has nowhere to go. He’s trapped between Yunho and the piano, trapped between Yunho’s splayed thighs, and fuck if it isn’t the most exciting place he’s found himself in all week.

Changmin unbalances, going up onto his toes to try and right himself as he topples backwards. He flails, then catches at the top of the piano with his elbows. Yeah, he should pretend he meant to do that and just lean casually against the piano lid. Never mind that his elbows are slipping. He spreads out his arms and settles against the lid, body arched in unmistakeable invitation. Possibly he’s been manipulated into this whole thing, but he’s not going to complain.

Not when Yunho is looking at him with such naked desire.

It blazes in Yunho’s eyes, hungry and wanting, and then he drops his gaze and it’s like a spotlight going out. Changmin adjusts his hold on the piano—he must be leaving fingerprints, handprints, whatever—and then freezes, breath catching in his throat, as Yunho lifts his hands and tugs Changmin’s shirt out of his jeans. He pulls at it, straightens it, and toys with the hem. Then he looks up, and it’s intense and soul-stripping, and Changmin feels need coil all around him and squeeze tight.

Yunho’s lips part. His tongue comes out, slicks the plump softness of his lower lip. He starts to undo Changmin’s shirt, beginning with the button at the bottom, then gives Changmin another of those demanding looks. “You don’t like my piano playing?”

There’s probably a clever response to this question, but Changmin can’t quite grasp it. “I think,” he says, inhaling a long, shivery breath and leaning back even more as Yunho unfastens another button, and then another, “I think you should play something else.”

A smile teases at the curve of Yunho’s lips. “Oh, I intend to.”

The shirt is undone all the way up. Yunho pushes it open, almost off Changmin’s shoulders. He’s wearing a white v-necked t-shirt underneath. Yunho’s gaze flicks up to Changmin’s collarbones and throat. Changmin smiles and lets his head tip back. Yunho loves his throat. A deep shiver goes through him as he imagines Yunho tasting him there, imagines the sharp nip of Yunho’s teeth against his neck. He exhales a sigh and arches a little more, skin sensitised, body yearning—

And then he squeaks in surprise when Yunho gets to his feet, the piano stool scraping across the floor. Before Changmin can move, Yunho scoops him up. The sheet music spills from the stand in a fluttering cascade. Disoriented, Changmin grabs at Yunho’s shoulders, the fabric of the suit cool and soft and expensive beneath his hands. He holds on tight, bewildered for a moment.

Yunho smiles. He lifts Changmin higher, the satin lining of his suit jacket whispering against the cotton of his shirt, and he sets Changmin on top of the piano.

It’s an automatic reaction for Changmin to straighten up. He puts his bare feet on the keyboard and there’s a discordant clunk and a violent clash of notes. Reality jolts through him. “Yun, we can’t,” he says, trying to shift off the piano. “This is a Steinway. My jeans have rivets on the pockets. They’ll ruin the polish, the surface, the... This must’ve cost at least fifty thousand dollars!”

“But you’re priceless,” Yunho says, very softly.

Oh.

Oh God. Changmin hates it when Yunho gets all romantic. He can’t argue against that. Especially not when Yunho has such a serious, devoted expression in his eyes. The kind of expression that says Yes, I bought a grand piano so I could fuck you on it, and the absolute last thing I care about is that the rivets on your jeans will scratch the polish, because—

“My jeans will come off,” Changmin says in a rush. “Why don’t you take them off now?” He begins to squirm backwards to assist with the jeans removal, but Yunho puts his hands on Changmin’s hips and slides him to the front of the piano lid. He leans against Changmin, resting his hands on Changmin’s thighs, letting him feel the warmth of his touch.

Then Yunho strokes him. Just the top of his thighs at first, caressing in slow little circles, the gesture almost soothing. Changmin relaxes. His feet plink-plonk over the keys and he tenses again, self-conscious and too aware.

Yunho’s hands go to his inner thighs, coaxing Changmin into spreading his legs wider. Yunho strokes through the denim, down to his knees then up the seams, moving higher each time. Changmin wriggles. Despite his position, despite the low-level anxiety about damaging the damn polish, he’s getting turned on by this. His cock swells. Lust runs threads through him, jerking and pulling.

It’s times like these when Yunho usually looks down at what he’s set in motion and makes some flip comment addressed to Changmin’s dick. But he doesn’t do it this time. He looks down and smiles, that much is standard and completely on script, but then Yunho leans his head towards Changmin’s crotch and inhales, deeply and with obvious satisfaction.

Changmin makes a garbled noise and flops back onto the piano. More notes tumble from the instrument as his feet stab at the keys. It’s an awkward posture, his ass almost hanging over the side of the lid and his legs spraddled, feet not quite flat because he’s afraid of damaging the keys, the rest of his body at an angle across the top of the piano. His back is slightly twisted, and though it probably looks sexy, it doesn’t feel sexy.

Not until Yunho puts his face between Changmin’s wide-apart thighs and nibbles at the stretched denim.

Now it’s sexy.

A gasp bursts from him. Changmin starts to lift himself onto his elbows. He looks down the length of his body at Yunho’s head buried between his legs and thinks how much hotter it’d be if he didn’t have his jeans on. He’s about to offer this opinion when he feels wet warmth against one thigh and realises that Yunho is mouthing at his jeans, soaking the denim with saliva, sucking at it, drawing out Changmin’s scent and taste.

Changmin wants him to do that against bare skin. He squirms on the piano and goes sliding on the slick, almost icy surface. Attempting to anchor himself, he hooks one leg over Yunho’s shoulder and arches his hips in offering. His pulse thunders in his ears, arousal stretching taut. His dick is begging for attention. Changmin puffs out a breath, blowing his fringe from his eyes. If nothing else, he needs to at least release his cock from the confines of his clothes.

He puts a hand down to unzip himself.

Yunho lifts his head, eyes blazing. He knocks Changmin’s hand away, then—thank fuck—undoes the fly button. But he doesn’t undo the zipper. Instead he makes a soft, thoughtful sound and pushes up Changmin’s t-shirt. Just a little at first, exposing his belly, then Yunho smiles and puts his lips to the pale skin, whispering tiny, scorching kisses across the flesh. He flicks his tongue-tip around Changmin’s navel and then licks a slow, wet stripe through the dark scrawl of Changmin’s treasure-trail.

Changmin groans and writhes, trying to pull Yunho closer and to squirm away at the same time.

Yunho shoves the t-shirt higher as he continues to lick and kiss and nibble over Changmin’s abs. Pleasure melts and spreads. Changmin arches his back, pushing against Yunho’s exploring hand, encouraging him to touch and touch and touch as much as he wants. Yunho swirls his tongue into Changmin’s navel, unexpected and ticklish, and at the same time he pinches Changmin’s nipple.

Changmin slams down his right foot. He doesn’t mean to do it. It’s completely involuntary, a response to the sensation that wrenches through him. A jangle of bass notes crashes out. He moans into the sound, helpless and burning up. He jabs at the keys again. This time he hears a note he recognises.

B. B for begging. B for break me. B for—

“Changminnie,” Yunho says, voice unsteady and hoarse with want. “Baby, turn over.”

It takes a moment for him to obey. Changmin squiggles onto his side then onto his front, unzipping his jeans and repositioning his cock before he lies facedown against the surface of the piano. He hears a snap and clunk and realises Yunho has shut the lid over the keyboard. Cautiously he starts to lower his legs, only to go sliding again. Yunho growls and drags him into position, and Changmin’s knees hit the closed lid.

Then Yunho is tugging at Changmin’s jeans, wrestling them down to just above his knees. For a moment Yunho pauses in his task and kisses the back of Changmin’s thighs, rubs his face over Changmin’s ass through the cotton of his underwear.

Changmin lets out a mewl of excitement. He flattens his hands on the piano and turns his head, breath skimming the polished ebony, mist flaring and retreating.

Off comes Changmin’s underwear until it’s twisted around his thighs along with his crumpled jeans. Changmin’s breaths staccato. Lust hammers at him. His fingers clench into claws. His nails scrape at the shiny surface of the piano. He can smell the scent of the polish that was used on the wood. Beeswax and something sweet, something chemical.

Yunho puts his hands on Changmin’s ass. His palms are warm.

A whine breaks from Changmin’s throat. His thighs are trembling. His whole body has tightened. He’s waiting, head full of the smell of beeswax and sweetness, and he turns his face against the piano, presses his cheek to the cool surface. His eyes are watering, that’s how tense he is; tears that aren’t tears gathering and tickle-trickling over the bridge of his nose, over his cheek to smear beneath him.

Yunho leans closer. His breath whispers hot and teasing over Changmin’s ass-cheeks. He eases tiny little kisses over the curve of Changmin’s buttocks, murmuring something Changmin can’t hear.

The kisses are a distraction. While he mouths and nips at Changmin’s skin, Yunho presses down with his hands, presses apart, and Changmin gasps at the knowledge that he’s completely on display, that his hole is open and flexing as pleasure makes him clench and relax in anticipation.

Yunho lifts his head.

Changmin forgets how to breathe. His fingers curl, scratch scratch over the piano, and then they curl again and dig into his palms. The pain is sweet, the pain is good, it’s just enough to keep him there, just enough to stop him from pleading, and then—

Yunho dips his head and licks from right behind Changmin’s balls all the way up to the top of his crack.

Changmin yells, incoherent, and bangs one knee against the body of the piano. Somewhere inside the instrument, the sound echoes through the taut strings. He utters another garbled noise and lurches backwards, wanting more of Yunho’s mouth.

Yunho gives him another long, luxurious lick, then does it again, slower this time. He shoves his face right between Changmin’s buttocks and licks him, making deep, growly noises of pure enjoyment that seem to reverberate all the way up Changmin’s spine to spark through his head.

Changmin thrashes around on the lid of the piano. Yunho is driving him crazy. The soft sweep of Yunho’s hair against his ass. The press of Yunho’s nose. Yunho’s chin, his jaw, the way his mouth moves as he eats Changmin out. The way his tongue circles and teases at the sensitive ring, the way he licks and licks over Changmin’s clenched hole until Changmin has to give in, has to let Yunho’s tongue-tip penetrate him, and oh God it feels so dirty, so good, so mind-blowing, and absolutely everything comes down to this, to the stab and thrust of Yunho’s tongue fucking him.

He’s out of control, Changmin knows it. He’s sliding all over the place, slipping on the glossy surface of the piano. Reaching out to either side he anchors himself, gripping onto the edges of the lid and holding on for dear life as Yunho makes him all juicy-wet. There’s no music now, just the filthy, lewd sounds of gasping breaths and wet slurps and the long, low moans Yunho makes as he rubs his face in Changmin’s crack and tongues him again and again.

Frantic to come, Changmin writhes and ruts. There’s wetness beneath him, beneath his cock, stiff and aching and dribbling pre-come everywhere. It’s between his thighs, Yunho’s saliva slicked all over his skin. There’s wetness beneath his face, too. Changmin is drooling. He kisses the blurred ghost of his reflection, opens his mouth to the piano and forces himself down on it, teeth, tongue, lips, and he tastes the resonance of music and desire.

The dirty wet sounds are killing him. Changmin humps the piano, controlled by Yunho’s touch, Yunho’s tongue, Yunho’s kisses. Changmin’s hands are nowhere near his dick but he thinks he’ll come any minute just from the rimming. It’s so fucking good, and he struggles to express the huge tangle of emotion that’s unlatching and unlocking and straining to break free.

Yunho pulls away, panting for breath.

“Don’t stop,” Changmin begs, flicking back his head. “Don’t stop.”

Movements desperate, Yunho yanks him down off the piano lid. “We finish like this, baby,” Yunho tells him, breath hot against the back of his neck, lips and cheeks and chin wet as he presses kisses to Changmin’s nape.

Unresisting and eager, Changmin does as Yunho directs. He lets himself be arranged standing on the discarded sheet music, leaning forward and taking his weight through his hands over the keyboard lid.

Yunho frees his cock from his suit trousers, nudges against Changmin’s wet hole, and thrusts inside.

Changmin moans as he’s filled, the gorgeous heavy length of Yunho’s dick stretching him. He grips tight as pleasure overwhelms him. Yunho makes a choked sound in response and gasps against Changmin’s neck. “Oh yeah, Changminnie. Got you now.”

Grabbing at Changmin’s drooling dick, Yunho jerks him off as he fucks into him. They’re too primed for this to last very long, and the pace Yunho sets is strong and swift. They rock and sway, moving together, Changmin’s hands curled into fists and banging against the lid of the keyboard in metronomic time. He counts for them, faster, faster, and then Yunho moans and says all purring-growly, “Sing for me, baby, sing for me.”

Changmin lets out a wail, pure and melodic, and comes all over the curves of the polished ebony Steinway.

Yunho explodes in a rush one beat later, hot and perfect, breath stuttering as he pumps into Changmin; and then he sighs, a long, sweet exhalation as he relaxes and pulls Changmin even tighter against him in a hug.

There’s milky seed splashed everywhere. Chopin’s Etude No.10 is stuck to his feet. Changmin smiles. It’s the best damn piano recital he’s ever attended.

Fic: Servant of the Sun [TVXQ RPS | AU]

glitterburn — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 20:54:26 GMT

Title: Servant of the Sun
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: PG13
Summary: Fourteenth Prince Changmin is sent to serve as an attendant at the shrine of the Sun. He must remain pure and chaste for a full year. He didn’t expect to fall in love.
Notes: AU. For light_on_oceans, who requested a royalty AU with Changmin as a prince. I am behind on my New Year debauchery but never mind, it was worth it and I’ll have less of a hangover tomorrow. Vaguely inspired by the Heian tradition of sending an imperial princess to the shrine at Ise, and vaguely Heian all around, actually. Happy New Year!

Servant of the Sun
On New Year’s Day, breath sharp in his throat beneath the muffle of his veils, Changmin makes obeisance to his father the Emperor in the great courtyard of the palace. Resplendent in twelve layers of stiffened, padded silk in every shade of the forbidden colours, he bows three times then lies flat on the ground awaiting his fate.

His Majesty reads from an ancient scroll, commanding his fourteenth son to journey to the shrine of the Sun. It is the custom that every ten years a boy of imperial blood must serve one full year as attendant at the kingdom’s most important shrine. Changmin’s purity and chastity will ensure the Sun’s benevolence and a good harvest.

Changmin rises to his feet when ordered to do so. He cannot see his father’s expression behind the curtains of state. Neither can he see his mother amongst the ranks of imperial concubines similarly concealed behind painted screens. His eyes feel heavy with kohl. He adjusts the veil over the rest of his face and turns towards the ox-cart that will convey him to the shrine.

He has never left the capital before, and yet now he must travel the breadth of the kingdom. The idea is more strange than frightening. Changmin sits in the shadowed interior of the ox-cart and listens to the cheers and fanfare as the cart moves through the city streets. Everyone is delighted that a prince will be this year’s shrine attendant. No matter that, as the fourteenth son, Changmin has been removed from succession; he is still the son of the Emperor, a descendent of the Sun, and therefore his presence at the shrine will bring great blessings to all.

Though a cavalcade of palace guards escorts him now, Changmin knows that only two men will accompany him beyond the city gates to serve as his guards at the shrine. These two men-at-arms walk at the back of the cart, discussing the road ahead of them and various other matters. Changmin listens to their conversation, curious.

“They say Prince Changmin is a beauty,” one of the men says. He sounds old, his breath wheezing in the frosty air. “Skin like moonlight, they say, and eyes like a tempest and a mouth that could trouble a man’s sleep.” The soldier cackles and then breaks off to cough.

Changmin sits still despite the jolt and sway of the cart on the rutted road. He doesn’t know if he’s beautiful or not. Certainly no one has ever told him so before. Perhaps if something is veiled and hidden away, others find it desirable and assume it must be beautiful.

He traces his fingers over his nose, which he’s always considered to be too long, and then lets his touch linger over his lips. His brothers closest to him in age used to laugh at his mouth. “Like a fish’s mouth,” they’d said, “always greedy for food!” and in revenge he’d steal from their plates when no one was looking. They always knew it was him, though. He won’t miss them this year. He won’t miss any of them.

The garrulous old soldier has recovered from his fit of coughing and is talking again. “The beautiful ones always tempt the Sun to grant a good harvest. Let’s hope this young prince is more obedient than his elder brother, eh? What a year that was! You’d probably not remember it, sir, not a young feller like you, but it was dreadful...”

Changmin goes rigid. He remembers it, although he was little more than a child. That had been a terrible, shameful year. The Fifth Prince had abandoned his duties as shrine attendant and instead spent most of his time seducing the local girls. The Emperor had not been pleased when the Fifth Prince had returned to the capital with a failed harvest and a rout of angry fathers all seeking places at court for their pregnant daughters.

“I’m sure the Fourteenth Prince is the very model of imperial behaviour,” the second man-at-arms says. He sounds younger, and he has a thread of humour running through his voice.

Intrigued, Changmin draws back the curtain just a little and peeks out at his escort.

The young guard smiles at him.

Changmin lets the curtain drop and settles onto the cushions, his heart beating unnaturally fast. A commoner smiled at him. A soldier smiled at him.

He can’t remember the last time anyone smiled at him.

Changmin twitches at the curtain again.

His man-at-arms is still looking. Still smiling, offering him a smile as warm and bright as the sun.

Though he’s veiled and the soldier cannot possibly see, Changmin smiles back.

*
The shrine is an ancient establishment built upon a small island that twice a day is joined to the mainland by a long cobbled causeway. It is a simple place without any of the ornamentation of the capital. The only stone-built building is the bell-tower. Everything else is made of wood, and the monastery smells of camphor and incense and sea salt.

Monks with shaved heads and grey robes show Changmin to his accommodation in a long, low hall set as an annex to the main temple. The sacred flame burns outside in the white-gravelled courtyard, protected by a curve of black stone and a gilded canopy overhead. It is one of his duties to check that the flame never goes out. Changmin bows very carefully to the sacred flame, swearing an oath to remain pure and chaste all year, before he goes over to his residence.

He steps up onto the veranda, the long skirts of his robes dragging behind him, and then he feels a slight resistance. One of the layered silks has caught on a splinter. Changmin frowns behind his veil and goes to yank the fabric free.

“Your Highness, wait!” His young man-at-arms jumps up onto the veranda and kneels to gently free the silk from the splintered wood. The soldier is handsome, so very handsome, even when he wears an expression of concern rather than a smile, and Changmin doesn’t say anything when the soldier attempts to smooth out the snarled silk with his fingertips. The soldier doesn’t seem aware of the protocol that a commoner shouldn’t touch the Prince’s raiment, but perhaps such palace niceties are unimportant at the shrine.

The man-at-arms looks up. “Your Highness, my apologies. The silk is damaged.”

“I cannot tell.” Changmin tugs at his skirts, whisking the silk away from the soldier’s grasp. They look at one another, and then, full of a longing to know the truth, Changmin lifts a hand to his face. He unveils, lets the layers of gauzy fabric fall, and he gazes at the man-at-arms.

The soldier stares. He tilts his head a little. And smiles.

Changmin doesn’t know what that means. “Thank you for your assistance.” He pauses delicately, a question in his tone.

“Yunho, Your Highness.” The soldier bows right down to the veranda floor. “Captain of the Left Guards, senior fifth rank.”

Changmin nods as if such information was beneath him. As a prince removed from succession, he is only junior third rank himself. The difference between him and Yunho is both very great and nothing at all.

*
The days pass slowly at the shrine. During the first and second month, bad weather seals them off from the mainland. The causeway is flooded and storms batter the island. Changmin frets that he has already failed in his duty to the shrine, but the monks tell him this is normal.

“Imagine living in a place like this all your life,” Changmin says through his screens and curtains one night while the wind tries to claw lumps from the sedge roof. In the courtyard, the gravel hisses like the surf as raindrops pelt its surface.

“I grew up not far from here,” Yunho says.

He’s sitting on the veranda in full armour, his sword in its scabbard beside him and a bow and a quiver full of arrows within reach of his hand. He has a brazier nearby to keep him warm as he sits on duty, and the coals smoulder and sputter, giving off a lazy heat and a gentle glow.

Changmin studies Yunho’s shadow through the curtains of thick linen and the folding screens painted with patterns appropriate to the season. He likes Yunho’s profile. He likes the way the firelight gilds him. Changmin shivers pleasurably, warm within the furs taken from his bed. “Was that why you volunteered to accompany me, because you were homesick?”

Yunho smiles. Changmin can hear it in his voice when he answers: “No. I volunteered because I’d heard the prince was a great beauty and I wanted to see for myself.”

Changmin thinks he should be shocked at such plain speech, but he’s not. He asks lightly, “And do you now regret that decision?”

“No.”

A moment of silence against the howl of the wind, and then Changmin dares to ask the question: “Am I beautiful?”

Yunho is quiet for a long time before he replies, “As beautiful as this storm is wild, Highness.”

It is a clumsy compliment, but Changmin treasures it. He withdraws deeper behind the curtains and wraps himself in fur, and though the storm rages above them, Changmin feels warm and safe.

*
Spring arrives, and the clear weather brings a trickle of visitors to the shrine. Soon the trickle becomes a steady stream, pilgrims coming from all over the land to entreat the Sun’s aid and to ask for Changmin’s blessing. They number so many and are so eager to see him that he unveils and goes out to the people with his head bare, and he lets the sun’s rays touch his face, turning his skin to palest gold.

“The Sun will smile upon us all,” he tells the gathered pilgrims, touching their hands when they reach out to him. They go down onto their knees and ask for his blessing on their homes, their health, their children, their marriages, their crops.

As the weather turns warmer, more and more pilgrims arrive asking for his blessing for a good and fruitful marriage. There are so many people that the monks put up tents in the courtyards to accommodate all the visitors. The shrine is awash with generous donations, and colourful prayer-ribbons flutter from the branches of the trees in the sacred grove.

“It’s because you share yourself,” Yunho tells him when Changmin expresses bewilderment at his popularity. “You’re beautiful, too. They want some of your beauty and kindness to rub off onto them so they’ll have a happy marriage and healthy babies, handsome boys or pretty girls, as the Sun intends.”

“I don’t share myself,” Changmin says, musing behind his curtains. It’s a finer, lighter fabric for this time of year, and the sheer gauze ripples in the breeze borne from the ocean. It smells of salt and cherry blossom. With a measured glance, Changmin looks at Yunho, admiring the handsome captain with his tanned skin and ruffled dark hair. “I wish I could share myself more.”

Yunho turns and looks at him through the curtains. “You cannot, Highness. Your purity, your chastity—this is what will make the year a success.”

Changmin tosses his head. “But still... I want to be touched.” He pauses, slanting a challenging glance through the curtains. “Perhaps it is spring fever.”

“Perhaps.” Yunho turns again, fixing his gaze out into the courtyard with deliberate intent. “Let us pray it doesn’t last until summer.”

*
By summer the longing is like a fire burning beneath his skin. Changmin is consumed with desire for Yunho, a desire stoked all the more for knowing that it is forbidden. Perhaps if Yunho were indifferent to him, Changmin could find a cure for what ails him, but he knows this isn’t the case. He knows Yunho desires him, too, and with each glance, each word, no matter how casual, they plunge deeper into mutual want.

It’s like a sickness, tempting him, and Changmin lies in bed at night and moans with the frustration of having his beloved so near and yet so far. Only curtains and screens and darkness separate them, and yet they do not—cannot—touch.

The other man-at-arms has found a willing widow in a nearby village and spends most of his time away from the shrine. The causeway lies open, its cobblestones dry, the track shimmering with heat haze. The monks drowse through the hottest part of the day.

One afternoon, Changmin decides to bathe. He orders Yunho to fetch water from the well. It takes five trips to fill the wooden tub. Changmin stands behind the curtains and watches sweat glisten over Yunho’s skin as he works. Finally the tub is full of cool, refreshing water, and Yunho bows and says, “Highness,” before he retreats onto the veranda.

Before Changmin disrobes, he makes certain to move the screens and curtains aside just a little.

He takes his bath, dips his head to reveal his nape then sits up straight to wash his shoulders, then stretches out his legs, lifting them from the confines of the tub, and squeezes water from a sea sponge along their length twice before he’s satisfied.

He hums a court tune as he washes. He imagines how Yunho’s hands would feel on his body. He gets so aroused he pleasures himself right there in the tub, noisy and gasping and unashamed, aware the whole time of Yunho watching him.

*
By mid-autumn they’ve settled into a routine that one could almost call courtship. Yunho catches fireflies and imprisons them within a linen bag, then lets them out behind Changmin’s curtains so they can see one another through the thin gauze that separates them. They spend their nights talking to one another, Yunho on the veranda, Changmin inside behind his screens, their arms stretched towards one another, their fingertips almost touching.

“Autumn is for poetry,” Changmin says. “If you were my lover, you would write me poems upon a fan and send them to me.”

Yunho turns onto his side and stares through the curtains. “If I were your lover, Highness, I would write upon your skin with my kisses, and we would have no need of poetry.”

Changmin sits up in his bed and makes great show of plumping the cushions that serve as his pillow. A bell-cricket sings from its hiding place beneath the eaves. The moon is full, its light as sharp as a blade. Yunho’s face is in shadow, his breathing soft in the darkness.

It is a perfect night for poetry. Changmin thinks for a moment, then says:

Like a spider I spin webs to catch you
But like moonlight you cannot be held.
Yunho snorts. “Is this poetry, Highness?”

“Yes.”

“I do not care for it.” His sword in its scabbard slides across the veranda as Yunho pushes himself up onto his knees. “Poetry is too insubstantial. I prefer plainer speech.”

Changmin’s heart clenches. “Go on.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Yunho says, “I want to lie beside you and take off all your veils, all your robes, and I want to touch you the way you need to be touched. I want to kiss every inch of your body. I want to whisper secrets over your skin. I want to taste you. I want to hold you so close our scents combine. I want to share pleasure with you. I want to teach you everything I know about desire, and then let you teach me the same. I want you to lose yourself in me, and when I go into ecstasy I want you to be the one who takes me there. I want to love you, Changmin. I want to love you.”

With an impatient gesture, Changmin shoves aside the screen. It tips over and clatters to the floor. The bell-cricket falls silent.

They stare at one another, their desire a tangible, living thing. “Come to me,” Changmin whispers.

“I cannot.” Yunho sounds broken. “The harvest is close. If I were to defile you...”

“It would not be defilement!” Changmin’s protest is a gasp of frustration. “I want you. I want you so much.”

Yunho bows down to the ground. “But I love you, Highness, and so I must be patient.”

Overcome, undone, Changmin veils himself and crosses the short distance to where Yunho kneels. “I love you,” Changmin says, his breath fluttering the fine gauze of his veil. “I will not be denied, but neither will I break my vow to the Sun.”

They embrace through the veil, mouths hot and wet, their kisses made of silk.

*
Winter comes again, but they’re patient. The shrine never closes its doors to penitents and pilgrims, but as the tides roil across the causeway, few people visit and the monks fall into a lethargy that’s almost like hibernation.

Changmin still carries out his duties. He protects the sacred flame and counts off the days in the almanac.

Yunho wakes him as the old year dies. Together they go out into the courtyard and watch the sky to the east, awaiting the first light of the sun’s rays over the horizon.

As soon as the day dawns, they can touch, mouth to mouth and skin on skin.

A year of longing has almost ended, and they will be free to love forever.

Fic: How Hard Can It Be [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 19:18:04 GMT

Title: How Hard Can It Be
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17
Summary: Auto-fellatio seemed like a good idea at the time, but Yunho is more than pleased with the way things turn out.
Notes: For diagon, post hoc, and because Yunho’s dick deserves more bj fics than I’ve given it this year. Totally non-canonical, since I wrote this without being near the internet to check dates and so I mixed up the coconut incident (Saipan 2009) with when TVXQ were on Bora Bora (2005) crossed over with the MV for 'Sky' (2006).

How Hard Can It Be
“Okay,” says Yoochun, more than a hint of a whine in his voice, “now can we just go chill on the beach?”

The photographers and stylists have cleared off for the afternoon. Apparently it’s too hot and too bright to take photos at this time of day. They’ll be back for the sunset, but for now even the managers have decamped elsewhere, probably to the bar further along the beach, and the afternoon stretches out, long and leisurely.

“You go to the beach,” Yunho says. “I’m going to stay here.”

“Tired after a hard morning weaving coconut shells?” Junsu asks, smirking.

“It wasn’t coconut shells. It was the husks. The fibres.” Yunho peers over the side of the veranda in search of a discarded shell as reference, then he realises Junsu doesn’t actually give a fuck.

“Whatever. Complete waste of time if you ask me,” Jaejoong says.

“No one asked you.” Changmin is on the far side of the veranda reading a book, stretched out on a rattan lounge seat. He turns a page without looking up. His mouth is set in a stubborn, sultry line.

Jaejoong rolls his eyes but makes no reply.

“It was a waste of time,” Yoochun agrees after a moment.

“I made a cup-holder.” Yunho keeps a sunny smile on his face, but he’s a little stung by their reactions. He knows he gets carried away sometimes. He knows if he gets an idea in his head he worries at it until it’s either achieved or erased. So what if he’d remembered that scene in a manga where the characters had woven the fibres of coconut husks together into a rope? So what if he’d wanted to demonstrate the principle on a smaller scale? He was proud of his cup-holder, even if it had taken him hours to make.

“Whoop-di-doo.” Yoochun jumps from one foot to the other. “We could’ve been playing Frisbee or checking out the babes on the beach and instead we had to sit around waiting for Robinson Crusoe to finish demonstrating his survival skills.”

Confusion creases Jaejoong’s brow. “What’s Robinson Crusoe?”

“Who cares?” Junsu bounces a football on the veranda then gives it a mighty kick. It sails through the air and vanishes into the scrub beneath the palm trees. “Let’s go to the beach already. Changmin, fetch the ball. Last one in the sea is a pussy!”

Without a word, Changmin closes his book and sets it on his seat, then gets up and goes in search of the football.

The other three race off, shouting and whooping. Yunho sighs and hops down from the veranda. From this angle he can see that Changmin is looking in the wrong place, the thin, whippy branches of the shrubs tearing at Changmin’s bright orange shirt and catching against the loose linen of his trousers.

“I can manage on my own.” Changmin pauses in his search and gives Yunho a glowering look.

“I know. But I like helping. Besides,” Yunho adds, waving at the bushes, “it went into these shrubs here and they’re spiky. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Changmin turns his attention to the thorny shrubs, then glances at Yunho in disbelief. “So you’ll get it for me and hurt yourself, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, I...” The words dry up and Yunho is tongue-tied. It happens sometimes when he’s around Changmin. Silly, really, because for the rest of the time they talk and talk and it’s the easiest thing in the world, and though Yunho trusts all the guys, he trusts Changmin the most, even though Changmin is the youngest, even though he’s only nineteen.

“Look here.” There’s a branch on the ground. Yunho picks it up. “I’ll use this stick. I’ll poke the ball free and you get it from the other side.”

Before Changmin can respond to this plan, Yunho hunkers down and lies flat on the dusty, sand-strewn earth beside the spiky shrub. He twists around, angles the branch, and prods at the ball. After a couple of tries, he knocks it free. Changmin grabs for it, then before Yunho can call out congratulations on their teamwork, Changmin drives the ball hard onto one of the thorns.

Yunho sits up, staring. The puncture is small but ragged. He can hear the air hissing as it escapes. Changmin’s mouth twists, his long hair falling into his face as he jams both hands into the sides of the ball and crushes it. The whisper of air becomes a wheeze, and the football collapses.

Changmin flicks back his head and tosses the ruined ball onto the thin patch of grass by the beach house. “Hey guys,” he says, voice flat and unemotional, “I got your ball back.”

“Changmin?” Yunho scrambles to his feet. “Changminnie, are you—”

“I’m fine.” Weariness and resignation sharpen Changmin’s features, but he gives Yunho a flashing look. “Really. It’s okay. It’s just sometimes... I hate the fact that they don’t see me.”

Yunho wants to deny it, but it’s true. “I see you,” he says instead.

That rouses the ghost of a smile. “I know you do.” Changmin sketches a brief wave and turns away, heading off into the woodland.

For a while Yunho stands there, tracing Changmin’s progress until he can no longer see the orange shirt through the trees. Then he bounds across the grass, kicks the deflated football towards the beach, and goes indoors to his bedroom.

He lies across the bed facedown. Above him, the ceiling fan turns in lazy circles. It’s on as high as it’ll go, and it still barely stirs the air. His nape prickles. Yunho rolls over and lifts his arms above his head. He’s conscious of his body, of the heat clinging to him and the smell of his sweat mixed in with cologne and dust.

Restlessness pounds at him. He’s not tired. He’s horny.

His thoughts melt and slide. Changmin’s expression haunts him. Maybe he should’ve gone after him, asked what was wrong. Not that Changmin ever admits when things trouble him. They’re alike in that respect; they just get on and deal with it, although Yunho does it with a smile on his face and Changmin does it with a slew of verbal lacerations.

Arousal tugs, an ache spreading through him. Yunho shoves a hand inside his tracksuit trousers, inside his underwear. He closes his hand over his cock and presses down. This is so not the time to be thinking of Changmin, but he can’t help it. He thinks of Changmin’s eyes. Those cheekbones. His hair, too long at the moment even though he says he likes it at that length. His neck. His awkwardness and grace, so contradictory, the way he flails with his hands and his fingers scrunch and his shoulders hunch and he tries to shrink in on himself, but at other times he’s so damn haughty and he glides around with his nose in the air, and then there’s his mouth, oh, his mouth...

Yunho is rock hard. His palm is daubed all over with wetness. He grips his cock tighter and stifles a groan. There’s no one around to hear him, so he does it again, moans loud and dirty and says the name he’s been keeping dammed up inside: Changmin, Changmin.

It shocks him to hear it spoken into the silence of the room. Yunho goes quiet again. He rolls onto his side and stares at the bed linen, still working the length of his dick; slower now, the pace thoughtful and measured.

He doesn’t want to get off with his hand. He wants a blowjob. Specifically he’d like a blowjob from Changmin, but that’s never going to happen. Maybe he can give himself a blowjob. Yoochun said guys in the States try it all the time. It’s not like Yunho hasn’t considered it before. After all, he has a dick and it’s pretty big from what he can tell, and he’s more flexible than a lot of guys, so yeah, he’s thought about it, of course he has, but...

The problem with thinking, Yunho finds, is that it often kills off the idea that first came to mind. If he’s going to do this, he has to do it now, because in five minutes—hell, in thirty seconds—he’s going to realise just how stupid this idea is and he’ll never do it, he’ll never know, and—

He huffs, then mutters, “Just do it, Jung. How hard can it be?”

There’s an art to this, he’s sure of it. First of all, get undressed. Or at least half undressed, and he takes off his trousers and his underwear and wrestles his t-shirt up over his midriff. His cock stares at him in a plaintive manner. He stares back. He’s going to do this no matter whether it approves or not.

Yunho squirms to the top of the bed and stuffs pillows beneath his head. He draws up his knees and rocks back and forth on his spine to warm up, then takes a breath and rolls up into a shoulder-stand.

The mattress is firm. Apart from a few creaks as the springs adjust, this is as good as performing the move on the floor. Yunho supports his lower back with his hands, holds the position for a heartbeat, then tips the balance by bringing his feet forward, toes pointed. He lowers his legs until they’re parallel with his upper body and his feet are over his head. Hands flat on the mattress now, he rocks in tiny increments, pushing with his hips until he catches at the slatted wooden headboard with his feet, and then he hooks his toes over the top and locks himself into position.

He breathes out. Breathes in.

His balls nestle together. His cock is only half hard now. Not even with the help of gravity is he going to be able to so much as lick the tip. Yunho tries to think sexy thoughts. It’s not working. He glares at his dick and wills it to obey him, then jolts his head up from the pillow and extends his tongue, curls it out and—

The door opens. Changmin stands on the threshold, sunlight all around him and an expression of utter bewildered shock on his face.

Well, this is awkward.

From a box marked Use Only in Emergencies, Yunho summons a smile of utmost blazing innocence. “Hi! Changmin! Hello!”

Changmin blinks. He opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Then he comes into the room and lets the door fall closed behind him.

Yunho is dying. Dying of shame and humiliation and—just great—dying of want, because as soon as Changmin appeared, Yunho’s cock perked up no end. Of course it did. Because it has no sense of timing, none at all, and he’s in this really weird position with a massive hard-on, and if real life was anything like his rioting imagination, Changmin would lick his lips right now and slink over, all seductive, and he’d crawl across the bed and say, “Do you need some help with that?”

But his imagination is lame and real life is lamer, and instead of porn star Changmin he’s got sombre, perplexed, judging Changmin who looks at him and says, “What are you doing?”

For a brief moment Yunho thinks maybe Changmin really doesn’t know. Maybe he really is that sheltered and naive. Maybe he’ll believe it if Yunho tells him it’s some sort of posture-improving yoga position. Maybe—

“Yunho.” Changmin does that thing with his mouth, flattening his lips into a line and sort of curling them inward. Usually he does it because he’s frustrated or disapproving, but now it looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Yunho,” he says again, and yep, that’s laughter in his voice, one hundred percent it’s laughter, “are you trying to give yourself a blowjob?”

“Please don’t tell the others.”

Changmin’s eyes widen. He looks startled and a little bit offended. “I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that?”

“Because.” Yunho gestures at himself, naked except for the t-shirt twisted just below his chest, his body curled and doubled over with his weight resting through his shoulders and upper back, his feet hooked over the headboard.

“I think you look hot.” A blush crawls across Changmin’s face as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Yunho isn’t sure what to do with that information. He tries for humour. “You like seeing your leader in embarrassing, compromising positions?”

The blush burns fiercer. Changmin ducks his head but doesn’t take his gaze from Yunho. “It’s not compromising. Someone else would have to be involved to make it properly compromising. This... this is just risqué.”

“But there is someone else involved,” Yunho says. “You’re here.”

Then he realises that maybe that sounded like an invitation. God, he should shut the fuck up before this can get any weirder. Maybe he should start by getting out of this position, because he’s fairly certain Changmin has the best-ever view of his ass, and the way he’s holding himself means Changmin can see all along the split between his buttocks, and fuck, what if Changmin can see his hole, that would be—it would be...

Really fucking hot, his brain tells him, and his dick agrees. It shows its wholehearted approval by stiffening even more and starting to drool. Lust pulses, and Yunho clenches down on it. Every bit of him goes tight. Which just makes it all the more obvious that he’s turned on.

Oh God. Yunho flails inwardly. Thinking about Changmin looking at his ass has made him really, really hard. His life sucks. This honestly couldn’t get any worse. Or, well, it could—the others could come back and find them like this and take photos and...

Yunho stops his thoughts from galloping into madness. “I’m gonna,” he says, having no idea what he’s going to do. “Uh. I’m. I’ll...”

Changmin just looks at him, eyes still wide, lips slightly parted. Oh, that’s the wrong thing to focus on. He’s fairly sure Changmin’s mouth is what started this in the first place. Yunho wishes he could summon some sort of commanding tone so he could tell Changmin to fuck off out of the room, but instead he unhooks his toes from the headboard and uncurls from his hideously embarrassing position.

He does it too fast. His heels bounce on the mattress. They’re not the only thing that bounces. His cock slaps against his belly, hard and thick, and the noise it makes, flesh on flesh, is just so lewd and filthy.

“Oh,” Changmin says, and now he’s staring, now he licks his lips. “Um. Wow. I mean, you’re really big.”

So this just got more awkward, yes it did. Yunho isn’t sure what to say. “I guess. But you knew that already. I mean, you’ve seen us all before. In the showers and stuff.”

“Yes.” The word is slow and drawn-out, as if Changmin thinks Yunho is simple. He lifts his gaze from Yunho’s dick and looks at him properly. “But I’ve never seen it like this.”

Yunho thinks maybe now would be a good time to protect whatever is left of his modesty. He cups a hand over his cock.

Changmin’s lips twitch. “That’s not going to work.”

“Okay, I’ll just turn over, then.” Matching words to deed, Yunho rolls onto his front. The quilt is soft and smooth beneath him. His shoulders ache from holding position for so long. He wriggles them, the action sending little reactions through his body, and he instinctively pushes down with his hips. His cock rubs against the quilt, sparks of pleasure trailing up his spine. Oh fuck, he really has to get off soon.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this view,” Changmin says, voice low and amused, “but I think I preferred you on your back.”

It takes a good few seconds for Yunho to process this. Changmin is flirting with him. No, that’s not right. Flirting is sweet and innocent and this is aggressive and—awkward. And he’s making it more awkward by not responding, by randomly staring at Changmin like a numbskull, and in a minute Changmin will decide this was all a big mistake and he’ll go away, and Yunho doesn’t want that.

“Okay,” Yunho says, because he has nothing clever to offer, “okay,” and he rolls over again onto his back and strokes his hands down his front, framing his dick and his balls as he spreads his thighs.

Changmin stands frozen, his orange shirt falling off one shoulder and the tiniest patch of sunburn across his chest where his vest has dipped, and—oh, would you look at that—his cock is thrusting eagerly against his loose white drawstring trousers. Seems like Changmin was telling the truth about preferring this view.

“Now what?” Changmin asks, and he looks nervous and excited both at once.

Yunho has no fucking clue. “Maybe,” he says, arousal twisting just at the thought of something simple and meaningless, “maybe we can get off together?”

“Oh.” Something close to disappointment skims through Changmin’s expression, and then his mouth moves around words that don’t seem to want to come out. “Would you. Should I. Do you...” He stops, his frustration evident.

“Whatever you want.” Yunho sits up. He throws his discarded clothes onto the floor and pats the space on the bed next to him. “Come here. Just...”

Changmin shakes his head but he comes closer, circling around the bed, gaze fixed once again on Yunho’s cock. “I want. I want.”

It’s kind of obvious what he wants. Yunho wants it, too. He strokes his dick, feather-light, and shivers at the brush of pleasure. “You want this?”

“Yes.” The word is snatched away, dropping through the air as Changmin goes down onto his knees by the side of the bed. His gaze is burning. His mouth is sinful, soft and sweet and generous.

Yunho can’t believe he’s going to get it. He scrambles to the edge of the bed and touches Changmin’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek. He wants to say things like Are you sure and We don’t have to do this now, except it’s pretty obvious that Changmin is completely sure and yes, they have to do it right this instant.

Seems like he’s not the only one who can over-think things.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially not when it has a mouth as beautiful and ripe as Changmin’s. Yunho eases a little closer, aching with the need to have him, and asks, “Have you done this before?”

Changmin shakes his head. “No.” He worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment as if regretting the admission, and then his tongue peeps out and slicks over the tiny indentations in the plump, pillowy flesh. “How hard can it be?”

Very hard, Yunho wants to say, a bubble of hysteria expanding inside him. He tamps down the urge to giggle. Changmin looks so serious there, kneeling on the floor as he studies Yunho’s cock, devouring every inch with his gaze before he puts out a hand and touches it.

Yunho makes a strangled noise. His cock jerks.

Changmin circles his fingers around its girth and strokes, up and down, up and down. “You’re not just big, you’re huge,” he says. “God, I can’t. It’s... Oh, I love the curve. It’s so different.”

Jealousy stabs Yunho. “Different to whose?”

Changmin gives him a droll look. “Different to mine, genius. I already told you I haven’t done this before. I haven’t jacked off with anyone, either, or given a handjob, or whatever else you were imagining.”

“My imagination is pretty one-track right now,” Yunho admits.

Changmin laughs as he settles lower on his knees. He pumps Yunho’s dick a few more times, easing out a glistening trail of pre-come, then runs a fingertip down the length of the shaft and spends a while fondling Yunho’s balls. “You’re kind of big everywhere down here,” he says, tone halfway between admiring and critical. “That means you’re grossly out of proportion, I hope you realise that.”

“I was never any good at art.”

“Nor me.” Changmin gives him a twinkling look then leans forward and snuffles at Yunho’s balls. He licks them, slow and sure, as if he needs to gather every last nuance of taste, and then he presses closer and rubs his face against Yunho’s cock and balls. He opens his mouth wide and moans, the sound hungry and utterly depraved.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Changmin gasps against him, “so fucking long,” and before Yunho can make sense of that confession, Changmin licks his lips again and sinks his mouth down around Yunho’s dick.

“Oh, fuck.” Yunho bucks forward, scooting right to the edge of the mattress and splaying his thighs as wide as they’ll go. His hips ramp forward and he tries to stuff as much of his cock into Changmin’s mouth as is physically possible. There’s a lot of cock for Changmin to take, but take it he does, down and down, and then Changmin relaxes his jaw and breathes really deeply through his nose, and ohhhh Jesus fucking Christ, Yunho is down his throat.

It doesn’t last long. Changmin’s throat closes up and he pulls back, coughing. He curves both hands around Yunho’s dick almost possessively as he turns his head and coughs some more.

“Baby, you don’t have to,” Yunho tries to reassure him.

Changmin leans his head on Yunho’s thigh and smiles. “Baby, I want to,” he says softly, and there’s a glint in his eyes, total determination, and Yunho braces himself because he knows that look, he knows Changmin.

“Come here,” Changmin murmurs, tilting his head so his hair tumbles across his face. It tickles Yunho’s dick, strands of it clinging to the wet shaft, and then Changmin kisses it, mouths all the way up, soaking the hard flesh and his hair with saliva. When he reaches the crown he tosses his head to flick back his hair, hums a little, then takes Yunho’s cock between his lips again.

Yunho strokes Changmin’s hair. It’s so long, so soft, curling at the ends where it’s wet. It feels incredible through his fingers. Almost as incredible as the heat and suction of Changmin’s mouth clamped around his dick.

It’s good. So fucking good. Yunho fists his hands into Changmin’s hair and holds on tight, thrusting into that hot, wet mouth. Changmin groans, the sound long and low and purring straight through Yunho’s dick, all the way back to his hole, up his spine and into his brain, and it does something to him, makes him say things like Changminnie, your mouth, it’s perfect, you’re perfect, don’t stop, please don’t ever stop.

Changmin sucks harder, then loosens his mouth and plays with Yunho, teasing, tormenting. Yanking at the drawstring on his trousers, Changmin gets his hand inside and finally succumbs to the temptation to beat off.

Yunho wants to collapse back across the bed and rut mindlessly into Changmin’s mouth forever. That’s not going to happen. He has to be considerate. Changmin is lost in his task, utterly focused in giving and receiving pleasure, so it falls to Yunho to be the better man.

“Changmin.” Yunho tries to back away, but Changmin wraps one arm around Yunho’s thigh and holds him in place, sucking him down and doing a little stroking tickle with his tongue.

“God, baby, please.” Lust grips, stripping them both and melding them together. It won’t be long now. Yunho fights against it. He doesn’t want to come in Changmin’s mouth. It’s Changmin’s first time; he can’t be so crass as to make him swallow. Maybe it’ll spill out instead, a stream of white from those perfect lips, dribbling down his chin and throat. Oh God, oh fuck. The thought of it makes Yunho lightheaded, makes him thrust faster, harder. He can’t, not to Changmin, he can’t do that—

“Changminnie, let me go,” Yunho begs. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come in your mouth. Don’t let me. Pull off.”

Changmin makes a muffled noise that sounds like a negative.

“No,” Yunho gasps, and orgasm trembles in his spine, pleasure rising in him. “Oh, Changminnie, no.”

It takes every ounce of effort he possesses, but Yunho drags himself free of Changmin’s mouth just as he begins to spurt. Changmin gasps after his cock, mouth stretched wide, lips swollen, saliva gleaming all down his chin. He opens his eyes. He looks furious to be robbed of his treat.

It’s the fury that does it.

“Oh baby,” Yunho groans, and comes in a flood all over Changmin’s face.

Changmin moans. He closes his eyes as Yunho paints him in come, dressing him up with pearly ribbons of seed. He turns his head this way and that, making the sexiest noises the whole time, little panting yips, his mouth open and his tongue reaching to taste the bounty he’s been given.

It’s the hottest thing Yunho has ever seen in his life.

When Yunho has emptied all over him, Changmin exhales. He opens his eyes again. He’s quivering. “You came on my face.”

“Yes.”

“And in my hair.”

Yunho feels a sudden moment of awful uncertainty. Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d done it in Changmin’s mouth after all. “I’m s—”

“You’re so dirty,” Changmin says, his gaze bright and fierce, and Yunho realises that Changmin is jacking off fast and urgent, bringing himself closer and closer as Yunho’s seed trickles down his face and stains his clothes.

“Yes,” Yunho says, and he smears his spunk into Changmin’s skin, rubbing it across his beautiful pouted lips. “Yeah, I’m dirty. I wanted to see it all over you. You’re gorgeous, Changminnie, you know that? So fucking gorgeous with my come all over your face.”

Changmin jerks and jerks, his eyes half-lidding and colour washing across his cheeks. He cries out, then bites his lower lip as he shudders through his climax.

It’s the second hottest thing Yunho has ever seen in his life. Or maybe it’s equal first. Either way, Yunho wants to see Changmin like this again. And again. And again, over and over.

Changmin rocks forward and presses his lips to Yunho’s belly. He whispers kisses over his skin, so soft they’re almost not there, and then he sits back, catches his breath, and wipes at his face. When he looks up at Yunho, his expression is both serious and playful.

“My first blowjob,” Changmin says, then kneels up, one hand going around the back of Yunho’s neck. He leans in, angling his head, offering his mouth. “Our first kiss.”

He tastes of the salt-bitterness of semen. It’s the sweetest kiss Yunho has ever had.

Fic: East Wind Melts The Ice [TVXQ RPS | AU] 2/2

glitterburn — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 19:51:33 GMT

The days go by. Yunho comes to the bars of the cage every morning and scatters gold at Changmin’s feet, and Changmin takes his koto and goes indoors.

At first he’d been afraid that some other man would emulate Yunho and engage his services, but it seems everyone else is still afraid of Sakabe Doya’s fury.

“It’s the talk of Edo,” Moronobu says one day while Changmin waits for Yunho to arrive. “Only a foreigner would risk such a foolish venture. Either he’s very, very rich, with the kind of wealth and connections that would make Sakabe too nervous to exact revenge, or he’s a romantic willing to gamble his life on love. Which is it?”

Changmin lowers his gaze. He doesn’t know, but his heart tells him the answer. “He’s a romantic.”

“Then may Kannon help him.” Moronobu narrows his gaze. “Has he melted you, O Prince of Ice? Do you burn in his embrace?”

Yunho’s apparent indifference to his physical charms both confuses and enrages Changmin. He stares at the bars of the cage and doesn’t reply. Moronobu obviously draws his own conclusions and goes away laughing.

When Yunho appears, Changmin is slow to respond to the glinting fall of coins. The auntie has to nudge him from his seat, and by the time he carries Red Dappled Silk inside, his progress deliberately slow, Yunho is waiting for him in the usual place.

The room has much improved since his first day. The floorboards are polished to a pleasing gloss. The tatami is new, edged with coloured bindings of red and black. Three futons lie furled together, soft and inviting. A scroll hangs on one wall, a painting done in the Chinese style depicting a landscape; temples and pine trees upon a mountainside. A low lacquered table is placed underneath, and on it is a delicate porcelain vase containing a small branch of winter plum blossoms.

“You are angry with me,” Yunho says when Changmin lays Red Dappled Silk down between them.

“I’m not.” Changmin looks past him at the plum blossoms, focusing on them to help soothe his ruffled emotions.

Yunho tilts his head, considering. “Disappointed, then. I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.” The lie tastes like vinegar. Changmin can hardly tell a client that he wants him. Not when it’s the truth. It’s easier to flatter and deceive than to be honest. To make things worse, Changmin doesn’t know if he wants Yunho because of his own desires or if it’s simply because Yunho doesn’t want him.

With his mood still tangled, Red Dappled Silk sings in sorrowful, discordant tones. No matter how hard he tries to bring her to something lighter and more joyful, her notes slide towards mourning and her strings resonate with frustration.

Changmin stops playing, fearful of giving himself away entirely.

Yunho hands him a cup of wine. “No matter. If she doesn’t want to sing, it is wrong to force her. Let’s talk instead.”

“About what?” Changmin accepts the cup and takes a sip.

“You, of course.” Yunho smiles. “Were you very gifted on the koto from a young age, I wonder?”

“No. I’d never played it before I was sold to Old Uncle.” The wine relaxes him, and Changmin’s anxiety eases away. He takes another sip. “I’ve tried many times to summon memories of a home before he took me in, but there’s nothing to remember. Not even the sound of the koto.”

“And yet Red Dappled Silk came with you into this life.”

Changmin nods. “Old Uncle said he paid extra for me because he believed I could play. He set me in front of the instrument and urged me to perform. When I couldn’t, he thought I was being disobedient and beat me. Eventually he realised I had no ability whatsoever and he decided to sell the koto. A rice merchant bought it. Two days later, the merchant’s house burned down. The koto was found unharmed, wrapped in scorched silk. The rice merchant was terrified. He returned the koto to Old Uncle and wouldn’t even ask for his money back.”

Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Fires often occur in Edo, or so I hear.”

“Indeed they do,” Changmin agrees, “but the strange thing about this fire was that it didn’t spread beyond the boundaries of the rice merchant’s house.”

“Truly strange.”

Changmin finishes his wine and puts down the cup. He strokes Red Dappled Silk. “Old Uncle tried again to sell her. A magistrate took her. A fire broke out at the magistrate’s house, and this time it was much more deadly. The magistrate’s mother died alongside two servants who struggled to put out the blaze, and yet the koto was undamaged.

“By now rumour had run all around Edo that the koto was cursed, but still a third buyer was found, one of the outside daimyos residing in the city. The noble lord had priests chant over her to remove the taboo before he took her into his home. That night, a huge fire engulfed his estate. Dozens of people died and the lord was injured. He ordered his retainers to throw the koto into the river, but she floated right back to them. Terrified, they wrapped her up and carried her to their master, who ordered her sent back to Old Uncle.”

“What a peculiar tale,” Yunho says, softly, thoughtfully.

Changmin adjusts one of the ivory bridges. “Old Uncle gave up trying to sell her after that. Then a court musician came from Kyoto to examine her. He seemed very old to me, with white hair and a beard, yet his mind was agile. He praised me for keeping her oiled and cared for, then he studied her, played a few notes on her, and identified her as Red Dappled Silk.”

Yunho lays a hand on the opposite side of the koto. “Only truly great instruments are given names.”

“According to the court musician,” Changmin continues, “Red Dappled Silk was first mentioned in the archives towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Shoko more than two hundred and seventy years ago. It was given to one of the ladies-in-waiting as a wedding gift from an admirer, and when she played it, birds would fall out of the sky in wonder at the sound.”

Now Yunho laughs. “That seems unlikely, but who knows? Such things could have happened in simpler times.”

Changmin smiles a little. “The court musician said there was a rumour that the lady’s admirer was a fox-spirit. Perhaps it’s true, and Red Dappled Silk still holds some fox-magic. In any case, after she came back to me a third time, I learned how to play her. The skill came to me almost overnight.”

“You opened your heart to her,” Yunho says.

Changmin inclines his head. “A dangerous thing to do, especially for one such as I.”

Yunho’s bright gaze sharpens. “You don’t have a lover?”

A blush warms Changmin’s face beneath the smothering white of the make-up. “As I told you before, I have many suitors, but no lover. It’s... simpler.”

“Are you not lonely?”

“No.” He caresses Red Dappled Silk. “The koto keeps me company. She knows my secrets and she sings to me, and I am content with this.”

“She is almost three hundred years old,” Yunho says. “You must know that all objects of any great age have a soul and can come to life. She sings to you and enthrals you, this much I’ve seen for myself, but has she ever done anything else?”

Changmin glances up. “Such as causing fires? I don’t know. For myself, I believe Old Uncle was behind those fires. He wanted the attention rumour would bring, and he profited well from each transaction.”

There’s a short silence. Changmin thinks of the nights he’d lain awake listening to the sound of Red Dappled Silk’s music from the other side of his sleeping chamber. “I have never witnessed her doing anything other than sing,” he says truthfully, “but perhaps that’s because I am too sensible.”

“Ah,” Yunho murmurs, “so a sensible man can never be fooled?”

Changmin lifts his chin and spreads his hands in self-mockery. “You see me thus. Which of us is the bigger fool?”

Yunho gives him a serious look. “Perhaps it is I, for paying court to one beauty at the expense of another.”

* * *
“Why won’t you touch me?” Changmin asks on the fifth day. Red Dappled Silk sits silent between them. The wine-jar is empty, the cup on its side on the lacquered tray. Around them drowses the sweetness of orchids, the scent burned into the long sleeves of Changmin’s kimono. He tosses his head and demands again, “Why don’t you want me? Is my appearance not pleasing to you?”

Yunho is in the process of taking his leave. He stands at the door and regards Changmin with a wistful expression. “You please me in more ways than you can imagine.”

“Then touch me,” Changmin snaps, frustration shivering the silver bells on his hairpins. “Lie me down and love me. You’ve paid for it, so why don’t you take it?”

“Oh, Changmin. Don’t you see? It has to be your decision.” Yunho bows, deeper than ever before. “Until tomorrow.”

The following morning, Changmin sits in the cage as usual. The crowd is thinner today, perhaps gone in search of better entertainment elsewhere, and the sun glares directly into Changmin’s eyes. He fidgets when the drum-tower sounds the hour of the Snake, then forces himself to stillness. His hands rest in his lap. Once again he is dressed as Tamakazura, this time in dark blue Korean silk embroidered with plum blossoms, his under-robes pale blue shading to white.

Yunho appears through the crowd. He’s wearing russet and brown and cream, a pattern of animal tracks with zigzags of gold thread. He comes to a halt outside the bars of the cage and gazes in. There’s no glittering scatter of coins today. He doesn’t offer anything. He just looks at Changmin, his eyes dark and bright.

The crowd falls silent, then begins to murmur.

Changmin draws in a breath as realisation streaks through him. He can’t do this. It would be audacious. Unforgivable. But he does it anyway, excitement and anticipation beating inside him as he gets to his feet, takes up Red Dappled Silk, and goes indoors.

Behind him, the crowd erupts with disbelief.

What Yunho says to the auntie, Changmin has no idea. Never mind that Yunho has paid a fortune in gold these last few days—today there’s no coin, and so technically there should be no assignation. And yet after only a few moments, there’s footsteps in the hallway and the door slides open.

Yunho comes in carrying a tray set with a dish of sweet rice cakes, a wine-jar, and a single cup. He sets it all down on the tatami near the heaped futons, then turns to Changmin. “This is your decision,” Yunho says.

Changmin nods. “Yes.” He gestures at the koto. “Do you want...”

“No.” Yunho comes closer. “But if you would do one thing for me...” He smiles, tilting his head. “I want to see your face. Take off the paint.”

A protest comes to Changmin’s lips, but then he thinks better of it. He’s already broken one rule today. Why not break another?

Laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but Changmin swallows it. He can hardly believe he’s being so bold, and yet something urges him on. He takes a soft wad of tissue paper from within his sleeves and begins to wipe off the powder and paint and wax. There’s no elegant way of doing this. It’s a smearing of white and black and red, and without a mirror he can’t be sure if the mask has been wiped clean or if he resembles some misshapen demon. He scrubs at his face until his skin tingles and the paper comes away free of paint, and then he lifts his head and looks at Yunho.

“Yes,” Yunho says softly. “There you are.”

He puts out a hand and Changmin goes to him. Yunho slides an arm around Changmin’s waist and they look at one another in a kind of wonder. Yunho tilts his head, sharp features softening, his gaze almost quizzical, and Changmin kisses him.

It’s warm, their kiss. Changmin nips at Yunho’s lower lip, tugs softly until Yunho opens his mouth, and then it’s better, hotter, and desire spreads swift and urgent. Yunho’s kisses taste of autumn berries, tart and sweet; the sparkling of frost and the brush of leaves on a breeze, and Changmin wants more.

They sink down onto the futons, touching and exploring. Yunho takes out a few of Changmin’s hairpins. His hair loosens from its severe gathered style, tendrils falling to frame his face. They kiss again and again, unwrap one another from the layers of their garments. Hands move beneath clothes, silk and warm skin, and Changmin breathes in the scent of cinnamon and black ink.

Rolling over, Yunho moves against him, sweeping a hand up the back of Changmin’s neck into his hair. With a low rumble of pleasure purring in his throat, Yunho draws down the collars of kimono and under-robes and licks and licks from Changmin’s shoulders up over his nape.

Changmin melts, reshaping himself to Yunho’s desire, and then he gasps and cries out when Yunho bites him. Ecstasy pierces him; Yunho has sharp teeth, sharp like an animal, and Changmin is caught up in scent and urgency, hot and uneasy and desperate. He writhes on the futons, waiting for Yunho to mount him, but then they roll over again.

Yunho’s eyes flash bright and playful. His smile glistens. Changmin pounces on him. Silk whispers. There’s the delicate tearing of seams, the glitter of silver thread, the unwinding of gold thread. They laugh together, hot and breathless, need rising, desire tightening.

Changmin pins Yunho onto his front and mouths at his nape. It’s clumsy mimicry of what Yunho did to him a moment ago, but the effect is startling. Yunho stills, then his whole body shudders. “Yes,” he says as Changmin nips at his neck. “Yes. Like this.”

The air thickens with lust, the smell rich and musky and—animal, Changmin thinks, dazed. Like springtime. Like rut.

He can’t remember the last time he took rather than was taken. Yunho squirms restlessly beneath him, fingers bunching and kneading at the futon.

“You want,” Changmin says, anxious in case he’s misread this, “do you want—?”

Yunho rubs his head against the futon and growls. “Take me.”

Silk slides, baring skin. Changmin puts his mouth to every inch, caressing with lips and tongue, fingers stroking until Yunho makes a sharp noise, breath catching. Aware of the thunder of his pulse, Changmin strokes his hands down Yunho’s body. He has nothing to make this easier except his own saliva. Dipping his head, Changmin presses kisses along Yunho’s flank and licks at him.

Yunho’s breaths come faster. He crouches on the futon and shivers.

Changmin wets his palm and glides saliva over his cock. He covers Yunho and jabs at him, hot and hard, and Yunho groans and ramps back. They join, Changmin sinking deeper as Yunho shoves and shoves until he’s impaled. There’s a sweetness to it, but also a tangle, like sleeves caught on thorns. Taking hold of Yunho’s hips, Changmin pulls them both up, balances himself until Yunho’s back is flush against his front.

Yunho drops his head against Changmin’s shoulder, panting. He turns his face, breath hot over Changmin’s throat. They move together, a ripple of muscles and a building of tension, warmth and pressure and the hot, delicious slide of friction. Changmin runs one hand up Yunho’s chest and tugs at a nipple, making Yunho moan, making him snap his hips and grind down harder, harder.

Rocking forward again, his head bowed, Yunho works himself on Changmin’s cock. Sweat gleams across his nape and trickles down his spine. Changmin licks at it, salt and sweet on his tongue. He brings Yunho back to him and wraps a hand around Yunho’s dick, jerking him in time to the ferocious rhythm of their thrusts. Wetness coats his fingers. Yunho claws at the bunched futon and snarls.

They break within a heartbeat of one another. Yunho first, hot and tight and gasping, and Changmin drags him down, holds him there until release has gone through them both, until seed covers Changmin’s hands and Yunho’s body and there’s only softening, boneless pleasure.

They clean up with the remainder of the tissue paper then lie together, drowsy with satisfaction.

After a while, Yunho reaches out and draws the lacquered tray closer. He offers Changmin the dish of sweet rice cakes, then pours the wine into the cup. Changmin eats, the red bean paste rich and delicious. Yunho takes a drink then holds out the cup. Changmin sips from it, then Yunho drinks again. Finishing the rice cake, Changmin has a second sip of wine. Yunho refills the cup and takes a third drink before handing it back, his expression intense as he watches Changmin cradle the wine.

Changmin pauses. Three sips from the same cup represents union, a binding contract offered and agreed. He looks at Yunho and allows himself to hope. Even if he is sold to Sakabe, Changmin will take with him the knowledge that first he belonged to Yunho, and Yunho belonged to him.

Holding Yunho’s gaze, Changmin lifts the cup and drinks a third time.

* * *
Yunho arrives on the morning of the tenth day with a sandalwood casket heaped full of pearls of the finest lustre. Half of their number is creamy white; the other half is glossy black. They glimmer in the uncertain light from the lamps, and when Changmin touches them, when he picks up a handful and lets them spill through his fingers, they’re warm.

He thought he’d become accustomed to Yunho’s casual display of wealth, but this is beyond anything he could imagine. Changmin drops the last pearl from his palm into the box and pretends an indifference he doesn’t feel.

“If you wish to buy my freedom, you should apply to my master.” He looks again at the contents of the box. “That amount of pearls has a value far, far above what Sakabe Doya offered for me. I’m sure Kazen would look favourably upon your suit.”

Yunho doesn’t smile. “I want to buy Red Dappled Silk.”

Shock holds Changmin still, and then comes the pain. It howls through him like the flaying winter wind—injured pride, the shatter of betrayal, the realisation that the gentle courtship and the passion of their lovemaking has meant nothing at all.

“No.” Yunho seems to realise his error. He pushes Red Dappled Silk aside as if she was a toy made of straw and tries to take Changmin’s hands. “No. Changmin, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Brittle laughter cracks through Changmin’s voice. “I fear your gallantry has deserted you when you need it most.”

Yunho seizes Changmin by the arms and stares down at him. “Trust me.”

Changmin wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He turns his head and exhales, soft and slow, trying to calm his racing heart. “I am a fool.”

“Far from it.” Yunho’s voice is rough, but the look he gives Changmin is tender. “Let me buy the koto.”

“Even though you know she is cursed?”

Yunho gives him a crooked smile. “Why, my sweet, do you fear I might perish in a fire?”

Changmin knows he should utter some cold retort, something cruel and cutting to show the depth of his disappointment and anger, but instead he blurts out, “I fear I will never see you again.”

“Oh.” Yunho touches Changmin’s face. His fingertip comes away sticky with white paint. “You will see me again. That much I promise.”

Changmin wavers. Yunho has not broken a promise yet, but there’s always a first time. He summons his hauteur. “If I give you Red Dappled Silk, I will be alone. Perhaps you will find some other boy, younger and prettier than me, to play for you.”

“Jealousy sits ill with you.” Now Yunho sounds amused. “But if your vanity demands it, then know that you are incomparable.”

“And yet you will buy my koto and not make an offer for me.” This time Changmin can’t keep the hurt from his tone.

“It is not my place to buy your freedom.” Yunho pushes the box of pearls towards him. “But perhaps Red Dappled Silk will buy it for you.”

Hesitation grips him. Changmin stares at the casket. Take the pearls and buy his freedom, or keep Red Dappled Silk and remain indentured? The decision should be easy, but the koto is his only true joy. Admirers and patrons have come and gone; only Red Dappled Silk has remained his constant.

His hands steady, his decision final, Changmin closes the lid on the pearls. “I’m sorry, but I cannot sell her.”

Yunho looks at him, gaze deep and intense. He smiles. “I understand.” Then he bows right down to the ground and gets up to leave.

A clutch of fear goes through Changmin. “When will I see you again?”

“Soon.” Yunho pauses at the door and smiles, bright in the shadows. “Very soon.”

* * *
Changmin’s time of punishment finally comes to an end. The hour of the Rooster beats out from the drum-tower. The sun is beginning to set, the sky painted through with red, the air finally warm at the death of day.

Kazen arrives with a couple of retainers to escort Changmin back to the house in Yoshicho. He thanks the auntie for her assistance over the past ten days, and money exchanges hands.

Changmin takes his time wrapping the koto in her silken shroud. One of the retainers has brought Red Dappled Silk’s cherry wood box, and Changmin lifts her into it with care.

Kazen stands nearby and scolds him for putting them all through such an ordeal. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” his master says. “More importantly, I hope you will display the right amount of humility and obedience when Sakabe calls on you again. I’ve had word that he’s arrived back in Edo and is most anxious to see you. We can only pray that he’s still willing to pay seven hundred ryo. Heaven knows what he’ll say when he discovers you accepted that foreigner’s gold!”

Changmin fastens the lid on the cherry wood box and gets to his feet. “No doubt he’s already aware of it and expects a percentage.”

His master splutters. Ignoring his complaints, Changmin lifts the weight of the koto in her box and begins to walk slowly towards the door. The whores move aside for him. A few call out good wishes for his health and happiness, and he inclines his head in grateful acknowledgement. He will never see any of these women again. Once he’s sold to Sakabe, it’s doubtful he’ll ever return to the Five Streets.

A palanquin arrives just as he sets foot over the threshold. Kazen shoves back the tattered blue curtain and stares. There’s no crest upon the palanquin’s sides, but it’s made of sandalwood, the scent low and curling, and the curtains are of heavy Chinese brocade. The bearers are blank-faced and silent, and there’s an armed escort of two guards. One steps forward and bows to Kazen.

“Honourable sir,” the guard says, “by the command of my master we have come to convey the koto-player Changmin to his home.”

Kazen clasps his hands together. “Oh my,” he breathes, almost hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement. “It seems you’ve been forgiven. Sakabe obviously can’t wait until tomorrow to see you! This is very exciting. Very promising. Perhaps I can ask for a thousand ryo after all.”

Changmin bows his head as if in deference. “What should I do?” His heart is beating very fast, hope fluttering inside him. “Should I go with them, master?”

“Stupid boy! Of course you must go with them.” Kazen gives him a little push towards the palanquin, exclaiming all the while at Changmin’s foolishness. “And tell Sakabe I will call upon him tomorrow to discuss payment!”

Keeping his expression meek and biddable, Changmin arranges Red Dappled Silk within the palanquin before climbing inside. He draws the brocade curtain, shutting out the view of his master still exhorting him to be on his best behaviour when he sees Sakabe, and settles back against feather-stuffed cushions.

The palanquin bumps as the bearers set off. Changmin curls an arm around the cherry wood box, partially to protect the koto from the jolting as they dip and sway through the streets, and partially because holding onto her keeps him calm.

They stop at the gates. The watchman glances inside then signals for them to be on their way. Changmin twitches aside the curtain and peeps out as they cross the bridge over the moat. He stares at the cluster of shops selling tea and wine and food, then tilts his head and squints ahead at the road back to the city. Edo seems far away from here, and yet it is only an hour’s distance.

He lets the curtain fall again, spreads his sleeves over the koto in her box, and rests his head on his hands.

After a while, Changmin feels the palanquin set down gently upon the ground. For a moment there’s silence, and then comes the rumble of carriage wheels and the heavy tread of oxen. The cart draws to a halt nearby. He hears the snorted breath of the animals and the creak of wood.

He pushes aside the curtain and clambers out. The setting sun pulls a long shadow from him, and already a faint mist rises across the marshland. His armed escort has vanished. So have the bearers. When Changmin turns, the palanquin has also gone. The koto lies inside her cherry wood box in the road, surrounded by leaves and twigs and knotted grasses.

An ox-cart waits alongside, the animals of purest white. The curtains on the enclosed carriage are of heavy Chinese brocade. Yunho sits in the driver’s seat. He holds neither reins nor goad. He just sits there, relaxed in his robes of cream and russet with the odd patterns, and he’s smiling.

Changmin stares. Realisation is slow, as if mired in ice, but it’s coming, it’s coming. “Where did they go?” he asks.

Yunho swings himself down from the cart and comes to stand beside Changmin. “Their services were no longer required, so I dismissed them.”

Something is missing. Changmin knows it, gropes for it. Like a fool, he looks up and down the road in search of the missing men and the vanished palanquin. Behind him, Yoshiwara fades into the mist. Ahead, Edo spreads out like spilled ink.

A heron cries, the sound harsh. Changmin jerks his gaze to the road, to his shadow. To Yunho’s shadow. It has ears. Not human ears but sharp pointed ears, an animal’s ears. It has a tail, too; a long, thick brush.

Changmin faces him, heart pounding. Yunho smiles. Human ears. No tail. Uncertain, but recognising the truth at last—why hadn’t he seen it before?—Changmin takes one more glance at the shadow before he looks back at Yunho. “You let the illusion slip. You—you’re...”

“Yes, I did.” Yunho tilts his head, eyes very dark and bright. “Yes, I am.” The air shimmers, the mist whipping back as the glitter of frost descends, and Changmin sees not one fox-tail but an array of them, fanned out behind Yunho, and he counts their number and realises—

“Nine,” Changmin whispers. “A nine-tailed fox.” He goes down onto his knees before this most powerful of creatures and bows. “Red Dappled Silk belongs to you.”

“No,” Yunho says. “She is yours.” He kneels in front of Changmin and pats the cherry wood case. “She would never sing for me, no matter what I did. But she sang for a human woman, once; sang so beautifully that I gave her the koto as a wedding gift. The lady played for me, but her husband was jealous and chased me away.

“I went wandering through these islands and across the sea until the memory of the koto’s song drew me back, but the lady and her husband were long dead, her children scattered, her children’s children even further afield. For years I’ve been searching, needing to hear the koto’s song again—and here she is. With you, the last living descendant of the woman to whom I gifted Red Dappled Silk.”

Changmin shakes his head, staring at the ground. “You should take her back.”

Yunho rises to his feet. “I cannot play,” he says, then adds softly, “But you can.”

A moment passes. Changmin looks up and meets Yunho’s gaze.

“You’re free.” Yunho says, his smile deepening. “Do as you please.”

Changmin doesn’t hesitate. He’s made his decision. He gets up, balancing the koto against him, and takes Yunho’s hand as the sun sets all around them.

Fic: East Wind Melts The Ice [TVXQ RPS | AU] 1/2

glitterburn — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 19:49:49 GMT

Title: East Wind Melts The Ice
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Changmin/Yunho
Rating: R
Summary: In a society built on hierarchy, Changmin knows his place—until the careful order of ownership is thrown into disarray by a mysterious stranger who breaks all the rules.
Notes: AU. For thier_sess, a mash-up of things talked about on Twitter ♥ Set vaguely in the late 17th century. | For those unfamiliar with this period of Japanese history: Yoshiwara/the Five Streets was the licensed pleasure-quarter built outside Edo. Women were displayed in cages attached to the front of brothels. A kagema was a crossdressing male prostitute, often connected with Kabuki theatre and often, but not exclusively, an onnagata (female role actors). | The quote from The Tale of Genji is from Royall Tyler’s translation (Ch.26, Tokonatsu; p.470 of the unabridged edition, 2001). | The title is from the Chinese almanac, which was used historically in Japan.

East Wind Melts the Ice
The sun is brutal. Hanging low in the sky, its light is harsh and unforgiving. Changmin has nowhere to hide. The shadows of the wooden bars cut across the hems of his kimono and under-gowns, and stripe across the silk-wrapped koto at his feet. He keeps his chin up, lips pressed into a line, and fixes his gaze on the slate-grey rooftop of one of the finer establishments two streets away.

Beneath the padded layers of his garments, he’s cold. Winter has been harsh this year. Though the snows have gone, in the mornings the ground is still riven with frost. The beaten earth floor of the brothel’s cage is as hard as iron. Despite the wooden clogs he wears, he feels the creep of frost through his feet and worries for his koto.

She is not used to such treatment. Usually he keeps her in a cherry wood box in his sleeping chamber; usually he takes her out and touches her silken strings by candlelight, on his knees before her with the scent of orchids or plum blossoms between them. Only when his mind is quiet and all due reverence has been paid will she sing for him.

Red Dappled Silk is the most precious thing he owns. She does not deserve to lie on the ground like some common object, but since she played a role in his transgression, she must share his punishment.

Changmin focuses on his breathing. He can’t be seen to be like the men clustered on the other side of the cage. Their breaths puff clouds of heat into the frigid air. He inhales and exhales slow and shallow. To the men it will seem as if he scarcely draws breath at all.

“Look at him,” they say to one another. “He truly is as cold as ice. Ah, to be the one who thaws that beauty and makes him burn!”

Perhaps the glare of the sun is a blessing. It casts the faces of his audience into shadow, although he can tell from their clothes and their accents that Yoshiwara servants and shopkeepers stand amongst the merchants and men of greater worth. Some are still drunk from a night of excess, but others are alert and talkative. Without fail, all are eager to witness his humiliation, cried aloud up and down the Five Streets as soon as day dawned.

The artist Moronobu slips between the crowd and stares through the bars with fixed intensity. He studies Changmin’s kimono of black watered silk; plain above the obi, red and green leaves fall beneath it to swirl around the trailing hem. The obi itself is heavy grey striped with leaf-green and sewn with silver thread. Changmin wears three under-robes, the first patterned red and white, the second pure white, and the third pale grey. His hair, worn long in defiance of the orders of the shogunate, is arranged in the split peach style and dressed with pins of tortoiseshell and silver.

“Tamakazura,” Moronobu says, recognising the outfit as one Changmin wore in the Kabuki play that had made him one of the most celebrated onnagata in all of Edo. “Will you be like that lady, I wonder, endlessly rejecting suitors?”

One of the men standing nearby laughs. “A kagema can’t afford to reject suitors. A friend of mine had him for one hundred monme of silver. Best three hours of his life, my friend said.”

“Your friend is to be envied,” another man calls out. “When I fucked him, the pleasure cost four times that amount. I have no complaints, though—the Prince of Ice knows how to make a man die of ecstasy. Despite his name, he’s hot and tight inside, and oh, his mouth...”

“That must’ve been after the success of The Love Suicides at Katsuragawa,” a third man says, sounding aggrieved. “His master Kazen raised his price around that time. I’d saved enough for one night, but when I went to make the arrangements, the go-between told me it would cost more. Curse those pimps from Kyoto! They don’t care about love, all they want is money!”

Moronobu turns to the men. “He’s skilled with his mouth, you say? How unusual.” His fingers twitch as if he already holds a brush in his hand.

“Look closely,” the second man says, pointing through the bars. “Even with the make-up you can surely see the lushness of his lips. Now imagine them slicked wet with wine, the paint smearing as he takes your cock in that pretty mouth. The pleasure is beyond belief, friend! As good as sinking into a juicy cunt. No, better!”

The other men laugh and agree. “You should draw him like that,” someone says to Moronobu. “I have every print you’ve produced with his likeness and would happily buy more—especially if your next series depicted the joys of springtime.”

Changmin stares so hard at the rooftop that his eyes water. He blinks away the moisture and grits his teeth. He has all of Moronobu’s prints, too, rolled up and tucked safe inside a lacquered box. He takes them out sometimes and looks at them, a succession of his most famous roles: the lovesick maiden Otane, the fox-bride Kuzunoha, and eight different images of Tamakazura.

Two of the pictures show him with the koto. A year ago, Moronobu had paid a small fortune merely to kneel in Changmin’s reception room and draw Red Dappled Silk. Now Changmin sits alone in the cage that fronts this fifth-class brothel, his services available to any man bold enough to throw down a coin.

But though the crowd grows as the sun climbs higher and the day warms, no one has the courage to buy what already belongs to another.

Moronobu looks back at Changmin. “Perhaps I should do a springtime series,” he says. “From what I hear, the Prince of Ice will soon be taken from our admiring gaze.”

“You heard right,” one of the others says. “Sakabe Doya has offered for him. Five hundred gold ryo.”

“I heard seven hundred,” someone else puts in, and the crowd buzzes with argument and counter-argument as they try to agree on Changmin’s price.

“What is it, O Prince of Ice?” Moronobu leans against the bars, smirking. “No man here can match Master Sakabe’s riches. I doubt even the shogun can claim to have more wealth at hand. How much are you worth?”

Changmin lowers his gaze, veiling his eyes with his lashes. He wishes he could get up and go inside. Even though the brothel is a foul, ill-smelling place crawling with lice and full of women who loathe him for scaring off whatever poor trade usually comes their way, their scorn is preferable to this awful humiliation. But he can’t leave the cage, not until the auntie who runs this house gives him permission—or until one of these men buys his favours.

“Doesn’t matter how much Sakabe is paying for him,” the second man says. “For the next ten days he’s worth as much as one of the broken-down whores in this dump. A few coppers, isn’t that right?”

“I believe so,” says Moronobu, “but are you willing to risk Sakabe’s wrath?”

The second man utters a nervous laugh. “Not me. Sakabe is a rabid dog when crossed. He’s had men killed simply for jostling against his palanquin in a crowded street.”

Mutters of agreement. Tension curls through Changmin. He tries to relax, but it’s impossible. He must endure ten full days of this, and all because he refused to play the koto for Sakabe Doya.

Two days ago, his master Kazen informed Changmin that someone had offered to buy his freedom and clear his debts. After twenty years in Kazen’s house, the costs of his keeping, his training in song and dance and the arts of love, not to mention the expense of his wardrobe, had all ensured that Changmin’s debts were as vast and deep as the ocean. He had made Kazen rich, but he could never hope to recoup the outlay his master had spent on him. Few courtesans ever gained their freedom through their own efforts; most clung to the hope of being sold as a minor wife or concubine to a besotted patron, but Changmin had no such hope. Kagema made poor wives and worse concubines.

And then Sakabe had offered for him. Of the merchant class and possessing almost unimaginable wealth, Sakabe’s taste for the finest, rarest, and most expensive things in life was matched only by his vicious temper. Changmin knew of two onnagata who’d temporarily enjoyed Sakabe’s patronage. One of them was beaten half to death for speaking out of turn. The other had one eye gouged out when Sakabe caught the boy flirting with one of his retainers.

As for the kagema he’d bought... Rumour had it that Sakabe had killed any number of boys from Kyoto and Osaka when they displeased him, or he’d abandoned them in remote places like Dewa and Mutsu, where they’d put an end to their lives rather than suffer more misfortune.

None of this mattered to Kazen. He was overjoyed by the offer of seven hundred ryo for Changmin’s contract, but like the cunning snake he was, Kazen tried to drive the price higher by insisting that Sakabe court Changmin publically for a month before the contract was exchanged.

“Since your retirement from the stage, your popularity has only grown,” Kazen told Changmin. “I boasted to Sakabe of how much you made from the endorsements of face powder and perfumes and the silk merchant’s shop, and I let him peek at the names on your client list. He said he would pay a thousand ryo to possess you, but once I suggested a period of courtship, he again said seven hundred... but then he agreed to throw a party in the Five Streets to celebrate the evening of your union, and he will pay for everything.”

Kazen’s eyes gleamed with avaricious glee. “Everything. Only think of the money to be made on food and drink alone! Then he’ll need entertainers—geisha, courtesans, tumblers, rope-walkers, and then all the attendants, and the hiring of the teahouses and the paying of bribes to the gatekeeper and the watchmen, and...”

Knowing his wishes were immaterial, Changmin stayed silent and let his master babble on. At length Kazen realised his lack of interest and rounded on him, calling him an ingrate.

“You may be the Prince of Ice, but you will melt for Sakabe, do you understand? You owe everything to me: your success, your abilities, the clothes on your back, the way you walk—it’s all thanks to Father and I. If we hadn’t taken you in, you’d have died on the streets like any other unwanted brat. You will show your appreciation. You’ll smile and flatter and sing and dance for Sakabe when he calls on you, and you’ll make sure that he knows you’re worth every last copper coin I intend to squeeze out of him in return for your freedom.”

Changmin stared at his master. “I do not owe you everything.”

Kazen had opened and closed his mouth like a carp. “What?”

“My skill with the koto. That had nothing to do with you or your father.” Keeping his expression blank, Changmin had left the room, the breath frozen in his throat at his audacity. But what could Kazen do? He wouldn’t risk harming Changmin, not when so much money was at stake, and if he locked Changmin in his rooms, the clients would complain.

Kazen could do nothing. The thought pleased Changmin very much.

But then came his first encounter with Sakabe. Although he’d decided to be as calm and gracious as he was with all his clients, the meeting was a disaster. Sakabe had sat on the triple-banded tatami with a cup of the most expensive wine in Edo and he’d stared at Changmin with lustful greed, and then he’d demanded that Changmin perform for him.

“The koto,” Sakabe said. “I have heard much of your skill. Your fingering is said to be divine. Let one of the servants fetch your instrument. I want you to play for me.”

Kazen nodded and made gestures for him to agree, but Changmin couldn’t. “Your Excellency,” he said, bowing, “I regret Red Dappled Silk sings only when she chooses and not at my command. Though I may be able to coax some paltry tune from her, it would not be worthy of your ears.”

It was clear from the look on Sakabe’s face that few people had ever denied him anything. He put down his wine cup. “You will play for me.”

Changmin met his gaze. “I cannot. To achieve true purity of sound, I must be in a space unencumbered by sordid reminders of the material world.”

“You dare to call me sordid?” Furious, Sakabe lurched to his feet. The wine spilled, staining the tatami and puddling on the floor. Seizing his riding crop, Sakabe went to strike Changmin.

Kazen threw himself forward. “Not his face, Your Excellency! Don’t mark his face!”

Changmin didn’t flinch. He remained absolutely still and let Sakabe rage and threaten him, and then the merchant hurled the whip aside.

“If you want to make good on this sale, you’ll punish this whore for his insolence,” Sakabe snapped. “I am leaving the city on business. Until I return and renegotiate his price, put him on display in the cage of the lowest brothel in Yoshiwara. Let him sit there between the hours of the Dragon and the Rooster for ten full days.”

Kazen blinked in confusion. “But Your Illustriousness, the boy-brothels are here in Yoshicho.”

Sakabe stared down at Changmin, the slow poison of damaged pride festering in his eyes. “I want him amongst the diseased and age-ridden women in a fifth-class brothel. I want him to know the ignominy of sinking so low. And make it known that, like the cheapest whore, he’s available to any man with a couple of coppers to spare.”

Changmin had wondered then if anyone would be brave enough or stupid enough to take Sakabe’s declaration on faith. He wonders the same now. The whole of Yoshiwara, it seems, has come to witness his shame, and yet though they all talk of buying him, though they inflame one another with boasts of what they’d do to him, no one dares to cast down even the smallest, meanest coin.

Ten days of this will drive him witless.

The sun has warmed the earth at his feet. The stink of damp earth and effluent rises, spoiling the scent of sandalwood and aloes burned into his clothes. Behind him, through the tattered blue curtain, he hears one of the whores arguing with the auntie who runs this place. The sound is more disturbing than the mutterings of the crowd in front of him. Changmin closes his eyes. The crowd draws breath. Inside the house, the whore utters a scream and begins to sob.

His silks crumpling around him, Changmin slides from his seat onto his knees. The tiny silver bells on his hairpins chime. The crowd beyond the wooden bars takes a step closer, watching him avidly.

Changmin unwraps the koto from the silk. It’s expensive, in shades of dappled red to match her name. He rests his hands on her body, then makes slight adjustments to the ivory bridges supporting the twisted silken strings. The whore’s sobs continue unabated within the brothel. Changmin runs one hand the length of the thirteen strings. His vision blurs, the woman’s misery digging into him. He doesn’t have the jade picks he habitually uses when he plays, but no matter. Red Dappled Silk wants to sing, and he will obey.

He plucks a note, lets it slide, then adds another. It’s not a tune, he realises as he lets the music shiver, quiet at first and then with more force. The koto is mimicking the whore’s anger, but where that ended in tears, this builds to become something beautiful and powerful. It rolls through him, sweeter than orgasm, deeper than love, as endless as death. The music swells, embraces the sound of all instruments, and then it stops, sharp and sudden.

Changmin jerks out of the trance that had held him fast. His breaths are rapid, almost gasping. Sweat streaks his body beneath the silk. He feels dizzy, the world around him tilting. He looks up, trying to focus on the crowd, but the faces and figures blur. The silver bells chime again. He’s trembling. He curls his hands inside his sleeves, feeling the tenderness on the pads of his fingers where the strings bit into his skin.

The sun burns white. He stares right into its face then looks away, dazzled, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. The crowd murmurs and shifts, and then someone is standing directly in front of him, protecting him from the glare, casting him into shadow.

Changmin blinks, still sun-blind. He sees a man, tall and handsome and with a smile that’s white and terrifying. Accustomed to the cosmetically-blackened teeth of courtesans and the tobacco-stained teeth of his clients, such whiteness is wrong. Like an animal’s teeth, small and sharp.

He scarcely has time to process the oddity of the stranger’s appearance, for a moment later a handful of gold ryo tumbles through the bars to lie glittering in the dirt.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and then a long silence.

Changmin leans forward and picks up one of the coins. It’s warm in his hand.

“Hey.” A familiar voice makes Changmin look up again. Uemon the tofu-seller has wriggled through the press of people and is trying to make the acquaintance of the stranger, who gazes first at the koto and then at Changmin.

Uemon is persistent. “Hey, friend. You look like you’re new to the Five Streets. You probably don’t know how things are done around here.” His smile is ingratiating, his tone wheedling as he tugs on the stranger’s sleeve. “If you have gold to spend, you shouldn’t throw it into the mud.”

The stranger shakes off Uemon’s hand. “And yet the most beautiful flower grows from the mud.”

Changmin’s lips part. He’s glad of the thick layer of make-up covering his confusion.

Uemon seems just as surprised by the misplaced gallantry. “Friend, let me give you a word of advice. This isn’t the right house for you. This is nothing. Let me show you to the high-class teahouses where the most beautiful courtesans await your pleasure. I can make all the necessary introductions. I’m sure that even Ohisa, the most celebrated courtesan in the district, will alter her schedule for a man like you—and her appointments are booked months in advance!”

Curling one hand around the bars, the stranger says, “I don’t want a woman.”

“Not a problem.” Uemon doesn’t miss a beat. “There are plenty of pretty boys available, though the best are in the city. A good friend of mine owns a teahouse in Yoshicho. He hosts all the famous onnagata. I’d be delighted to introduce you...”

The stranger’s grip tightens, his gaze locked on Changmin. “I don’t want a boy, either.”

Uemon stares, utterly bewildered. “Then what do you want?”

* * *
In deference to the gold coins, the auntie gives Changmin the best room in the brothel. It’s scarcely half the size of his parlour in Kazen’s house. Though it smells of damp wood and cheap fragrance and the sourness of bodies, at least it seems mostly clean and free of vermin.

The tatami is ragged at the edges. There’s only one futon, where at Kazen’s house he sleeps on three. There’s no alcove containing a beautiful flower arrangement or elegant scroll; nothing to focus the mind and give pleasure to the senses. This is a base room used for base activities.

Changmin kneels on the tatami, his skirts artfully arranged around him. Red Dappled Silk sits beside him. Her notes still echo, calling for him to play again, but he keeps his hands in his lap. He waits, listening to the rough talk of the whores in the corridor as they discuss the stranger. A foreigner, obviously, by his speech and strangeness of dress and his hair, but foreigners are rarely permitted beyond the ports with which they trade. The whores decide he’s an envoy from some far-off place, come to visit the shogun. Only a foreigner would go about unaccompanied with so much wealth on his person. Only a foreigner would come to a fifth-class brothel and spend good coin on a disgraced kagema.

The whores scatter about their business as a door opens. The floorboards creak as the auntie leads the stranger along the hall. The door to his room slides open. Changmin bows, both hands on the mat. He keeps his head low, but not low enough to reveal his unpainted nape. That will come later, once he has the measure of his client.

He waits until the auntie leaves, closing the door after her, and then he says, “Forgive me for receiving you in such humble surroundings, my lord.”

“I am not a lord.” The stranger sounds amused.

“My apologies, Excellency.”

Now the stranger snorts. “I have no title. Just a name.”

Changmin rises from his bow and looks up. “And what is your name?”

“I would have your name first.” The stranger is lounging against the wall, arms folded, his gaze quicksilver bright as he studies the room. He looks at the koto again, then at Changmin, and he smiles. It’s warm and inviting, his smile. “But tell me your real name, not that Prince of Ice epithet the crowd was tossing around like chaff.”

Truly this man is a foreigner. Changmin knows his reputation is widespread across the Three Cities. Men used to journey to Edo from Kyoto and Osaka just for a glimpse of him on stage. Perhaps he should be insulted that the stranger doesn’t know who he is, but it’s refreshing and somehow liberating. He smiles in return. “My name is Changmin.”

The stranger bows. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Yunho.”

Changmin peeps at him, watching as Yunho pushes away from the wall and moves around the room. So much restless energy; it almost shines from him. Changmin has been trained all his life to be still and passive, only able to show his feelings through performance, whether song or dance or conversation or sex. Yunho has exuberance and courage, and Changmin wonders what it must be like to be so free with one’s emotions.

Of course, only a foreigner could act in such a way. Yunho seems oblivious to all the rules regarding assignations. He should be praising Changmin’s beauty by now, or—since this is a fifth-class brothel and such niceties are left unobserved—Changmin should be in the skylark ascending position with his skirts pulled up and his ass in the air.

Instead, Yunho is still ranging around the room, looking at and touching objects with interest as if he’s never seen the like before. Perhaps he hasn’t, Changmin thinks; perhaps there are no low-class brothels in whichever province or country Yunho calls his home. No dirty tatami or thin futons or racks of threadbare clothes.

Changmin turns his head to follow Yunho’s progress. He is handsome, and not in the usual way. He has small, sharp features set in a narrow face with a pointed chin, and he moves with a sure-footed grace that makes Changmin feel large and clumsy in comparison. His hair is the colour of cherry wood, cut short and textured like feathers or fur rather than smoothed back and dressed with oil.

His garments are silk, pale shades mixed with bold colours in combinations that make no sense, and the patterns... They aren’t like the printed silks sold in the city with patterns of checks and stripes and flowers and trees. They’re odd, as if someone had described a pattern from an imperfect memory and Yunho had made the print himself. The scent burned into them is just as peculiar, like ink and cinnamon, warm fur and wet grass.

“You are not from Edo,” Changmin says when the silence is too great to bear. “Your accent, your garments...”

Yunho crouches to examine the koto. “I am from a place west and north of here.”

Changmin thinks. He has only a hazy idea of which provinces lie where, and guesses, “Hizen?”

“Close enough.” Yunho circles around to sit on the tatami. “Why did the artist call you Tamakazura?”

Startled, for he hadn’t seen Yunho in the crowd when Moronobu made that statement, Changmin says, “It is my most famous role. The playwright Ki no Kaion wrote it for me.”

“She was a virtuous woman, this Tamakazura?” Yunho gestures at Changmin’s obi, tied at the back like a respectable woman rather than knotted at the front like a whore’s sash.

His ignorance is touching, and Changmin laughs. “You never saw the play?”

Yunho smiles. “No.”

“I believe the Nakajimaya theatre is reviving it.”

“But you won’t be in it, so watching it would be a waste of time.”

Changmin releases some of the tension he’s been holding. Yunho is flirting with him. This is more like it. He understands this, can control it. He dips his head, coquettish and teasing. “You flatter me.”

For a moment Yunho looks puzzled, then he smiles again. “No.”

Confusion draws Changmin’s brows together. Every time he thinks he has the measure of this man, things shift and leave him grasping after nothing.

“Tamakazura is the lady in the west wing in The Tale of Genji,” he says, taking refuge in the certainty of his own knowledge. “She is the daughter of Genji’s best friend, To no Chujo. She flees from an unwanted marriage and Genji takes her into his home without revealing her whereabouts to To no Chujo. Genji falls in love with her, and perhaps she falls a little in love with him, but she resists his advances and rejects all other suitors.”

Yunho tilts his head. “How singular.”

“She wants to choose her own husband.” Changmin stares at his hands in his lap. “She is a plaything of fate, anchored for a time in a safe haven only for storms to come and blow her to different shores. Other women in her position in the tale put on grey robes and become nuns, but she determines to marry where she wills.”

“I see.” The amusement is back in Yunho’s voice. “And does she love the man she chooses to wed?”

Changmin looks at him. “No. He is a fool, beneath her in every way.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

“Because it was her decision.”

A long silence falls. Footsteps pass by in the hall outside. He can smell tobacco smoke from somewhere. A few rays of winter sunshine force their way through the cracks in the wooden walls, dust flitting and dancing in the light.

“Few things are truly my decision,” Changmin says, his voice scarcely above a whisper. He doesn’t want the auntie to overhear and report his words to Kazen. “When I was younger and in my prime, I could pick and choose from amongst my suitors. Now I am a falling flower, my master urges me to accept every man with coin to spend.”

“They are all beneath you,” Yunho murmurs, gaze dark, his face expressionless.

“Some want me because they think I’m beautiful. Others want me because they’ve been told I’m beautiful.” Changmin pauses, his mouth twisting. “Some want me because I’m famous or because I’m expensive. Some want me because I’m a man. Some prefer me to be a woman, and others want me to be both.” He looks at Yunho, the silver bells chiming on his hairpins. “Sometimes I don’t know who I am.”

Yunho considers, then says, “You are a koto player.”

Another unexpected answer. Changmin pulls himself out of his mood and laughs, more startled than amused. “Like Tamakazura. That’s why the role was written for me, you know. Because of my skill with the koto. ‘It has no deep secrets’,” he quotes lightly, “‘but I doubt that it is easy to play genuinely well’.”

“Oh, it’s very difficult to play well,” Yunho agrees, “but as for having no secrets... That is a foolish thing to say. All musical instruments have secrets, and this koto holds many.” He flicks a hand towards Red Dappled Silk. “Play her for me?”

Changmin knows he should hesitate. He should demur and protest his humble skills, but Yunho has already heard him play, and besides, the koto whispers to him, offering her music. He moves her closer and gathers his concentration. The only thing of beauty in this room is Yunho, but to look upon a lover while playing is considered shallow. Instead he fixes his gaze on the patterned silk of Yunho’s robe.

He plays. An old melody at first, ‘You Shall Have Shade’, and though the lyrics push at him, he keeps them locked inside. Red Dappled Silk needs no accompaniment.

Changmin bends over the koto, fingers travelling the length of the instrument, plucking, soothing, grazing the edge of his thumbnail across all the strings in a wide sweep. Notes flurry and swirl, resonating through him, and he plays variations that segue into something new and dark and sonorous.

Yunho sits rapt, his eyes closed, a smile of delight softening his features. The music flows around him, almost tangible, almost visible, and he responds to it with easy, open sensuality.

Changmin lifts his hands from the koto. The final scattering of notes hangs in the air, vibrating and fading, and then there’s silence.

He’s trembling. Arousal has him in its grasp. Changmin exhales a shaking breath. Sometimes this happens, the music wakening desire in him, but never has it happened when he’s with a client.

Yunho opens his eyes and looks at Changmin, expression hazy. He blinks, then sits forward and takes Changmin’s hands, turning them over. They both look at the red marks on the pads of Changmin’s fingers, at the raw lines scraped up the sides of his thumbs from the koto’s strings.

“No more today, I think,” Yunho says.

Changmin stares at him. Yunho’s touch is both rough and soft, a contradiction he doesn’t understand. Longing overwhelms him. He wants to be held. “Now,” Changmin says, struggling to regain his poise, “now would you like...”

“What I would like,” Yunho says, giving him a slow, gleaming look, “is for you to take off your make-up.”

The request is strange. Changmin fumbles with a reply. “I can’t do that. After you are done with me, I must go back outside into the cage. I can’t let them see me without make-up. It’s... it...”

“The illusion would be ruined,” Yunho says. “I understand.” He lets go of Changmin’s hands and rises to his feet, adjusting the fall of his garments.

“But,” Changmin protests, unable to believe that Yunho paid all that money simply to hear him play one tune, “do you require nothing else of me?”

“Not today.” Yunho bows to him, far deeper than necessary, and then he smiles and takes his leave.

* * *
The following day, the crowd outside the fifth-class brothel is much bigger. No doubt they’ve gathered to see if the foreigner dares to engage Changmin’s services a second time.

The whores go out and accost the curious onlookers. Since they’re banned from the cage for the duration of Changmin’s punishment, they have to ply their trade somehow, and they may as well take advantage of the glut of men who’ve come to stare.

Changmin watches the women move through the crowd. Today he is dressed as Kuzunoha, wearing a kimono of pale red decorated with the leaves of the kuzu plant oversewn with swirling golden clouds. His obi is black and orange, printed with chrysanthemums and camellias. His under-robes are red and green, and his hair ornaments are of gold and mother-of-pearl. Red Dappled Silk rests at his feet on several overlapping scraps of tatami.

As the hour of the Dragon draws to a close, Yunho appears. The crowd parts for him, silent as he throws another handful of gold ryo through the bars.

The blue curtain is whisked back and the auntie rushes out, almost tripping over her skirts in her haste to collect the coins. Changmin picks up Red Dappled Silk and carries her inside.

Today more effort has been made with the assignation room. The floor has been swept and a lamp sputters with an indifferent flame. The torn tatami has been replaced and a fresh green smell fills the air. Changmin sets down his koto and kneels, conscious of the thrill tickling through him. He doesn’t know if it comes from Red Dappled Silk, who seems eager to sing again, or if it’s due to the thought of closer acquaintance with Yunho.

The door slides open and Yunho comes in. He bows low to Changmin. The auntie, who had not yet shut the door, stares at Yunho, her eyes wide with astonishment. He straightens and dismisses her faltering offer of wine with a flick of his fingers, and then the door is closed and they’re left alone.

“A report of your peculiar gallantry will be all over the Five Streets within the hour,” Changmin says, smiling. “It is I who should bow to you, not the other way around.”

“You play the koto.” Yunho settles himself on the tatami.

“And do you bow to everyone who plays the koto?” Changmin asks, raising his eyebrows, mouth pressed into a line to stop his laughter.

Yunho flashes him a teasing look. “Impudent creature, of course not. I would grow dizzy and fall over. No, I only bow to true masters.”

The reply flusters Changmin. He draws back a little. “You have travelled. You must know of many people who play better than I.”

“Only one,” Yunho says, voice soft and musing, “and she is dead.”

A tiny sliver of jealousy stabs at Changmin. He ignores it, lays his hands on Red Dappled Silk, and smiles. “Shall I play for you?”

“Please.”

Changmin prepares himself. Today he brought with him the jade picks, and he slips them onto his first and third fingers, onto his thumbs. He gazes into the lamp’s flame to find the focus required, then tilts his head and passes his hands over the strings. He doesn’t touch them; not yet. He feels the vibration in the air as she reaches up to him, telling him which tune she wants to sing. He listens, lets the melody take shape in his mind, then he begins to play.

Red Dappled Silk sighs beneath his touch. Her sound is like liquid fire. He loses himself in her, sinking deeper as they weave magic together.

He breaks free of the music only when Yunho places a hand across the strings and says, “It is the hour of the Horse. Rest now.”

Breathless, his heart racing, Changmin sits back on his knees with a long sigh.

Yunho offers him a cup of wine. “She can be demanding.”

“Yes.” Changmin drinks. He’s expecting the foul-tasting watered slop served by this house, but instead the wine is sweet and potent.

“From Mount Koya,” Yunho says. “A very good vintage.”

Changmin wonders when the wine arrived. It must have been when he was playing; he never notices the passing of time when he plays. If he wasn’t even aware of Yunho watching him today, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed the auntie or anyone else bringing in the wine.

He drinks some more. It’s exquisite, finer than anything he’s tasted before. He drains the cup.

Yunho fills it from the ceramic jar beside him, then lifts it to his own lips and takes a sip. Then he turns the cup and passes it to Changmin. “A little more?”

“Thank you.” Changmin takes another drink. He’s being indecorous, swilling this expensive wine as if it was water, and he sets it aside after one mouthful.

Smiling, Yunho takes back the cup and drinks down the remainder before pouring another full measure. He nudges it towards Changmin.

It really is good wine. Changmin reaches for it, then stops. It wouldn’t do for him to lose his head. He usually takes alcohol in moderation so he can stay in control. Already he can feel the warmth of the Koya wine slow-sliding through him, pulling at his senses. With regret he pushes the cup away and shakes his head.

Yunho acknowledges his decision and drinks the rest of the wine himself.

Red Dappled Silk still wants to sing. Changmin touches her again. This time her tune is simple, little more than fingering exercises, chords merging and swooping with effortless grace.

“How did you come to this life?” Yunho asks.

Changmin stops playing for a moment. The strings hum beneath his hands. “My tale is no different to that of many, many others.”

“Perhaps. But you have a koto, and others do not.”

This time Changmin flattens his palms across Red Dappled Silk and stares at Yunho. “Have you been asking about me? I hope you were discreet. My master will already know of the time you spend here, and the gold. If he knows you’re making enquiries about my past, he may get ideas.”

Yunho looks at him, eyes very bright. “What kind of ideas?”

Surely a man cannot be so ignorant. Changmin huffs a sigh. “Enquiring into my background usually denotes interest.”

“I’m interested.” Putting down the cup, Yunho leans forward and smiles.

Changmin closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw. He reminds himself that Yunho is different. Foreign. Untutored in how things are done here. Yunho’s interest is innocent curiosity, nothing more. There’s no point in hoping—

“I was indentured when I was six years old,” Changmin says, putting a stop to the direction of his thoughts. “I have no memory of my parents and know only that I was sold by a woman in a blue kimono without crests. Perhaps she was my mother. Perhaps she was a servant. Old Uncle, Kazen’s father, didn’t know her. Plenty of women came to him offering their sons for sale. I was one of several boys he bought that year.”

He remembers the time with detachment. There’d been one boy who’d become his friend, and then Old Uncle had sold the lad on to a travelling troupe of actors bound for the Kanazawa domain. From that he’d learned not to get too attached to anyone.

Changmin lets go of the memory and speaks without a scrap of self-pity. “When I was still a child, I used to think I’d been stolen away from my family as part of an elaborate revenge. As I grew older, I accepted that it didn’t matter. No one was coming for me. No one would save me. This is my life; this is the path I have to tread.”

“What of the koto?” Yunho asks.

“It is the only link I have to any kind of family history, but its significance is still a puzzle.” Changmin shrugs lightly. “The woman in the blue kimono told Old Uncle that though I was for sale, the koto was not. She said the koto belonged to me and me alone, and could never be sold or given away unless I chose to do so.” He touches Red Dappled Silk, a loving caress the length of her body. “I could never part with her.”

They sit in silence for a while. When Changmin looks up, he sees Yunho frowning as if deep in thought.

Another moment passes and then Yunho gets to his feet, taking the wine-jar and the cup with him. He strides to the door with a jaunty step, then turns back and bows. “I will call upon you again tomorrow at the same hour.”

Changmin gazes at him. “But...”

“Until tomorrow.” Yunho smiles and is gone.

* * *

Part 2 >>

Onmyouji podfic!

glitterburn — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 15:06:41 GMT

happyhanabi has produced a podfic of my story Sin! Creepy Heian shenanigans for your listening pleasure. Find it here on her DW or on AO3.

Thank you, Hana!

Fic: Children of Dust [TVXQ RPS | AU] 2/2

glitterburn — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 17:48:43 GMT

As autumn died, the imperial guard turned against the Emperor and overthrew him. The dream interpreter was tied into a sack weighted with rocks and thrown into the harbour, and then the captain and a full company of soldiers marched through the palace to the prison in the courtyard.

Yunho had been awake half the night, still and silent in Changmin’s arms, and when he’d finally slept, his dreams had been of nothing. Grey, rolling, endless nothing. Changmin had taken the dream, but it tasted strange and bitter, and later he’d spat it out over the palace wall and watched it shredded in the teeth of the Black Wind that ripped along the great waterway.

Now Yunho sat at their jumbled collection of tables with the mismatched porcelain and the candle-stubs and the faulty timepiece, and he watched as the imperial guard bowed down to him, and listened as the captain hailed him as the daystar, lord of the horizons, His Serenity the Emperor.

“What of my father?” Yunho asked when the litany of praise ended and the soldiers all rose from the floor.

The captain met his gaze. “Your Majesty, he is dead.”

Yunho nodded, his expression utterly blank.

The coronation took place at noon when the shadows were deepest. Changmin wrapped himself in darkness and watched as Yunho became less of himself even as he became more. Out in the city, the people thronged the streets and hurried to the palace, the news passed from mouth to mouth. They clamoured at the gates and Yunho went to them, held out his hands as if to embrace them all, and he smiled and promised to bring peace and prosperity back to the Empire.

Changmin perched on the wall and whispered an ancient phrase, and after a while, the crowd dispersed without incident, the people going about their business happy and content. Pleased with the result, Changmin was about to slink away to the marble terrace when Yunho glanced around the outer courtyard, found him, and beckoned him.

So as not to startle the guards, Changmin took his usual earth-bound form and strolled out of one of the stables. Still they reacted, drawing their swords and clustering in front of Yunho, but then they retreated, staring in bewilderment at the rusting iron manacles around Changmin’s wrists.

“Blacksmith,” Yunho said, stepping around his guards, the imperial purple of his robes dragging through the dust, the ribbles of pearls suspended from his golden diadem clattering and swaying as he extended his hand. “A rasp, if you please.”

The blacksmith eyed the manacles and offered the opinion that a hammer might do the trick: “The iron is so old, Your Serenity, if you were but to tap them in the right place, those cuffs would disintegrate. Does Your Serenity wish me to demonstrate?”

“No, thank you.” Yunho smiled at the blacksmith and took the hammer. “I wish to do this myself.”

It took only three blows to release Changmin. The first shattered the chain. The second struck off one cuff; the third smashed open the other.

He was free.

Changmin tried to prostrate himself the way he’d seen other men do, but before he could complete the first bow, Yunho stretched out his hand. “Do not abase yourself in front of me, child of smokeless fire.”

“I am your slave,” Changmin said. “You freed me. I must serve you.”

After a pause, Yunho motioned to the blacksmith and the watching guards to move away. Only when they were out of earshot did he say, voice low and soft, “What if I wish to give you freedom?”

Changmin lifted his head, met Yunho’s gaze, and lied. “Then I would leave here and you would never see me again.”

Yunho curled out his tongue-tip to touch the corner of his mouth, a habit he had when he worried at a thought. “You would not come back?”

“No.” Changmin lied a second time.

Distress sparked in Yunho’s eyes. He looked down at the dusty ground. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then let me stay and serve you,” Changmin said, keeping his tone neutral to hide the surge of triumph.

Yunho smiled, brighter than the sun. “No more talk of service. You are my friend. My love. The keeper of my dreams.” He held out his hand and lifted Changmin to his feet. “You will be my chamberlain and whisper wise counsel when I need it. You will be my most beloved companion and grant me peace when we lay down to rest. Though hidden in shadows, you will rule with me, for the daystar needs the horizon to impose limits upon it.”

Changmin bowed his head. “If this is what you wish.”

“I do not wish it,” Yunho said. “I hope for it.”

*
Whispers followed him along the arcades and corridors of the palace. Rumour was kept busy feeding gossip. No one knew who Changmin was or where he came from, but everyone had an opinion. He came from the City of Jasmine, some said; no, said others, his home lay amongst the islands far to the east where sea-wyrms consorted. None could decide how he had first met the young Emperor, but all agreed as to why His Serenity was so captivated.

They believed Changmin was of the third gender. They stared at him in secret when he passed by, and he knew what they saw. Dressed in black silk, tall and slender, long-limbed and with skin as pale as a star, his beauty fascinated the court as much as his temporal power frightened them.

“They think I’m a eunuch,” Changmin said one afternoon. He lay on the stone flags of the rose terrace, soaking up the last trace of warmth left by the weak sun. The roses had long since flowered and faded, and now only thorns remained on the bushes cut back for winter.

“A eunuch?” Yunho sounded amused. He sat nearby within a pavilion, a brazier beside him giving off gentle heat and the fragrance of myrrh. Most of his attention was on a report from a garrison in the east, and when he’d finished reading, he folded the paper and returned it to the same gilded table his father had used for correspondence. “They fear your sharp tongue, my love. Eunuchs are known for their cruelty.”

“I am not cruel. Merely truthful.” Changmin rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. “Is that cruelty?”

“To a courtier? Yes.” Yunho smiled. “But I would have you no other way. In this sea of sycophants and schemers, I need you to be my guiding light.”

Changmin sat up, his silks pooling around him like shadows. “As you wish.”

Yunho laughed. “Not a wish. A need. A desire. One I hope you share.” He rose from his chair and took a carved rosewood box from the table, then came down from the pavilion and knelt on the terrace beside Changmin.

“Here,” he said, presenting the box. “A gift.”

Curious, Changmin lifted the lid. Nestled within on a bed of velvet was a pair of cuffs of polished silver, curved and flared to show their decorative nature.

“Silver untouched by iron,” Yunho said when Changmin remained still and silent, uncertain how to react. “One each. So we never forget our time of imprisonment.”

Changmin nodded, still silent. This was not slavery, nor was it service. This was something else. He took one cuff from the box and Yunho held out his left arm, pushing up his sleeves of ermine and silk, turning his hand to offer the fine bones and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist.

When Changmin latched the silver cuff around Yunho’s wrist, he felt the world draw in tight around them as if they hung within a droplet of water, as if they were suspended within a ray of sunlight.

Yunho smiled and closed the second cuff around Changmin’s right wrist.

They sat together and admired the burning glitter of the silver, their hands clasped, their fingers entwined.

*
As the dreams foretold and the reports proved true, the Empire was dragged into war. Winter marched ahead of the gathering armies, a bitter harbinger of battle with its flaying breath.

Once the danger of the snow-bearing north-easterly wind had passed, Yunho ordered his troops into the ships that carried them across the great waterway. On the eastern shore, more soldiers waited, summoned from their garrisons. Their numbers swelled further as Yunho turned south into the heartland of the second continent.

Changmin journeyed at the head of the army, his white gelding a match in beauty for the black stallion Yunho rode. Where Yunho wore silvered armour and greeted his soldiers with smiles and rousing speeches, Changmin wore swathes of black fur over his black silks and glowered at everyone who passed beneath his gaze.

The serried ranks of men bearing iron amongst their steel weapons made Changmin’s skin crawl. The supply-carts with iron strips to strengthen their wheels and the iron cook-pots and other accoutrements made his back itch, and he would touch the silver cuff around his wrist to calm himself.

But the closer they came to the enemy, the more anxious Changmin felt.

Yunho’s dreams had turned dark again these last few weeks. The recurring dream haunted them both. In it, Changmin waded through a sea of blood, corpses grabbing at him to impede his way as he tried, frantic and grief-stricken, to reach Yunho. But always he was too late, and Changmin would fling himself out of the dream and retch it up, letting it curdle on the floor before he called upon a breeze to scatter it.

One morning, scouts returned from their explorations to report the presence of the enemy some twenty miles away. Between the two armies, they said, lay an ancient town. Now ruinous, it commanded a wide plain where the river had split into many forks.

While Yunho conferred with his generals, Changmin slipped away and caught onto the blustery breath of the north wind. He surveyed the land from on high, then flew further south until he spied the enemy. Their numbers were almost double the size of Yunho’s army, and their troops were rested and well fed from stealing from the nearby villages. But Changmin saw squabbles and factions within the enemy ranks, too many men who fought not for the upstart nobleman but for their own lords. They’d been promised easy plunder from the wealth of the City of Brazen Serpents. Instead the Emperor had come to meet them far from the safety of its walls, and they feared his wrath.

Changmin returned to Yunho’s side and repeated what he’d seen.

“A large army, but one divided,” Yunho said, looking at his generals. “This battle will be measured not in numbers, but by determination. Give the orders; we march for the ruined town. I want us to hold that plain by nightfall.”

By mid afternoon the town was secured; by evening Yunho had established a camp within its ruined walls, choosing an abandoned building in the old marketplace as his headquarters. Sentries were posted and soldiers were directed to their billets for the night. Many of them feared the ruins and clustered together in the marketplace, where fires were lit. Those brave enough to explore as far as the ancient theatre on the hillside came running back with tales of demons.

“Perhaps one of the djinn?” Yunho suggested when he heard the rumour.

Changmin went to investigate but found no trace of his kin. Instead he encountered a ghul, ragged and pale, its claws scratching at the marble seats as it crooned to itself. When it saw him it hissed and scuttled back into a hole, its unblinking yellow eyes gleaming at him from the darkness.

Ghuls often frequented ruins, but this one smelled of the mountains, not the plains. Changmin curled towards it. “Why are you here?”

“The battle.” The ghul’s voice was a slow, rattling exhalation. “Where the children of dust make war, I and my brothers and sisters come to feed.”

“More of your kind will come?” A prickle of uneasiness climbed Changmin’s spine and he resisted the urge to look around in search of other yellow eyes.

The ghul’s laughter sounded like vomit hitting the ground. “Tomorrow we will grow fat on their carcasses. You should join us, djinni. The flesh of men is sweet.” It paused, tilting its head. “But perhaps you know this already.”

Changmin spat in disgust and hurled himself away from the theatre. He went to the supply train and commanded the officer in charge to give him a sack of salt and the loan of one of his men. At Changmin’s direction, the soldier sprinkled salt around the marketplace and headquarters in a single unbroken line, except for the narrowest gap the span of a man’s hand.

“Ghuls fear salt,” Changmin said when he told Yunho what he’d done. “Be sure to bring the injured back to the marketplace, but tell your men not to disturb the line of salt. It will protect them.”

Yunho looked at him. “The djinn also fear salt, is that not true?”

Changmin bowed his head. “It is true, but I left a gap so I might pass through when we ride out together on the morrow.”

“Does it not hurt, to be almost surrounded by salt?”

“Not as much as it hurt to be imprisoned within an iron box,” Changmin said, “but yes, I feel it pressing in on me, and it is... unpleasant.”

“Then for a moment, let us step outside the ring of salt so we may both be free.” Yunho held out his hand, silver cuff glinting around his wrist, and Changmin went with him.

Just beyond the crumbled walls of the ancient town lay the ruins of a temple. Barely anything remained amidst the weeds and tumbled masonry save a single column, worn and cracked yet still standing. A pair of storks had made their nest on top, and the birds stirred and chattered to one another as Yunho led Changmin through the rustling grasses.

Yunho’s hands were cold against Changmin’s skin, but his breath was warm and his kisses hot. The fur slid from Changmin’s shoulders. He pressed back against the column, the fluting sharp and dark beneath his palms. They made love in silence, swift and urgent, and Changmin looked up at the stars, the night motionless and deep above them.

*
The first touch of dawn’s light revealed that the enemy had arrived at the far side of the plain. Scouts ran to and fro, and the soldiers formed up and marched from the town while officers bellowed orders.

Yunho rode out a short distance, Changmin beside him, and together they surveyed the land as the armies massed. Fear stroked icy fingers down Changmin’s back. The sun struggled to rise through the clouds smothering it, and it seemed to hang in the sky, a blood-red ball. Turning in the saddle, Changmin looked back at the ruined town, then he looked at Yunho, resplendent in silvered steel. Behind him was the standard-bearer, carrying the white and gold pennant of the imperial house.

The air was heavy, thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the coming battle. Changmin sniffed, recognising the shape of invisible currents, and knew a storm was being born. This was Yunho’s recurring dream, a warning cried across the seasons, and yet Yunho remained ignorant of his fate.

Only Changmin had the power to alter it.

“I can win this battle for you,” he said, the words spilling out in a rush. “If you wish it, I will call upon the south wind and bring a sandstorm to devour your enemies.”

The look Yunho turned upon him was one of surprise. “No.”

“Think well on your decision. You have never asked anything of me. Only wish it done, and I will grant you victory this day.”

Yunho shook his head. “I cannot. We shall win this battle if God wills it.”

Anger rose, and Changmin jerked on the reins of his gelding, walking it around in front of Yunho’s stallion. “If you will not have a care for yourself, at least think of your people! These soldiers—they follow you from love and duty, and you lead them to their deaths. What of their wives and children? An Emperor must care for his subjects. Why would you waste the lives of these men and bring needless grief to their families?”

“Is that what you think?” Disbelief and disappointment flashed in Yunho’s eyes. “My love, if I were to wish upon you, I would make slaves of us both. In serving my wishes, you would make me your slave. If I relied upon the power of a djinni to defend my empire, my people would become fat and indolent, knowing they were safe from all harm. They would not strive to improve themselves. They would fall into lethargy or become greedy. If a djinni can keep us safe, they will say, he can also make us rich. They would expect greater gifts from you, from me, and I would no longer be worthy of being called Emperor. I would be as much their puppet as yours, and a puppet is not a leader of men.”

Though Yunho spoke the truth, Changmin was still dismayed and tried to argue against it. “But you would be victorious!”

“That is not victory.”

Furious tears swam through his vision. Changmin tossed his head and snapped, “You are too proud.”

“Perhaps.” Yunho smiled. “It is a human failing.”

“Please,” Changmin said. “Reconsider.”

Yunho held his gaze. “I have thought on this every day since I ascended the throne. I will not ask anything of you, my love. The children of dust are born to die. This is our fate. If my men are to lay down their lives today, let them die as heroes, defending their women, their children, their home, their empire. Permit them to believe in triumph. Let them have hope.”

“Hope is for fools!” Changmin snarled, emotions strangling him.

“Then I am the biggest fool of all.” Yunho’s smile turned sad.

“No.” Furious, helpless, Changmin lashed out. “No. You are selfish.”

The silver cuff glinted in the eerie sunlight as Yunho reached out and stroked gentle fingers down Changmin’s cheek. “Maybe I am selfish, to hold onto you for so long. If you wish to be released, I—”

“No!” Changmin caught at his hand and clutched it in a fierce grip. “Don’t banish me from your side. Let me ride to battle with you today.”

Yunho withdrew his hand. “It is too dangerous. There will be weapons of iron everywhere. I would not have you exposed to such pain. Please, Changmin—stay within the limits of the town. I will need your counsel and your warmth when the fight is over.”

Changmin drew in an annoyed breath. “Is it your wish that I stay here?”

For a moment Yunho was silent, and then, with a measured look, he said, “Yes.”

Shock drove splinters of ice through Changmin’s heart. He had trapped himself, made himself useless, caught between his own anger and Yunho’s care. “Take it back,” he said, desperation edging his tone. “Let me go with you.”

“No.” Yunho’s expression was implacable. “Changmin, I wish you to stay within the town until I return.” He urged his mount closer and leaned in, one hand warm on the back of Changmin’s neck. “Be not angry with me,” he murmured, and kissed him, swift and passionate.

“I’m not angry,” Changmin whispered when they parted. “I’m afraid.”

*
The battle raged for most of the day.

At first Changmin paced back and forth along the city walls that gave a view of the plain, but all he saw was chaos. The clash of arms was unbearably loud; the shouts and screams of men and horses were worse.

Ghuls shambled through the streets, creeping from one dark place to the next, lurking beneath the arcades and moaning their delight at the sounds of battle. Changmin chased them away, expending his frustration by snapping at them until they retreated to the theatre. There they climbed to the topmost tier and looked out at the battlefield, chattering about what they saw.

Changmin drifted below them, tired and angry. He ignored their harsh, rasping voices, sickened by the way they took bets on whose flesh they would tear into first—perhaps this fat cavalryman or that young nobleman, or maybe even the new recruit who’d just shat himself with fear. The ghuls rocked with laughter as they described the scenes unfolding on the plain, and then they stirred, excitement sharpening, as the first of the injured were brought into the town.

“We cannot feast,” one of the ghuls said. “The djinni ordered salt to be poured around the marketplace.”

They grumbled and settled back down, a few of them cursing Changmin for depriving them of an easy meal.

“No matter,” they assured one another. “The bodies left abandoned on the field will taste even better. Imagine the soft flesh torn apart by hooks to spill out their entrails! How delightful. No need to blunt our claws on their armour or sneak past iron and salt and fire. Already corpses bloat the rivers on the plain. By day’s end we will have a feast the likes of which has not been seen for years!”

On and on they chattered. Disgusted, Changmin turned from them. About to slip through the circle of salt to question the exhausted men carrying their injured comrades, he stopped when a screeching cry went up. The ghuls rose as one, making a wild ululation.

“What?” Changmin flitted up the steps towards the top of the theatre. “What has happened?”

“The Emperor.” One of the ghuls grasped his arm, claws sinking in tight. “The Emperor has fallen.”

“No.” Changmin pulled free so fast that the ghul unbalanced and tumbled down the theatre steps. Ignoring its hideous shrieking complaint, Changmin plunged over the side and flew to the outermost limit of the town, where Yunho’s wish prevented him from going any further.

Changmin clawed at the walls and the earth and begged to be allowed out, but the wish held. That at least was a small mercy, for it meant that Yunho still lived. He could do nothing but wait, and he despised his helplessness and railed at the injustice.

Turning his fear into action, Changmin went back to the marketplace and helped the medics tend the injured and the dying. He used magic where he could, knitting together broken limbs, healing torn flesh, but he could do only a little.

“It is fate, my lord,” one of the medics told him, a soldier on the ground between them with a hole in his skull showing a slop of grey slime within. “I’ve seen men with barely a scratch lie down and die, while other men with grievous injuries got up and walked. Medicine is but a part of healing alongside faith and belief, and yet if a man’s time has come, no earthly power can intervene.”

Changmin closed the dead soldier’s eyes and turned away. Some of the ghuls had come down from the theatre and stared across the ring of salt, strings of saliva glistening from their chins. Rage beat back his growing panic. He would scatter the ghuls, send them screaming back to the mountains, but before he could step beyond the salt and summon the wind, horses came clattering into the marketplace.

Changmin froze, recognising the captain of the imperial guard. Two other mounts were with him, a limping grey mare and a proud black stallion. A body fell from the saddle onto the ground. When one of the medics hurried forwards, the captain snapped, “Leave him—he’s dead. Attend to the Emperor. Quickly!”

The medics surged closer, hands up to cradle Yunho’s broken body. Changmin pushed past the captain, swallowing the awful keening note that threatened to smash its way out of his throat. He could barely recognise his lover like this. Yunho’s skin was so pale it was like virgin snow, and around his waist was wrapped a trailing length of red silk.

No, Changmin realised; not red silk. White and gold. The imperial pennant stained scarlet with Yunho’s blood.

The captain spared Changmin a brief glance as they followed the medics inside the headquarters. “He led three attacks across the rivers, drove back the enemy and cut them down. He seemed invincible. When he rallied us for a fourth time, the standard-bearer rushed ahead and lamed his horse, and the pennant was lost. Even though the enemy swarmed all around, His Serenity refused to let it go. He threw himself against them and fought his way to the standard. He tied it around his waist, and then it happened. A blow from a sword, and when he wavered, another and then another. They would have pulled him down and trampled him in the mud, but then we got to him and pulled him free.”

Changmin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stood and watched as the medics laid Yunho on his bed and untied the pennant to reveal the extent of the damage. Stepping back, they debated with one another in low voices.

“Hurry,” the captain said, drawing his bloodied sword as if the threat of violence would aid their art. “Do something. Heal him!”

“They can’t.” Yunho turned his head, his face grey and waxen and his eyes glassy. He managed to twitch a finger, and Changmin came to him, knelt beside him. “Tell the medics to go away. They must save others.”

Changmin shook his head, smoothing trembling hands over Yunho’s cold brow. “They must save you.”

Yunho frowned slightly. “Send them away.”

“I’ll see it done, Your Serenity.” The captain gestured at the medics, and they all hurried from the room, leaving Changmin alone with Yunho.

An endless moment passed. Yunho’s breathing grew fainter. He was cold, so cold. Changmin tried to pour warmth into him, but it drained away to nothing.

Yunho blinked, focused on Changmin, and smiled. “I release you from my service.”

“No.” Tears ran down Changmin’s face. He held tight onto Yunho’s hand. “No. I don’t want to be free of you.”

“It is my wish. You have to obey me.”

Changmin gritted his teeth and made a negative gesture. “Please, my love. Let me bring back the medics.”

“No.” Yunho sighed, soft and resigned. “Let them save as many men as they can. No one wants to be known as the doctor who killed the Emperor. Let them do their duty elsewhere.”

“And what of your duty?” Changmin cried, rousing his anger to banish his sense of vulnerability. “You’re the Emperor. You have a duty to everyone. You can’t die, do you hear me? You can’t. I love you!”

Fury made him reckless. Rejecting the words of the medic, ignoring the prophecy of the dreams, Changmin called upon his magic and tried to heal Yunho. For a brief, glorious moment it worked, organs restored and blood renewed and flesh mended, but then everything was undone and Yunho broke again, snapped and torn, and Changmin howled in despair that he had caused his beloved such pain.

This is what becomes of the children of dust. They can be ruined so easily. They die so easily, and the children of smokeless fire can only grieve.

A sound at the door, running feet, and the captain burst in, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Your Serenity. My lord. The enemy is in retreat. Their generals are slain. We have won a great victory.”

Changmin turned on him, as vicious as a striking serpent. “You have won nothing!”

The captain dropped to his knees. He started to speak again, words fumbling from his lips, and then Yunho stirred and beckoned him nearer. “Victory? God be praised. Come close, captain, and tell me...”

Unable to bear it, Changmin whirled away outside. The marketplace was filled with the wounded and dying, and medics moved amongst them, doing what they could. The news of the victory had lifted everyone’s spirits and the atmosphere was one of quiet optimism.

Changmin almost choked on his sorrow and rage. He pushed through the gap in the ring of salt and drifted towards the battlefield. Blood soaked the earth and ran red in the rivers. Corpses lay tangled, some dead for long hours, others still warm. The ghuls crouched over their chosen victims and ripped at their flesh, rending limbs from bodies and feasting on internal organs.

Overhead, vultures circled, scanning the field with gimlet eyes. They flapped away from the pack of ghuls then folded their wings and dropped down to feed, sharp beaks snapping and tearing.

Changmin stared at them.

It would take a miracle to save Yunho. Changmin was only a djinni. What he needed was a god.

*
He left on a whirlwind, driving the pillar of fire south into the desert. Though centuries had passed since he was last there, Changmin found the temple again. The sand had all but covered it, and the sculpture that crowned the pediment had blurred beyond recognition. He ordered the dunes to slip aside, and the great doors of burnished bronze were revealed. Though they had slammed shut when he’d left, they stood open now, inviting him into the cool, shadowed darkness.

Changmin went inside. The air gathered around him, thick with promise. Sand hushed and trickled. He moved forwards with purpose, unfaltering, and prostrated himself before the statue of the god. When he got to his feet, he looked inside the libation bowl and saw that the bones of the slaughtered children had crumbled to dust.

A rustling, sliding sound rolled through the temple as Nasr wakened. Little ginnaya, the god said, you have returned. There was no smugness in his voice, nor even curiosity; just deep, endless patience. Do you have a prayer this time?

“Yes.” Changmin went back down onto his knees and bowed his head before the vulture-god. “I beg you to save the life of a man. Yunho, the Emperor of—of...”

Ah. Him. Nasr hissed and was silent as if considering. He already walks amongst the shadows. It is no easy prayer to answer, this one. I can give you another man to please you; one like him, strong and brave and handsome.

“No.” Changmin curled his hands into fists and thumped at the altar as if this would help his request. “It has to be him. Save him. Don’t let him die yet. Let him live and be healthy and happy and let him grow old.”

You sound like one of them, ginnaya. You sound human.

“I love him.”

Ah.

A pause, long and deep and cold. Changmin shook with a storm of grief, his tears dripping onto the stone floor.

Finally Nasr spoke. It is done.

Changmin looked up. “He lives?”

He draws breath, his heart beats, and his flesh mends, but now he needs a reason to live.

“He is the Emperor.” Changmin rose to his feet, unsteady with hope. “He lives for his people.”

Foolish ginnaya. For an instant, Nasr sounded amused. Your prayer is answered. Now give me your sacrifice.

Changmin stared. In his desperation, he hadn’t thought to bring anything suitable. Bowing once again, he said, “Great Lord Nasr, I will give you whatever you desire. Only tell me what you wish for, and I will bring it.”

I will take you.

The bronze doors slammed shut, sealing out the sunlight. Fire burst over the libation bowl, smoke roiling thick and black as it filled the temple.

Changmin screamed as it devoured him.

*
He woke in an ancient tomb, naked but for the silver cuff around his right wrist. His head ached and weariness lay over him. Changmin sat up. His face was crusted with sand, and when he ran a hand through his hair, runnels of grit worked loose and showered over his body. Hunger griped at him and he had an unbearable thirst. When he touched the earth, he felt only dirt. When he touched the walls of the tomb, he felt only stone.

Changmin found his way to the wooden door and pulled it open. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he turned away, blinking. Now he could see a pile of clothes placed on top of a carved limestone sarcophagus, and beside it, bread and sliced meat and a jug of water.

The urge to eat and drink was too great for him to ignore. He went over to the food and tore at the bread, stuffing it into his mouth. Water next, a great gulp of it, taken so fast he almost spilt it down his bare chest. The water was cold and had a faint metallic taste. It took him a moment to recognise it, and by then he’d eaten the meat. Salted meat; and when he tilted the jug to the sunlight, he saw the reddish tint to the water and realised it contained iron.

He stood there, waiting for the deadening pain as the salt and iron took effect, but nothing happened. Nothing except his stomach grumbling for more food. Puzzled, Changmin continued to eat, more cautiously this time, and then he drained the jug of water. When still nothing happened, he unfolded the clothes and got dressed. These were not the expensive silks of the palace but the garments of a commoner, with an old woollen cloak to wear over the top and a pair of scuffed leather boots.

Changmin ventured out of the tomb, shading his eyes with one hand as he looked beyond the necropolis at the brilliant white travertines spooling down the hillside. He was at Sacred City, far away from the temple in the Empty Quarter but only four days’ hard ride from the ruined town and the battlefield.

He glanced around and saw a horse laden with supplies tethered nearby. The animal lifted its head from cropping at the weeds and regarded him with no great interest as he approached. Changmin spoke to it, stroked its nose, and then unlooped the reins. Then he tried to mount up. It took him five attempts before he was successful, and this more than any other sign finally made Changmin realise what had changed.

He was human.

The knowledge drove deeper inside him with every beat of his heart. He tugged on the reins, turning the horse towards the road to the west, and caught sight of a great bird perched upon a stele.

It hunched there, claws gripping the tombstone, its gimlet eyes black and deep. It had a bald head and a ruff around its neck, and when it spread its wings, their span was huge and terrifying.

“Nasr,” Changmin whispered, and bent his head in acknowledgement.

The vulture launched itself into the air and flew away.

Changmin stared after it until the bird vanished from the sky, and then he pressed in his heels and the horse sprang forwards.

For four days he rode, feeling his new humanity with every mile. He pushed the horse to its limits, forcing himself to stay awake when exhaustion almost tumbled him from his mount, huddling within the cloak when the storm winds he’d once controlled blew over him with freezing rain and left him blasted with cold. Hunger and thirst were like nothing he’d ever known before, and yet on he went, driven to know what had become of his love.

Late on the fourth day, he found the relics of the defeated enemy, scatterings of iron that could do him no harm and corpses half devoured by ghuls and wolves and vultures. The horse drudged onwards, picking its way across scree and then down onto the plain, splashing through rivers that ran clear once more.

Changmin checked his mount and scanned the near horizon. The imperial army still made its camp within the walls of the ruined town. Weary and sore from so long in the saddle, he dug his heels into the horse’s heaving sides and urged it on.

It responded on a burst of speed. They raced across the plain, Changmin bent low to the horse’s neck, its mane streaming over his hands and brushing his face like smoke. Soldiers ran towards him, calling for him to stop, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

The horse slowed to a trot and then came to a halt at the outer limits of the town. Changmin all but fell from the saddle. More soldiers hailed him, but fell back when they realised his identity.

“The chamberlain,” they said to one another, their words spreading throughout the town. “He’s returned. But where has he been?”

Though he could barely walk, Changmin forced himself not to run. “Yunho,” he said, and his voice rasped in his throat, strange and unwieldy. “Yunho.” It became a litany pushing him on, one foot in front of the other, and soon he came to the marketplace. The ring of salt had been remade, and this time it was unbroken.

He stepped over it and collapsed before the headquarters. “Yunho!”

The captain came out and stood on the threshold, astonished. “My lord!”

Changmin lifted his head. “Where is he?”

“I’m here.”

The captain stepped aside and Yunho appeared in the doorway. He was pale and wan, weakened but still vital, and though the memory of pain shadowed his eyes, he was alive and whole and perfect.

Uttering a frantic cry of joy, Changmin clambered to his feet and flung himself into Yunho’s arms.

Yunho caught him and held onto him, lifting a hand to press it against Changmin’s cheek. “You’re different.”

Overwhelmed, Changmin nodded. “Everything’s different now.”

“I dreamt you were far away in a temple of shadows,” Yunho said. “A great bird perched on the roof and you knelt to it. It pecked at you, and you let it tear you to pieces. Then I woke and heard your voice.”

Tears blurred Changmin’s vision. He let them fall. “You remembered your dream.”

Yunho smiled and drew him closer. “Only because you weren’t here to take it.”

They kissed, gentle and tender; a promise, a reassurance.

“You taste different,” Yunho murmured against his mouth. “My love, you even smell different.”

Changmin laughed through his tears. “Dust.” He stepped back from their embrace and brushed at his clothes. The gritty residue of the road poured free. “It’s dust.”

Fic: Children of Dust [TVXQ RPS | AU] 1/2

glitterburn — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 17:44:52 GMT

Title: Children of Dust
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: PG13
Summary: The djinn should not fall in love with the children of dust, for their union can only end in grief.
Notes: AU and AH. Ginnayê (sing. ginnaya, meaning ‘protector’) is the Aramaic term for the tutelary daimons/deities of Palmyra. They had a close relationship with their human charges and to a certain extent could be considered similar to ‘guardian angels’. There is some debate as to which word is more ancient, ginnaya or the Arabic djinni (deriving from the root ‘to conceal; to cover with darkness’); both words seem to refer to the same sort of beings. | Nasr (‘Vulture’) is an idol from the time of Noah, as mentioned in the Koran (71:23).

Children of Dust
Curiosity was always his downfall.

While others of his kind contented themselves to live within a single drop of water, Changmin splashed about in travertine pools, or lay beneath the surface at the bottom of a village well and listened to the gossip of the women, or later, when he grew more daring, crept through the narrow copper pipes into the bathhouses and watched men and women at sport.

“Humans are forbidden to us,” one of the Elders told him. “As we were born of smokeless fire, so they are children of dust. Yet though we have the greater power, still they think themselves superior. They know words that bind us; they have iron with which to chain us. They would make us slaves to do their bidding, for once caught and released, we must obey them until they set us free a second time—and no human can bear to part from the splendour of a djinni.”

The Elder fixed him with an unblinking stare. “Do not be caught. Toy with them if you must—and you will, for you are still young—but do not allow them to catch you. Regret has a long memory.”

For all that contact with humans was forbidden, many djinn fell prey to the children of dust. It was difficult to resist the lure of a creature at once so similar and so different. That their beauty faded so quickly was part of the attraction. Some of Changmin’s cousins tried to halt the inevitable, carrying their human beloveds away to palaces of ice in the emerald mountains of Qaf, but even surrounded by magic, the children of dust grew old and returned to the clay that once gave them life.

Witness to the grief of his kin, Changmin drew back from his own explorations and contented himself with watching humans rather than interacting with them. Leaving the cities behind, he lingered outside nomad encampments, careful to keep away from the fires built as protection against his kind. He flew ahead of sandstorms and investigated rock-cut palaces and tombs, searching for the echoes of lives long since passed and forgotten.

Once, out in the Empty Quarter, he discovered a temple to one of the old gods. Almost buried by the dunes, its doors were clad in burnished bronze and its pediment was crowned with a carving so worn by the elements that Changmin couldn’t tell what manner of deity dwelt within.

Darkness seeped from the half-open doors. Shadows crawled and beckoned. But Changmin was a child of smokeless fire and he did not fear shadows. Inside the temple the air was dry and cool, but with the lingering, distant stink of blood. Strange markings danced upon the walls: a language he did not know and bas-reliefs depicting acts of violence he did not care to study.

Changmin flitted through the hall of columns and stopped before the altar. Upon it was a libation bowl as wide as a man is tall, with spouts in its base and faded splashes of red washed around its interior. Bones bleached dry and white with age lay gathered inside the basin. Human bones, Changmin realised; the bones of children, their tiny skulls cleaved open and their helpless limbs torn apart.

Above the libation bowl stood a statue of the god. He had the body of a man, powerful and strong; a pair of wings outstretched and curling upwards; and the head of a vulture. His beak was long, viciously curved, and decorated with gold leaf. His eyes glimmered, black and deep and endless.

“Nasr,” Changmin said, recognising the god he had found.

A presence drifted through the temple like a curl of cold air. The god stirred.

Ginnaya, the god said, his voice like the rustling spill of sand on sand. It is long since man has stood in my house, but longer still since one of your kind came to me. Tell me what brings you here, little ginnaya. Make sacrifice and I will be bountiful.

“Nothing brings me here,” Changmin said truthfully, “save curiosity.”

Ah, curiosity. Perhaps I should cure you of it. All ginnayê suffer from it.

“As do the gods.” Changmin wondered at his daring to speak to a god, even one of the Old Ones, in such a way. “Why else did you wake from your slumber and address me, if not because of curiosity?”

You trespass in my house, ginnaya. Give thanks that I possess curiosity, for otherwise I would pull down the roof and bury us both in sand, and you would learn what it is to cross a god.

A chill slid down Changmin’s back, not so much at the threat but at the way it was delivered, flat and unemotional. After millennia of abandonment by those who had once worshipped him, Nasr had nothing more to lose.

But perhaps he still had something to gain.

Disquieted, Changmin curled over a fallen column and edged away from the altar. The gleaming black eyes of the statue seemed to watch him.

Do not leave yet, little ginnaya. Come, whisper your prayer and make sacrifice, and I will grant it.

“I am djinn. I already have everything I need.” The sunlight reached through the doors with long fingers, scratching into the gloom. Changmin moved towards the warmth, intent on leaving this place of ancient shadows. “It is I who grant wishes to the children of dust.”

Wishes are not prayers. Nasr’s voice rumbled, making the sand shift. Remember that, ginnaya.

Bewildered and a little afraid, Changmin darted out into the sunlight.

Behind him, the bronze doors slammed shut.

*
One year later by human reckoning, Changmin was caught.

The whole thing would have been laughable had it not been so frustrating. He wasn’t lured by a pretty face or trapped by binding-words or snared by any of the other forms of enchantment the children of dust habitually use to try to capture djinn. Instead it was an accident.

After the encounter with Nasr, Changmin turned his back on the deserts and spent some time amongst the ancient tombs and sunlit travertines of Sacred City. When a group of ragged, stinking ghuls wandered in and jumbled through the bones of the dead in search of fresher meat, humans from a nearby village summoned a sorcerer. Though the ghuls were too foolish to recognise the danger, Changmin knew it was time for him to move on. He left on a southerly breeze while a pack of dogs tore the ghuls apart and the men hurled the bloody remnants onto a fire.

The breeze took him to the City of Brazen Serpents. Standing astride two continents, its many facets glittered in the sun—fresh water pouring through the aqueduct, precious spices of all colours sold in the markets, mosaics and icons and the echoes of prayer swirling into domed roofs, the huge chain fastened across the harbour, a babble of languages gathered from across the world, every example of humanity piled within the great walls and guarded by high towers.

Captivated by what he saw, Changmin circled the city. To the east, outside the walls, he found the shattered remains of a nobleman’s residence. He stretched out on the sun-warmed stone of the broken roof and drowsed as he watched the scurrying of men below him. They were soldiers practising their drill, training with swords and spears, heaving battering rams and other siege equipment around the open courtyard. Their skin gleamed, sweat cutting through the dust, and Changmin sighed as desire slid through him. Just as he was wondering if he should make the acquaintance of one or more of the soldiers, the air around him erupted in flames.

It was not the kind of fire made by desert nomads for protection, nor the kind of fire a maidservant lays in the hearth for warmth. This fire was different. It exploded on contact, smothering him in a foul-smelling black resin, and flames burned over him, blue and white and cresting gold. Shock threw him in search of a breeze, but then came a biting, searing pain as the flames belched smoke.

Changmin crashed to the ground and rolled over and over, trying to shake free of the fire. His hair burned. His eyelashes burned. Every inch of his skin was consumed, licked by the flames, and grey smoke staggered and funnelled above him.

The soldiers ran to him, exclaiming. Where had he come from? How could a man just fall from the sky? Was he dead? Had the poor marksmanship of one of the catapult handlers caused the death of an angel?

Changmin lay on his back and listened to the roil of questions. It was better than listening to the slow crackle of his flesh as it healed. By the time a doctor arrived, his skin no longer peeled from him in blackened strips and his hair was growing back.

“An angel,” the soldiers said, retreating in fear. “See, he is an angel. We struck an angel with liquid fire and now God will be angry!”

“Not an angel,” the doctor said, crouching beside Changmin and poking at him, first with instruments of bronze, then of copper, and finally of iron.

Too weakened to fight or flee, Changmin complained at the bronze and copper, but spat and hissed and struggled at the touch of the iron. It hurt almost as much as the fire, but where the smoke-bearing flames had lashed over him with the flaying power of a sandstorm, the iron was heavy, encumbering, dragging at him as if it would drown him on the earth.

“Not an angel at all.” The doctor jabbed the iron instrument into Changmin’s newly-healed skin and watched him thrash around. “Something quite different. Quick, fetch iron manacles and a chest bound with iron. This creature needs to be contained before it can recover and kill us all.”

Several of the soldiers ran to do the doctor’s bidding, but one, a lieutenant, remained behind, staring at Changmin wide-eyed. “What is it, if not an angel?” the lieutenant asked. “Some kind of demon? I thought demons were vile, ugly things. This... this is beautiful.”

The doctor heaped scorn upon the lieutenant’s ignorance. “The most beautiful things are often the most deadly. See how it tries to attack me!” He stepped back as Changmin reached out in appeal, then darted forwards again and stabbed another iron implement through Changmin’s beseeching hand, pinning it to the ground.

“You’re hurting it,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t do that.”

“By hurting it I am saving your life as well as my own and those of all the inhabitants of the city,” the doctor boasted. “This miserable thing is a creature from the very limits of the Empire. It is barbarous, consorting with snakes and wolves and other beasts, and it molests the dead in their tombs.”

“How horrible!” The lieutenant stared at Changmin with mingled revulsion and admiration. “Do these things have a name?”

The doctor nodded, flaunting his knowledge. “They are called the djinn,” he said, “and they are an abomination.”

Despite the doctor’s scathing tones, his eyes gleamed. Changmin realised the doctor was aware of djinn lore. No doubt he intended to complete Changmin’s capture with binding spells as well as iron, and then he would force Changmin to his will.

Though the iron instruments slicing his flesh hurt, though he possessed nothing close to his full strength, Changmin could still call upon some magic. He would not be made a slave. He would never bow to the doctor. With a shriek of rage, he drew upon the blustering violence of the north wind. Lightning cracked from the sky and struck the roof. The masonry splintered, sheared away, and came crashing down.

The lieutenant yelled. The doctor tried to flee, but was crushed by the stone. His head exploded like an over-ripe fruit; his blood soaked into the pale earth.

Exhausted by the effort, Changmin lay still. He didn’t move even when the lieutenant crept back and looked down at him.

“It’s true,” the lieutenant whispered. “You are a monster.”

When the soldiers returned, they cried aloud in horror at the evil Changmin had wrought. The inheritor of half truths and fear, the lieutenant ordered the men to clasp the iron manacles about Changmin’s wrists and then to throw him into the box they’d found.

“It fears only iron,” he declared, the blood and brains of the doctor still upon him. “Let it dwell within that chest for an eternity, so it may cause no more harm.”

The soldiers muttered amongst themselves. One suggested that they throw the chest into the sea. Another wondered if Changmin could be ransomed back to his own kind. A third declared that a creature with the power to control the weather might make a useful weapon.

A long silence fell. Changmin could hear them breathing. He could almost hear their greedy thoughts. He curled up tighter within his prison, the iron manacles chafing his wrists, the heaviness of the metal’s grasp muddling his wits.

Finally the lieutenant spoke. “We should take this thing to the Emperor,” he said. “He is wise. He will know what to do with it. And he will reward us for the great gift that we bring him.”

*
The soldiers had taken the chest from a church. Until recently it had held records of property deeds, marriages, and births. Such precious documents were kept safe within a box made entirely of iron, banded with iron, and locked with iron. Mercifully, the interior was lined with a double thickness of leather, and though the iron pressed upon Changmin from all sides, he was shielded from the worst of its debilitating power.

The manacles around his wrists sapped what little energy he had, and he lay still within his prison, listening to the soldiers curse as they loaded him onto a cart and set off for the imperial palace. His thoughts gathered and scattered like clouds. Perhaps the Emperor would release him. It seemed as if few inhabitants of this city knew of the djinn, and perhaps if he found favour with the Emperor, he could be free without suffering even a single day of slavery.

Instead of going to the old palace, the lieutenant led the cart to the Seventh Hill, where the Emperor was building a new, more splendid residence. The hammering of iron on stone made Changmin’s head ache. He focused on the shouts of the foremen, the creaking of winches, and the delicate slide of tesserae into cement. The smell of wet concrete and paint tickled at his senses beneath the stink of the iron. The chaos of construction surrounded him as the soldiers brought the box deeper within the new palace, and then the way was barred.

“Hey, horse-fuckers.” The challenge came in rough tones. “Stop right there. You’re not permitted through this gate. What’s this you’ve got with you?”

“A gift for His Serene Majesty,” the lieutenant said. “A gift of great worth! Only permit me to accompany it into the presence of His Serenity, and—”

“Lift it down.” The rough voice again. “Put it there. You, horse-fucker, you know the rules. Petitioners go through the chamberlain’s office.”

The lieutenant’s tone turned shrill. “I do not seek to petition the Emperor! This is a gift, a worthy gift...”

“Of course it is.” A grunt, and the box was lifted from the cart and set on the ground. “Be off with you. Make petition properly, and your box will be presented in due course.”

“But...” the lieutenant complained.

“Begone, horse-fuckers.” The sound of steel unsheathed, two swords of finest temper, and then the lieutenant and his men retreated, muttering and cursing their misfortune to encounter the imperial bodyguard.

Changmin rolled over in the confines of the box and gazed up.

“Well now,” said the rough-voiced man to his companion. “Let’s see what this is.” The locks screeched as they were worked free and then the lid lifted, and a giant warrior—fair-skinned, blond, with eyes the colour of a squall—stared down at Changmin in surprise. “A boy. A naked boy in a box.”

Even though the iron dragged at him, Changmin managed to lift his bound hands. “Release me.”

The giant laughed, but not unkindly. To his companion he said, “I don’t know what those steppes barbarians think they’ll gain from such a gift. This is not the way to petition His Serenity the Emperor. Besides, boys are not to his taste.”

His companion, an equally huge man with red hair, peered in at Changmin. “He’s pretty. Perhaps those idiot horse-fuckers intended the boy to be made a eunuch?”

The blond giant snorted. “He’s too old. Here, boy,” he crouched beside the box, “I’m going to close the lid, but it won’t be locked. Wait until nightfall, then make your way out of here.”

“But...” Changmin held up his hands.

“Bless you, boy, if you can’t escape a building site in manacles then you don’t deserve your freedom.” The giant took off his cloak and draped it over Changmin’s body. “If it’s nakedness that worries you, take this. Go through the Gate of Lakes. There’s a monastery close by the walls; the brothers there will help you. But first you must help yourself.”

The lid closed once more, and although the giant was as good as his word and didn’t lock the chest, Changmin could not get out. Not while he was wrapped all around with iron.

*
The box was forgotten, moved first by the builders and then by slaves at the bidding of an under-secretary, who cast a single glance at the exterior of the iron chest and decided it contained documents of no great importance. “Lock it,” the under-secretary ordered, and the bolts scraped home.

Changmin remained silent, wilted by contact with the iron. All he could do was listen as the chest was placed in a storeroom amongst dozens of other caskets and trunks and boxes.

The Emperor died, poisoned by his favourite concubine so her son could rule in his place. Chaos reigned in the palace. Changmin drew the blond giant’s cloak around him and huddled beneath it. He wasn’t cold, but the woollen cloak gave him some small measure of comfort. A history of scent was woven through its fibres. From it, Changmin could discern the giant’s past triumphs and grievances, and for years, until the smell faded, it provided a kind of companionship.

Decades passed. The city fell, overrun first by its erstwhile allies from the West and then again by an ancient enemy. For one of the djinn, the time was but the blink of an eye; but the presence of iron made every day painful in the manner of an old wound that aches constantly, and Changmin sank deeper into torpor.

The palace on the Seventh Hill was razed to the ground, and a new one was built on the First Hill. Sculpted in layers on top of the ruins of the old acropolis, this new palace commanded the harbour and the great waterway, looking in three directions: north across the harbour to the walled residences of the foreign merchants, south to the expanse of the White Sea, and east to the second continent, Changmin’s home.

All of the imperial belongings were moved piece by piece across the city to the new palace and stored according to their value. Precious objects were placed in the Treasury; iron document boxes were placed wherever there was room.

The sheet iron of Changmin’s box was old now, stained red and twisted with jagged gashes corrupting the lid. The leather interior had all but rotted away. Though he still couldn’t get out, Changmin at least could see the world beyond the confines of his prison.

He seemed to be in another kind of prison. Bare walls punctured by a series of small windows set close to the ceiling, a ragtag collection of furniture and haphazard piles of boxes, dust gathering in corners—it was a place not even the rats deigned to visit.

Changmin resigned himself to greater patience.

In the winter, the rain found its way through the ceiling and dripped onto the iron box. Within a few days the corrosion had spread. Flakes of rust drifted inside onto Changmin’s face, the delicate touch of the rotting iron suddenly more painful than the slow slide of oblivion that had kept him prisoner for so long.

Summoning his faded strength, he kicked and punched at the lid of the box. Frustration lent rage to his voice. The rusting iron broke open a little wider, but he was too weak to break it completely.

Helpless, Changmin lay within the box, the rain on his face like furious tears.

*
With the first breath of spring came a whirlwind of activity within the palace. Changmin’s long, drowsing peace was shattered when a company of imperial guards escorted a young man into the prison.

“By command of His Serenity the Emperor, you are stripped of your rank and placed here for your own safety,” the captain of the guard intoned, not looking at the prisoner. “You will reside here in the comfort due to your birth, but without the luxuries that tempted you. Once a month, you may petition His Serenity to grant you lenience. Food and other necessaries will be delivered to you. All other rights are denied at this time.”

Changmin rolled over within the iron box and peeped through one of the holes torn in the side. The guards stood in the antechamber, the doors wide open behind them. Outside was a small courtyard with trees and a fountain. Changmin stared at the sight, greedy for it. He hadn’t seen full sunlight in centuries, and now it almost dazzled him. Putting his fingers to the hole in the box, he pressed closer, yearning for the warmth of the sun. The rusting iron burned his fingertips, but he didn’t care.

The young man stepped into the beam of sunlight. Changmin blinked and focused on him. For all the sharp delicacy of his features, the young man possessed poise and strength of will. Though pale with fear, he was determined not to show it. He kept his head up, an air of command still clinging to him despite the disorder of his garments. He lacked a cloak and a robe and wore only a long under-tunic and loose trousers of white silk, hemmed with gold thread.

“You have done your duty,” he said. “You may go.”

The guards turned about and left. It was a victory of sorts, but a hollow one, for the young man’s bravado wavered as soon as the soldiers were outside.

The captain lingered for a moment on the threshold, dipping his head in an approximation of a bow. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

The young man laughed, sadness cracking through it. “That is my title no longer. Now I am just Yunho.”

“My lord, your father will see reason. Have patience.” The captain clasped Yunho’s arm and then turned away. The doors slammed shut. A bolt was thrown; chains rattled, and locks bit tight.

Yunho stood for a moment staring at the door, then curled his hands into fists and exhaled a shaking breath. A moment later he exploded into action. Grabbing the nearest objects—a gilded chair with delicate legs, a blue-and-white patterned vase, a timepiece that didn’t work—he threw them at the walls and at the door. The chair legs splintered. The vase shattered. The timepiece broke, spilling its mechanical guts across the floor.

“God.” The word snapped out, both a plea and a curse. “Oh, God.” Yunho sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. A sob of anger and frustration burst from him, and he snarled at his own weakness.

Changmin sighed, feeling a touch of sympathy for the young man’s plight.

After a moment, Yunho recovered himself. He rose to his feet, expression grimly determined as he looked around his prison, and he began to explore. At first he tried the doors, then he prowled about, investigating the detritus of centuries. He moved to the far side of the antechamber, out of Changmin’s line of vision. There came the sound of another door opening, then closing. Then came the creak of wood, and Changmin realised that this prison was bigger than he’d imagined. Two rooms downstairs, and perhaps space within the roof. He listened, and heard Yunho’s footsteps trace over part of the ceiling above him.

Changmin scrawled around in the box, a strange kind of nervousness thrumming through his body. He moved to the biggest of the holes ripped through the lid and looked out, anxiously awaiting Yunho’s reappearance.

Footsteps pattered across the roof. Again came the creak of wood—a ladder, Changmin guessed—and then Yunho rounded the corner of the antechamber, brushing a hand through his hair. Cobwebs clung to his silks; dust smudged his hands and across his cheek. He looked calm now, emotions held in check.

Changmin scrunched down as Yunho came into the room and began sorting through the stacks of long-forgotten furniture. With discovery almost certain, and with it the hope of freedom, Changmin found himself unexpectedly mourning the loss of his long solitude. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from staring up through the jagged holes in the lid.

Paper shuffled. Other boxes were thrown open and the contents examined. The soft thud of textiles pulled free and unfolded, silks and velvets and furs, some ravaged by moths, others as whole and perfect as when they were wrapped and put away. Yunho sneezed at the dust dancing through the air, then came over to the iron box. He reached for the locks, and as he worked the bolts that screeched in protest, he gave a casual glance through the hole in the lid.

He wasn’t expecting to see anything except perhaps a heap of documents. Certainly he wasn’t expecting to see Changmin curled up inside. The eye is faster than the brain; Yunho looked away, still working at the locks, and then the reality of what he’d seen overtook the distraction of his situation. Changmin saw it in him, saw Yunho’s expression change from stoic indifference to disbelief.

Yunho exclaimed and jerked back from the box just as he’d pulled loose the first of the bolts. He took two steps away, then came forwards again and dropped to his knees. Pressing himself to the lid, he stared through the corroded metal.

“Who are you? Why are you... Wait. Let me help you out of there.” Fingers fumbling with haste, he yanked at the second bolt. Before he could open the third, he stopped and looked in at Changmin again, concern wrinkling his brow. “Are you an assassin?”

Changmin laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in decades. The sound was as rusty as his iron prison. “My name is Changmin, and a poor assassin I would make, allowing myself to be caught so easily.”

Yunho peered at him, uncertain. “Yet perhaps that is part of your trickery, so I will trust you. If I let you out, you might kill me.”

“I won’t kill you.” Freedom was so close, Changmin could smell it. Instead of smothering, deadening iron, it had the scent of human skin and dust and the warming fragrance of cloves and frankincense. He poked his fingers through the jagged hole in the iron, ignoring the scratches of pain. “If you free me, I will serve you.”

“I cannot have servants now. It is forbidden. My father’s orders.” Yunho looked doubtful, but didn’t move away.

“No one need know of my existence save you.” Taking a deep breath, Changmin shoved his hand as far as it would go through the corroding lid. Agony rode through him as the ragged edges cut into his flesh, the rust infecting him. Forcing the pain from his voice, Changmin said, “Please. Free me, and I will obey you. It is the way of my kind. An inviolable duty. Free me, and I am yours.”

Yunho stared at Changmin’s hand and wrist, at the deep gouges through the flesh that wept not blood but a pale silvery liquid that coated the iron manacles. “You’re hurt.”

Before Changmin could reply, Yunho prised open the third bolt and lifted the lid. Changmin pulled back his arm, then realised he was free. He tried to lift himself from the box, but the manacles weighed him down and he swayed as if exhausted.

“Here. Let me help.” Yunho came close and put an arm around Changmin’s waist, steadying him. “Lean on me. Step towards me. That’s it. That’s good...”

The first touch of cold stone against his bare feet made Changmin cry out. The iron manacles clanked, the sound hideous, but just the brief contact with the earth gave Changmin a spark of energy. He tried to pull away from Yunho’s embrace, but then a violent, shuddering cramp gripped him. He clung to Yunho, jolted against him, and they both tumbled to the floor.

Yunho controlled the fall, keeping Changmin on top, protecting him from the strike of the hard stone. Changmin felt the shock of the impact, heard the whuff of air as Yunho’s breath left his lungs, and then they lay together, holding onto one another.

Changmin lifted his head and looked at Yunho through the long, feathered sweep of his hair. “Thank you.”

Yunho smiled, fine dark brows lifting. He relaxed his grip on Changmin’s arms, gentling the touch, but made no move to push him away. “How long were you kept in that box?”

Perhaps this conversation would be better in a less uncomfortable position, but Changmin was loath to move. He told himself it was because he feared a return of the cramp, but really it was because he enjoyed the rise and fall of Yunho’s chest beneath him and the warmth of his body through the layers of silk. Casting his mind back, Changmin answered, “I was captured as a gift for the Emperor who built the palace on the Seventh Hill.”

The smile slipped from Yunho’s face. “But that was over four hundred years ago!”

“A long time to be a prisoner.” With reluctance, Changmin pushed up onto his knees and untangled himself from Yunho. He stretched like a cat, arching his back first down, then upward, moaning in pleasure as he did so. Finally he rolled his head, working the kinks from his neck and shoulders, then sprawled on the floor enjoying the freedom to roll and reach and move his limbs.

At length he realised Yunho was staring at him. Changmin thought he understood why. He was naked; the cloak he’d been given centuries ago had crumbled to shreds the moment he’d stepped out of the box. Until he’d regained more of his strength, he couldn’t even summon enough magic to clothe himself. Smiling and unashamed, Changmin lifted one shoulder. “I apologise for my lack of attire.”

“You’re beautiful.” Yunho blushed, then dropped his gaze as if he could hide the intensity of his expression. “But here. Please take this.” He sat up and pulled off his under-tunic, then presented it to Changmin.

Now Changmin stared, his bound hands full of silk. Half naked, Yunho was magnificent, all lithe strength and muscle. Changmin drew in a breath and reined in the desire that rose in him. No matter how kind and handsome, it would not do for him to be doubly ensnared by this child of dust.

“You do not see me at my best,” Changmin said. “And I regret that while my hands are chained, I cannot wear your garment.”

“Oh!” Yunho jumped up and went to one of the other boxes. He sorted through the clothing and selected a cloak of dark blue velvet trimmed with silver fox. “Perhaps this instead,” he offered, draping it around Changmin’s shoulders. “The colour becomes you. And...” He hurried to another box and shook the creases from a pair of silken trousers. “These. So you may be decent, if not decently dressed.”

Changmin smiled as he put on the clothes. “Thank you for such consideration.”

“You are one of the djinn.” Yunho’s voice was level, but wariness and curiosity flickered in his eyes. “Your kind should always be treated with respect.” He closed the lid on the iron box with a look of distaste. “This was not respectful.”

“Neither are these.” Changmin lifted his bound wrists. “The iron has weakened me, and these chains limit my ability to heal as well as to use magic.”

Yunho took his hands and examined the manacles, prodding at the rust-frozen locks without result. “If I were free, I’d go to the imperial stables and order a blacksmith to strike these from you.”

“You would order him?” Changmin tilted his head.

The flash of bravado he’d seen before came back into Yunho’s features. “Yes. And he would obey, because I am a prince.”

“But now you’re a prisoner.”

Yunho nodded. “Because I am a prince.” Sadness took him, and then he pushed it away, bending his head once more to study the manacles. “Perhaps in time my father will permit me to have tools. A rasp or an awl or some other such thing, and I can break these from you. Does the iron hurt you so very much?”

“Less now I am out of the box.” Changmin twisted his wrists within the iron cuffs. The metal still gripped and dragged, but compared with what he’d endured these past four centuries, it was nothing. “It’s a slow pain, like water under deep ice,” he explained, seeing Yunho’s worried expression. “It’s bearable. Perhaps if I were to regain my strength, it would hurt less.”

“How?” Yunho asked. “How can an iron-bound djinni be restored to his power?”

Changmin got to his feet, swirling the cloak around him. The loose silk of his trousers flowed over his legs and gathered at the ankles. He paced across the room and stood in one of the squares of sunlight admitted by the small window. “There are several methods,” he said. “Contact with fresh water. Basking in the sunlight. Creeping under a frost. Being buffeted by the winds. Spending time in the wilderness. But the quickest way is by feeding on dreams.”

“Dreams,” Yunho echoed, his voice curiously flat. He busied himself pulling his under-tunic back on, then he stood in another patch of sunlight and looked at Changmin. “How does that work?”

“It is simple enough.” Changmin turned so the sun stroked the back of his neck. “I sleep beside you and take your dreams. Over time, they will provide enough sustenance for me to recover.”

“You don’t need to eat or drink?” The question hung between them before Yunho seemed to realise how foolish it was. He reddened, glancing at the iron box. “I’m sorry.”

Changmin shrugged. “I can eat and drink. I enjoy it. But it’s not necessary for my survival. Dreams, however... Dreams are realities without form, like the smokeless fire from which all djinn come and to which we return.”

Yunho frowned. “You’re not immortal?”

“No. But we live for a very long time.” Changmin smiled and moved into the shadows, stepping around the piles of yellowed parchment and the rugs of knotted silk. “Even without your dreams I can survive. But I will be weak and unable to serve you.”

Another of those delicious, confused blushes rose to Yunho’s face. “You need not serve me.”

“You must know the stories about my kind. Free a djinni and he or she is honour-bound to grant your every wish.”

“I freed you from the box,” Yunho said, his smile slight but amused, “and yet you are still bound by iron. It seems you cannot serve me until I free you completely.”

Changmin came closer, drawn by scent and sunlight and desire. “You are wrong. There are still services I may render.”

“In exchange for my dreams.” Again came the momentary confusion, and Yunho turned away, lashes veiling his eyes and his breathing soft and rapid until he regained control. He looked at Changmin. “I insist upon this. My dreams for your companionship. It must be mutual. We will be equals.”

“You will lose your dreams,” Changmin said. “Think upon it before you agree. When you wake each morning, you will remember nothing.”

“But you will remember.” Yunho’s gaze intensified. “You can tell me what I dreamt.”

He turned, then; turned and strode out into the antechamber and placed both hands on the locked doors of the prison, tension evident in every line of his body. For a moment he remained still and silent, and then he swung around, his expression remote and cold.

“My father sets great store by dreams. He places such importance on their messages that he seeks them out, goes to bed each night dosed with tisanes and concoctions to stimulate his mind. He has pillows stuffed with lavender and a choir of eunuchs to sing him to rest. When he wakes each morning, he demands the services of his dream interpreter.”

Yunho’s mouth twisted. His voice flattened. “The dream interpreter holds great power. Too great, many say. To interpret dreams is one thing; to use them as a means of manipulating imperial policy is another. I spoke against the interpreter. This past month, my father’s dreams have become more violent and troublesome. He has not slept well in weeks, and his health suffers for it. The dream interpreter told him the meaning of his visions. ‘The Prince seeks to overthrow you,’ he said. ‘The Prince means to kill you and take the throne, and then he will plunge the Empire into war.’”

Changmin nodded. Over the years in his iron prison he’d heard other charlatans take advantage of emperors weak-willed, afraid, or simply too lonely to bear the burden of office. It never ended well, not for the emperor or for the unfortunate family members exiled, imprisoned, or executed as a result of the deceits of dream interpreters, sorcerers, concubines or generals.

“So you see,” Yunho said, spreading his hands, “I have been imprisoned because of dreams. Therefore I have no use for them, and you may take mine and use them as you wish.”

“They can bring great wisdom,” Changmin said softly.

“I don’t want them.” Yunho came back into the room and stood before him, holding Changmin’s gaze. “You will be my wisdom instead. If it comes to pass and I become emperor, I will need an advisor. You will have my dreams. You will know what is right.”

Changmin stared. “You are certain about this? It cannot be undone.”

“I’m certain.” Yunho nodded. “Take my dreams.”

*
They made themselves comfortable within the prison, sorting through the cast-off furniture and arranging it to their liking. Together they created a home, one so unlike the suite of rooms Yunho used to occupy elsewhere within the palace that he claimed he was more comfortable here in genteel squalor than he’d been there amongst gilded splendour.

Yunho’s meals were brought from the kitchens by silent servants accompanied by guards. Each dish was tasted by one of the servants before they presented it.

“It seems my father is not yet ready to sentence me to death,” Yunho said one day, his tone jovial even though his smile creased with sorrow.

“Be of good cheer, Your Highness,” the taster whispered as he handed over the next plate. “You are not forgotten.”

The guards turned their backs and talked loudly amongst themselves.

Over the next few days, the smallest of luxuries began to appear, smuggled in by the servants with the food. Tinder and the stubs of candles. Slim volumes of poetry and prose. Pen and ink and folded sheets of parchment. A timepiece that needed constant winding, yet still managed to keep inaccurate hours.

Changmin remained in the shadows, hidden. He watched the studied indifference of the guards and the affection of the servants, and realised in how much regard these people held Yunho. He listened to the murmurs of the palace beyond their prison and heard whispers of plots, some against the dream interpreter, some against the Emperor, but all aimed to free Yunho and raise him up on high once more.

When they were alone, Changmin liked to spend his time in the small bathroom to one side of the antechamber. He sprawled beneath the water spilling out of the copper pipes, luxuriating in the clean, cold flow brought into the palace through the great aqueduct. Heedless of the antique silks and furs Yunho dressed him in, Changmin splashed in the water and sang half-remembered songs of the east.

Within moments Yunho would open the door and gaze at him, and Changmin would smile, delighting in the image he knew he presented—wet hair, wet silk, wet skin. Though the iron manacles spoilt the perfection of the image, Changmin could see desire in Yunho’s eyes, in the tightening of his body, and every day it burned fiercer and brighter.

As Changmin regained his strength, he could conjure some small scraps of magic despite the iron that still bound him. By encouraging heat through the copper pipes, he was able to present Yunho with a warm bath. He slipped through the windows or beneath the door, and took to draping himself around the fountain in the courtyard outside, letting the water cascade over him, or he lay stretched out on the roof of the prison and sunned himself in the afternoon light. He brought Yunho flowers from the garden and fruit from the trees, and later he stole other titbits from elsewhere in the palace—sugared almonds and ice-cold sherbets and whatever else he could lay his hands upon.

The iron manacles prevented him from straying too far, and his djinn-oath to serve Yunho meant he couldn’t be away from his new master for long, but still Changmin managed to explore much of the palace. The armouries he avoided, and the stables and the barracks, but he investigated the kitchens, drifting in through the windows and hiding amongst the droplets of steam. He visited the bathhouses and crept through the harem and listened to the birth of rumour and the hatching of plots, and finally he flitted inside the Emperor’s pavilion high up on a terrace of dazzling white marble.

Keeping to the shadows, Changmin gazed upon His Serenity, Yunho’s father, who looked across the great waterway at the eastern shore and sighed. The Emperor’s agitation was obvious; anxiety creased his brow and he worried constantly at a row of jade beads. Reports were stacked high upon a gilded table beside him. When Changmin slid closer, the whisper of his passing like the stirring of the gentlest breeze, he saw that the reports all concerned the onset of war: isolated uprisings in the east growing and spreading, towns and cities uniting beneath the banner of a nobleman with a distant claim to the throne.

Before Changmin could examine the documents further, a servant entered the pavilion with refreshments for the Emperor—a silver goblet heaped with rose-water sherbet, a selection of candied fruits, and a jug of cordial made with citron. Changmin hissed at the sharp acid tang of the citron and whisked away, shuddering in distaste. The documents tumbled in his wake, scattering across the marble terrace.

He wondered if he should tell Yunho of his findings. The guards and servants who brought Yunho’s food spoke only of palace news, and even then they spoke obliquely in words that, if overheard, would seem to mean little.

Whenever Changmin returned from his peregrinations, Yunho would ask him to describe where he’d been, what he’d seen, but never did they speak of politics. After careful consideration, Changmin decided to stay silent on the subject of war.

But war preoccupied Yunho’s dreams.

Changmin’s favourite time of day was after evening prayers, when Yunho took one of the candle stubs and lit their way to bed. In the roof space they’d made a nest of heaped tapestries and furs, laid over with linen and blanketed with wool and velvet. The sheets were scented not with costly perfumes but with common lye soap, and though the fragrance of frankincense and cloves had long since faded from Yunho’s skin, he still smelled warm and musky and pleasing. Changmin filled his head with Yunho’s scent and nestled close as he descended through the layers of reality in search of dreams.

It wasn’t hard to extract Yunho’s dreams. Changmin had permission, which made it easier, but rather than take them at their nascence when they were fresh and unshaped, he let them grow and unfold, and he watched the spill and scrawl of thoughts. Yunho’s deepest fears, his greatest desires, his sweetest memories—all laid out, open and bare for Changmin’s delectation. Over the course of their nights together, Changmin gathered every single dream, picking up threads and chasing them through tangles of illusion until he could weave them together, and then he swallowed them down and grew sleek and strong upon them.

Dreams of battle were uppermost. One in particular recurred for several weeks. In it, Changmin wandered through a landscape both familiar and strange, and he watched the soldiers of two armies strike and hack and destroy one another. The sun was low, blood-red in the sky, and a sandstorm hung motionless on the horizon like a pillar of fire. A ruined town lay behind the battlefield, and Yunho—silver-clad, the pennant of the imperial house streaming behind him—fought like one of the demon-possessed until he was cut down. Sometimes the enemy fired arrows into him; at other times he was speared, and still other times he was slain with an axe or a sword. No matter what weapon was used, the outcome was the same: Yunho died.

Changmin woke from these dreams with a start, his skin drenched cold with fear. He would puff a flame to the candle-stub and sort through the vestiges of the dream in search of the truth. The children of dust sometimes dreamt prophecies; if it was Yunho’s fate to die in battle, Changmin vowed to change it.

Other dreams were more pleasurable. The visions of war faded, replaced by deep, sensual dreams of touch and taste and sensation like the unravelling of silk against skin. They were dreams of sunlight and water, and Changmin saw himself and Yunho together, kissing for long, joyful moments, making love with tender passion, fucking with primitive, wild abandon.

Changmin enjoyed these dreams shamelessly, for though he and Yunho lay together every night, their embraces were yet innocent. When the dreams came, Changmin would withdraw very slightly from Yunho’s mind and watch him twice over—once within the dream as they consumed one another with the flame of their desire, and again in the reality where Yunho slept beside him, his skin flushed and his breathing rapid as he moved restlessly within their bed.

Every morning over breakfast, Yunho asked Changmin what he’d dreamt. Every morning, Changmin told half truths. He shared the details of dreams that seemed harmless, childhood memories wrapped through with the day’s residues, but he didn’t tell Yunho about the dreams of battle, nor did he share the dark, shining erotic dreams.

But perhaps Yunho knew somehow, for one day, before they’d even stirred from bed, he asked, “What did I dream last night?”

“You dreamt of water,” Changmin said, putting distance between them. “You dreamt of the White Sea and fishermen in a blue boat in the lee of the island of the Kabeiroi. They had come to worship the sea, and they threw precious golden objects into the waves.”

For a long time, Yunho was silent. When he looked up at Changmin, his gaze was clear and open. “I dream of you, don’t I?”

This time, Changmin couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

A smile both pleased and satisfied warmed Yunho’s mouth. “What do I do, in my dreams?”

Changmin hesitated, then said, “You kiss me.”

Yunho drew in a breath. “Does it please you?”

“It is only a dream.” Changmin lifted a shoulder as if to shrug off the knowledge of their shared longing.

“You said once that dreams were formless reality,” Yunho said, moving closer. “What if we could give them shape? Would the dream become real?”

“Yes,” Changmin said again. “It would.”

Yunho touched Changmin’s face. Wonder shone in his eyes, a joyous hope, but it was tempered with caution. “You said dreams could bring wisdom. Is this wise? Or is it forbidden for me to love you?”

Changmin placed his hand over Yunho’s, holding onto the caress. “Everything is possible if you want it enough.”

Desire, intense and rich, sharpened Yunho’s expression. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

They kissed, mutual and hungry, and Changmin burned. Yunho drew him closer, cupping Changmin’s face with both hands, and kissed him again, over and over, as sweet as the summer rain.

“This is not service,” Yunho whispered, rolling Changmin beneath him.

“No,” Changmin said. “But you are still my master.”

*

Part 2 >>

Fic: Sunflowers [TVXQ RPS | AU] 2/2

glitterburn — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 10:42:25 GMT

iii. Home is where the heart is

It’s been a hectic few weeks. Changmin has been working non-stop preparing for the special Chanel retrospective gala fashion show to be held at the Palace of Versailles. Historic couture will be displayed alongside contemporary designs, and Changmin is showing a mini-collection in the Hall of Mirrors.

Isabelle de la Tour is modelling his final look, an extravagant high-waisted, slightly corseted evening gown that cuts low across the breasts and has an open, flared collar glittering with gemstones arranged in constellations. There’s a long keyhole in the back to show a hint of flesh right down to the swell of the buttocks, and the skirt, which fits tight at the front, fans out behind in a series of asymmetrical descending sweeps. He’s made the gown in midnight blue silk charmeuse and black organza, and the jewels are diamonds and sapphires of the finest water.

Karl described it as sublime. Isabelle squealed when she saw it and hugged Changmin, then whispered, “I must have this gown. Put me first on the list, yes?”

The show will be the culmination not just of the three months he’s spent at Chanel, but of all the time he was forced to lie fallow—aside from taking part in All Stars Stitched Up—during the legal battle. Though he wasn’t allowed to sell any of his work back then, he’d kept on designing, kept on experimenting with fabric manipulation and textile combinations, and he’d played with colour and print. He’d turned out hundreds of designs, then pinned them all to his studio walls and looked for themes and repetitions. He asked Yunho, Milhye, Jiheun, Spoon, and even Donghae to critique him, and then he’d started again. He’d amended and improved and permitted himself to go a little wild, and now his designs have a sharper edge and a new maturity.

“You’ve arrived,” Karl said when he looked through Changmin’s portfolio. “Our newest star is starting to shine.”

But to reach this level of achievement and acclaim within such a short space of time has had a cost. Changmin hasn’t been home in almost four weeks.

Funny how he considers Málaga his home. It’s just a temporary residence. It’s just an apartment in a hotel. But it’s where Yunho lives, and so it’s home.

Yunho has visited Changmin in Paris on several occasions, but not during the past four weeks. The refurbishment of the Mirador is taking almost all of his time, and when he’s not working, he’s training Marchesa, and when he’s not doing that, he’s trying to have a sliver of a social life whilst making arrangements for their wedding and doing design work and sorting out long-distance problems with Gwangju market stalls.

Changmin is working just as hard, but his focus is concentrated in one place, not scattered across several projects. He knows Yunho thrives under pressure, but he also knows that Yunho needs a break. After a late-night Skype session during which Yunho is barely coherent and falls asleep halfway through telling Changmin about the antique chandeliers he’s found for the Mirador’s dining room, and when not even Marchesa snuffling and licking Yunho’s ear can rouse him, Changmin decides to take action.

He calls his father and demands that Yunho be given a day off.

“He has two days off a week, just like Onew,” his father says. “It’s just that Yunho prefers to work on his days off. He likes to keep busy.”

Changmin scowls down the phone. “Because you’re overloading him with projects!”

“Because he misses you,” his father says. “You’re both as bad as each other.” He pauses, then adds casually, “There’s a hotel I’m thinking of acquiring in Paris. Do you think...”

“No,” Changmin snaps.

“It would make sense,” his father continues, unruffled. “Once you’re married and the Mirador’s refurbishment is complete, I could appoint Yunho as deputy manager at the hotel in Paris and—”

“No more hotels!”

“But son, consider the advantages. You can get a proper apartment, one with plenty of room for your new puppy. You’ll both be in the same city. You’ll have more time together. Maybe you’ll be able to inspire one another like you did on that silly reality TV show. Yunho’s designs aren’t my kind of thing but your sisters like wearing that Gwangju Skunk stuff...”

“Skank,” Changmin says. “Gwangju Skank.”

“Skunk, skank, it’s all the same to me.” His father sounds cheerful. “I think it’ll be good for you both. Yunho is still doing design work whilst running the Mirador—”

Changmin pulls at a loose thread on his jacket. “Onew is running the Mirador.”

His father laughs. “Come on, son. You don’t really believe that, do you? We all know—Onew included—that Yunho runs that place. And he’s doing a superb job. He’s a natural at this business! He’s a real people person and he’s got the charisma and vision to get things done at every level. I couldn’t ask for a harder worker—or a better son-in-law. Your mother and sisters agree.” Another pause, and then his father says, “Eventually I’d like to offer him a position on the board.”

Changmin’s first reaction is visceral and instinctive. Drawing in a shaking breath, he says, “You think just because I don’t want to join the family business that he will?”

“No. That’s not it.” His father sighs. “Changmin, please. I blame myself for the distance between us. You’re proud. I’m proud. We have to be. We Shims are winners. But I can still admit when I’m wrong. I know I’ve been blinkered with you. I had ideas for your future, and in pushing you to accept those ideas, I also pushed you away. I didn’t listen to what you had to say, and I regret that. I was so set on building for the next generation that I neglected to pay attention to my own son.”

Startled into silence, Changmin clutches the phone and listens.

His father sighs again. “Your mother says it’s because we’re so similar, you and I. She says I’m an aggravating old coot. I’m not sure what that makes you, but she’s right. We’re two sides of the same coin, Min. And Yunho—well, he’s a lot like your mother, in attitude if not in dress sense.” He chuckles.

“Here’s the thing. I’m not offering Yunho another hotel job and a position on the board just to do you a favour. I’m not trying to manipulate you, either. I’m not doing this as bribery or a reward. I’m doing it because he’ll be your husband soon and because I want him to be part of our family through more than just a legal document written in Spanish. He’s said himself that he’s not close to his own parents, that they live somewhere far away—”

“South Africa,” Changmin interrupts, his thoughts whirling. “They run a safari lodge. And his sister is a marine biologist so she’s always travelling and they hardly ever see one another.”

Changmin’s father is silent for a moment, then he says, “A man like that needs stability. He buries himself in work because he’s looking for an anchor, but he won’t find it there. Yes, it’ll give him satisfaction to achieve all the tasks he’s set himself, but at heart he’ll still feel adrift. He’ll still feel lonely.” Tone softening, he continues, “Min, Yunho needs you. You’re his anchor. He needs a family. Let us help. Let us be his family. We love him, too.”

“Dad.” Changmin’s voice cracks. His eyes fill with tears and he brushes them away, tangled and embarrassed and feeling tiny in the face of his father’s kindness and understanding. “Dad, I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted me to be.”

“You are,” his father says, rough and passionate. “Shim Changmin, don’t you ever think otherwise. I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself. I should’ve been more supportive. I should’ve listened to your mother when she told me how serious you were about designing. But I needed to be sure it was truly what you wanted.”

“I know that now.” Tipping back his head, Changmin sniffs, trying to regain his composure. He laughs, the sound short and wobbling. “I know you acted like an aggravating old coot just to push me to achieve success on my own.”

“I’m so proud of you.” His father sounds choked up. “For a long time of course I’d hoped you’d follow me into the hotel business, but I was wrong to try imposing my opinions on you. Your sisters, too—I expected them to study something giddy and then make good marriages to suitable young men, but because you stood up to me, so did they, and now they’re taking the business from strength to strength. In the end, what I wanted isn’t important. As long as you’re healthy and happy, all I need is for you to follow your dreams.”

Changmin clings to the phone, feeling emotionally wrecked. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too, son.” His father clears his throat. “Now then, about that hotel in Paris...”

A hiccup of laughter breaks free. “You’d have to ask Yunho.”

“Maybe you should ask him,” his father says, brisk and businesslike once more. “It’ll sound better coming from you. I’ll tell him to take a day off. No, I’ll tell him to take a long weekend. Go and see him—and have fun. That’s an order.”

*
So here he is, walking up the steps to their apartment. Four hours ago he was in Paris, and now he’s in Málaga and the air is alive with sunlight and the chattering of parakeets and the drowsy scent of roses. It’s a slow Friday afternoon, and the Mirador is slumberous with siesta. Changmin knows he should have looked into the public rooms to check on the status of the refurbishment, but he can’t wait to see Yunho again.

He fits the key to the lock and opens the front door. “Hello?” he calls as he goes inside, dropping his briefcase to the floor and kicking off his shoes.

There’s no reply. The apartment is quiet. Marchesa’s doggy bed is empty except for its rucked-up blankets and cuddly squeaky toys. Yunho has left a pile of papers and pattern books open on his desk. The laptop is on, the screensaver showing a picture of one of the new Tap This adverts. All three images were shot in Gibralfaro, but unlike the other two—Changmin leaning on the battlements looking at the sunset over the city, Changmin rolling on the ground with Marchesa—this one is the most blatantly sensual.

It was taken the day Yunho had chased him all around the castle and shows Changmin in a tight white t-shirt and faded steel-blue jeans scuffed with brick dust. His hands and chest are pressed against the wall as he attempts to hide from his pursuer, but he betrays his desire in the way his ass is sticking out all round and ripe, his jeans clinging tight to accentuate every line and curve.

The camera caught him in the act of turning his head, the image blurring, his hair in his eyes, his lips parted on a gasp of excited laughter. Though he doesn’t quite have a hard-on, the tension of arousal is evident in his posture. Only someone without imagination would look at this picture and not see a man who desperately wanted to be caught by his fiancé and fucked into next week.

Changmin studies the image with a half smile of fond reminiscence. He wonders if he should be concerned by Yunho’s tendency towards taking candid photos during intimate moments, but since the results are always so flattering and also incredibly successful in selling expensive jeans, maybe he’s not that worried after all.

He peels off his socks and lobs them into the laundry basket in the bathroom, pausing for a moment to examine himself in the mirror. He looks pale and tired and he didn’t shave this morning, but his eyes are bright with anticipation and he’s wearing a gorgeous new silk-sheened Louis Vuitton suit that he knows Yunho will appreciate.

A muffled bark from outside draws his attention, and Changmin goes into the kitchen to peer out of the window. Marchesa is sprinting around the edge of the pool as fast as her paws will carry her, ears flying, tail wagging. Her coat is wet and she’s barking and jumping and turning in circles.

Smiling, Changmin opens the back door. Marchesa is at the far side of the patio now, yapping furiously at the jet of water Yunho aims at her from a long, snaking green hosepipe. He must’ve been watering the banked riot of geraniums planted in large terracotta pots by the railings, and then either he or Marchesa had decided this game would be more fun.

Yunho is teasing the spaniel, putting one hand in front of the jet of water so it sprays everywhere. He’s wearing a soft cream-coloured vest that fits snug over his chest and a pair of eye-searing Spoon-designed shorts. He’s had his hair cut, long and silky on top and shaved at the sides, and he’s tanned to a lovely warm gold.

Changmin grabs at the doorframe, overcome by an onslaught of love and need. God, four weeks without this man in his arms, in his bed. Changmin wonders how the hell he managed it.

Rosa is sitting on one of the sun loungers, clutching her belly with laughter, a Spanish dictionary and a paperback novel on the wrought iron table alongside the remains of a homemade cake, two empty glasses, and a pitcher of what could possibly be Pimm’s.

It’s a charming, lazy scene, exactly what Changmin had wanted when he’d asked his father to order Yunho to take a day off, and now Changmin longs to join in and be a part of it.

He steps forward.

Rosa notices Changmin first and stands up in greeting. “Señor Shim!”

Marchesa utters an excited yelp, leaps through the spray of water, and barrels around the side of the pool towards him, barking and barking.

“Changminnie!” Yunho is just as excited as the puppy. He turns around, letting his hand drop from the jet of water. He doesn’t actually turn off the hosepipe, though. Oh no. That would be the sensible thing to do, and Yunho’s sense has obviously vanished, because he turns around still holding the hosepipe and the water blasts across the patio in a wide sweep, rains across the pool, and sprays across Changmin’s midsection.

He’s soaked right through. His stunning new Louis Vuitton suit jacket hangs limp and dripping. His shirt is plastered to his abs. His tie is drenched at the bottom. His hands clench and unclench. They’re wet. So is his face, water trickling into his open, gasping-with-shock mouth and sliding down his chin.

He blinks. All the sweet, loving words he wanted to pour over his fiancé are forgotten. Instead he bellows, “Jung!”

Marchesa skids to a halt at Changmin’s feet. She looks up, wags her tail hesitantly, then gives herself a good shake. A much less powerful but equally wet spray of water flies up from her coat and drenches Changmin’s trouser leg.

Rosa has both hands clamped over her mouth. She looks horrified. She also looks like she wants to collapse into hysterical laughter.

“Jung’s puppy!” Changmin roars.

Marchesa jumps up at him, pink tongue lolling out and her backside wriggling as her little tail wags faster and faster.

“I’m sorry!” Yunho turns off the hosepipe and flings it to the ground. He’s trying not to laugh, the stupid bastard, but then as he starts to hurry towards Changmin, he trips over the serpentine coils of the abandoned hosepipe and falls headlong into the pool.

Marchesa goes into a paroxysm of barking. She leaves Changmin and dashes to the side of the pool, almost bouncing in distress as she tries to see what’s become of her idiot master.

Rosa has given up on trying to contain herself and is leaning against the wall, tears of mirth streaming down her face.

Changmin’s mouth twitches. He has to admit, it’s pretty funny.

It gets funnier when Yunho surfaces, flicking back his head. Demented with joy, Marchesa flings herself into the water. She dogpaddles around him while he runs both hands through his hair, and then they both splash-swim towards the shallow end. He scoops her up and sets her on the patio, and she shakes herself off before racing around the pool to jump at Changmin all over again.

Yunho stands there, the water up to his waist, and beams at Changmin. “Hey baby, how was your flight?”

“Fine.” Changmin pats Marchesa automatically. He’s somewhat distracted—okay, a lot distracted—by the way Yunho’s vest has turned almost completely transparent. It’s clinging to his body, the fabric a little wrinkled in places, the scoop neck pulled even lower, and God, it’s straining tight, so tight across his chest, and Yunho’s luscious copper-coloured nipples are beaded hard and poking against the cloth.

Changmin can barely think straight. He’s a bad, bad man for objectifying his fiancé, but he just can’t tear his gaze from Yunho’s sexy chest. He simply can’t look his beloved life partner in the face. Not when Yunho is wet and wet and... wet.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow!”

Vaguely aware that Yunho is talking, Changmin tries to pay attention. “Hm?”

“Me and Marchesa were going to meet you at the airport,” Yunho continues, swishing back and forth in the water. “This is such a fantastic surprise! How long can you stay?”

“Until Monday night,” Changmin says, still in a daze.

“Monday night? Oh, baby!” Yunho bounces on his feet. The effect is muted because of the pool, but the water splashes up and makes the vest even more see-through, and—oh God yes—Yunho’s chest jiggles.

Wet, bouncy Yunho. Changmin is about to go up in flames.

“Rosa,” he says, voice strangled, “would you take Marchesa for a walk, please?”

A knowing smile spreads across Rosa’s face. “Certainly, Señor Shim. I will take her for a very long walk.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it. And—” Changmin pulls out his wallet, extracts several euro notes, and shoves them in her direction, “please feel free to stop by your favourite cafe for an hour or so afterwards.”

Rosa takes the smallest denomination note. “Señor Shim, this is not Paris. Coffee here doesn’t cost one hundred and forty euro.” She gives him a cheeky grin. “We’ll see you later.”

“Have fun!” Yunho calls.

Changmin waits until Rosa and Marchesa have left the apartment, the front door closing with an obvious bang, and then he stalks towards the pool, hands lifting to his throat, unfastening his tie.

“Nice suit,” Yunho observes, bouncing backwards through the water.

“Brand new,” Changmin says, transfixed by Yunho’s chest in that wet vest. He shrugs out of the suit jacket and slings it onto the ground. “Louis Vuitton.”

“Maybe you should hang it up?” Yunho suggests, a wicked smile teasing at his mouth.

“Maybe later.” The tie is yanked off and joins the jacket on the patio. Changmin starts on his shirt, fingers flying over the buttons.

“I really am sorry I got you with the hosepipe,” Yunho says.

“I really am glad you fell in the pool.” Changing his mind, Changmin leaves his shirt on. He unfastens his belt and takes off his trousers, kicking them behind him before he takes another few steps and jumps into the water.

He goes under, curling into a ball as he sinks, and then he pushes up and surfaces right in front of Yunho, arms going around Yunho’s waist to lift them both up and out of the water for a moment before they splash back down.

“Changminnie,” Yunho gasps, and kisses him just as they go under again.

Changmin’s shirt billows out. Yunho touches him as they kiss, runs a caress from his waist up to his shoulder, and then pulls at the garment and strips it from him. When they surface for the second time, Yunho scrunches up the shirt and flings it out of the pool. It makes a wet splat as it lands on the stone.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Changmin says, rough and urgent as he propels Yunho back against the tiled side of the pool. “Missed your smile, your voice, your scent, your hair, your warmth, your everything. Oh baby, I missed you.”

“Me too,” Yunho whispers, winding his arms around Changmin’s neck and pulling him closer. “Every minute of every day.”

They kiss again, blindly seeking one another. It’s passionate and desperate, mouths opening as the embrace deepens. Yunho makes a soft noise and holds on tight, and Changmin breathes in, quivery and emotional, his throat working as he tries to stifle a sob of relief that he’s back home where he belongs.

Yunho slides his hands down Changmin’s back and cups his ass. He grinds his cock against Changmin’s erection and they both groan at the constriction of wet cloth keeping them apart. “More,” Yunho says against Changmin’s lips. “I want more.”

“I want you out of these horrible shorts.” Changmin reaches down and pulls at the garment. “I don’t care that Spoon is our friend, these things are hideous.”

“Ugly, ugly, ugly,” Yunho sing-songs. He wriggles out of the shorts and his underwear and lets them slop onto the side of the pool, then he gives another little bounce. “But do you like my vest? Five euro in a sale in the Larios Centre.”

“I love it.” Changmin pins Yunho’s arms against the tiles, curving his grip over Yunho’s biceps so his chest is thrust out. He stares down, gaze devouring the pillowy expanse of Yunho’s chest, mouth watering at the sight of the soft swell of flesh encased in tight, wet cotton.

“When the Mirador is fully open for business, I’m going to institute a wet t-shirt contest,” Changmin says. “Every Friday afternoon. And you’re going to take part.”

Yunho laughs. “Is that really the kind of entertainment East Coast/West Coast Hotels should be endorsing?”

“Did I say it would be a public contest for the guests?” Changmin gives him a superior look. “I did not. I just said every Friday afternoon. Right here. And I’m going to be the judge. Because I really need to know if you have anything else in the wardrobe that could compete with how incredibly cheap and slutty this looks.”

“I have an even cheaper vest,” Yunho admits, then moans helplessly as Changmin dips his head and sucks at one perky nipple through the wet cloth. “Same sale. Cost one ninety-five. The cotton is so thin you can see everything without it being wet.”

“Oh God.” Changmin scratches at Yunho’s chest. “You’re wearing that tonight. Please. Take me to dinner and wear a Posh Boy suit and that trampy, trashy, one ninety-five vest and drive me crazy.”

“With pleasure.” Yunho yanks Changmin’s head down. “Oh fuck, baby. Bite me. I want to feel your teeth. Bite me, suckle at me—”

Changmin groans and tongues at Yunho’s nipple, then sucks hard through the wet cloth. He pinches and bites, and Yunho rocks his hips and squirms up from the water until his elbows are on the side of the pool and he’s bent backwards. The position rubs his cock against Changmin’s abs, slippery and hot and teasing. In response, Changmin shoves his free hand down into his underwear and begins to jerk off.

“Don’t come in the pool.” Yunho’s voice is husky and breathless. “On the sun lounger. Hurry.”

They disentangle from one another and get out of the water in a rush, slapping wet footprints across the patio. Yunho sprawls over the towel spread across his sun lounger, naked except for the rucked-up, soaked, and completely transparent vest. His cock curves up, thick and swollen, and he holds out his arms for Changmin to come to him.

“I want you to fuck me,” Changmin says, wrestling his wet underwear down over his thighs and off onto the ground. He clambers onto the sun lounger and whimpers at the touch of skin on skin. “Please, Yun, I need you. I need it hard and fast.”

“Baby.” Yunho pulls him down for another kiss. “Oh baby, I love you.”

“Love you too,” Changmin gasps. He doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want to go inside and find a squeeze of lube to ease the way. They’re both wet, and he wants this. He wants the burn of Yunho’s huge dick stretching him so he doesn’t ever forget how much he craves their connection.

He crawls higher, sitting astride Yunho, glad that the sun lounger is so wide. He scuffles up the towel with his knees and fists his hands into the wet vest, pulling at it. His dick throbs, and he yanks at the vest a little more, gets a decent handful and strokes the sopping fabric over his erection.

“You gonna jerk off into my five euro vest?” Yunho asks.

“Yes.” Changmin tosses his head, blowing a puff of air at his bedraggled fringe. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Yunho’s smile rivals the sun. “None at all. Get on me and let me see you work it.”

Changmin moans. He’s not going to last long. “Here. Right here. Fuck me.” He angles himself, taking hold of Yunho’s cock and guiding the tip to his hole. “Oh yes. Yes. Love you love you love you—”

Yunho thrusts up, claiming him with one long, rough push. Changmin lets his head tip back, mouth opening on a gasp of appreciation. Yunho’s lovely thick cock fills him wonderfully, a perfect fit as he fucks into him, hard and deep and in control. This, this is what he’s been wanting for the last four weeks—this feeling of completion, of total and utter joy.

God, he really isn’t going to last. He grips his shaft, rubbing into the wet, stretchy cheap cotton of Yunho’s vest, letting the fabric bunch tighter. Pleasure swells through him as he jerks off, as he rides Yunho’s cock. He moves faster, plunges down, rises up, gasping and gasping. He scores at Yunho’s chest with his free hand, clawing the lushness of his pecs, twisting at a nipple until Yunho grits out, “Changmin, fuck, oh baby, oh God,” and Changmin laughs, light-headed and triumphant.

“Yes,” Changmin says, urging them both on, “yes yes yes,” and he splays his knees hard against the armrests of the sun lounger, grinds himself down onto Yunho’s dick. His hand works faster. “Oh,” he moans, orgasm building and tensing, his body arching, “Yun, please, please—”

Yunho jerks forward, one hand on Changmin’s churning hips, the other wrapping around his waist, and he pulls him close, fucks up into him hard, stroking in with furious, frantic desperation. Changmin wails, the sunlight swinging through the sky and exploding behind his closed eyelids, and it’s like he’s underwater again, it’s like he’s drowning, and his cries go on and on, a long scream of ecstasy.

Yunho slams into him one more time and unloads, a hot rush of seed filling him. Changmin quivers, too far gone to speak as he revels in the aftershocks. He sways forwards, braces himself on one hand, and looks down at Yunho, eyelashes fluttering and his breathing fractured.

“Hey sweetheart.” Chest heaving, fresh sweat glistening on his skin, Yunho smiles up at Changmin. “Welcome home.”

* * *
iv. And the grooms wore...

Finally, after months of preparation, the date of their wedding day draws near.

Changmin stares at the kitchen calendar, unable to believe it’s almost here. One more week. Seven more days and they’ll be married.

“Still want to do this?” Yunho asks, sliding his arms around Changmin and kissing the back of his neck.

Leaning against him, Changmin nods. “More than anything. It’s just...” He tails off, not knowing how to express what he feels.

“I know.” Yunho holds him tight, rocks him back and forth for a moment, then lets go and straightens up. “There’s just a few more things we need to sort out. First, I know we talked about this before, but every time we discussed it, we ended up distracted so... which of us is going to be the ‘bride’?”

Changmin draws in a breath. His heart is pattering and he hopes he doesn’t sound weak and foolish when he says, “Me. I’d like it if I... if you were the one waiting at the altar for me. I’d really like that. I want to walk up and see you there.”

Yunho smiles. “I’d always wait for you.”

“You have.” Changmin drops his gaze, a flash of guilt going through him. “You’ve been so patient. Waited for me all this time. Travelled halfway across the world for me and believed in me and you—you... God, it should be me waiting at the altar, not the other way around.”

“It’s not really an altar,” Yunho says, pulling Changmin closer. “It’s more like a bower. And the judge will be there to marry us no matter who arrives first. And since on a few occasions you’ve come second...”

Changmin laughs and thumps him playfully. “Idiot.”

“Honestly, baby.” Yunho cuddles him again. “Let me wait for you. Just don’t leave me standing there too long.”

“Never.” Changmin hides his face against Yunho’s neck, smiling.

“Secondly,” Yunho continues, trying to sound brisk, “we’re still getting last-minute RSVPs from people, so I’ve redone the seating arrangements for the reception. Come and have a look.”

Changmin follows him into the main room of the apartment. Marchesa is drowsing in her basket, and she thuds her tail as they go past and settle onto the floor nearby. There’s a pile of index cards with names written on them, and beside is a large sheet of paper with a scribbled approximation of the Mirador’s main dining room with high table mapped out at the head of fifty circular tables.

“There’s space for four hundred guests,” Yunho says. “We’ve heard back from three hundred and six so far. I’m sure I only invited forty-two people, so the rest must be yours.”

“My mother took over the guest list,” Changmin says. “Back when I was busy with the Chanel show at Versailles, she offered to take charge of it. I did tell you.”

“You probably did, but I was kind of busy finishing off the refurbishments here.” Yunho gives him an apologetic look. “So, we should probably ask your mum if we need to expect any more RSVPs. I invited some of our friends from Stitched Up, but we seem to have had replies from everyone. And I mean everyone. All the contestants from season five, all of the contestants from All Stars, plus the camera crew, the make-up artists, the hair stylists, our models, and the rest of the staff.”

Changmin scrubs at the back of his head. “Is Korean Air offering some kind of cheap deal or something?”

Yunho coughs a little. “Uh, I believe your father worked out a discount with them, yes. Plus I guess no one could resist the offer of very cheap room rates here for a week.”

“Cheap?” Changmin frowns. “How cheap?”

“One euro a night for all invited guests.” Yunho gives him a brilliant smile. “Come on, they are travelling all this way for our special day. The least we can do is make it a fun and affordable trip.”

Changmin groans. “And to think my father thought you were such a good businessman.”

“It was his idea.” Yunho flashes another grin and picks up a mechanical pencil. “The seating arrangements. Do you think—”

“You never told me what you’ll be wearing,” Changmin says. “I’ve asked before and you didn’t tell me. You know I’m wearing that gorgeous suit you gave me for my birthday in Rome, so I think it’s only fair that I know what you’re wearing.”

Yunho shuffles through the index cards. “Something special.”

That doesn’t reassure Changmin. He narrows his eyes. “Define ‘special’.”

“It’s not chiffon. Siwon didn’t make it, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Yunho checks a few more cards then refers to the seating plan. “I’m wondering if my sister would like to sit next to Lady HeeHee. I’m not even sure Lady HeeHee is a lady anymore. She might be Heechul again. Maybe I should put Siwon there.”

“You promised my sisters that Siwon would be at their table.” Changmin leans over to take a look at the plan. “Why haven’t you put Zhou Mi next to Donghae?”

“They split up last week. Again.” Yunho jabs the pencil at the paper. “I thought Hae might prefer to sit with Sungmin. Zhou Mi is with Jaejoong, Porpoise, and their three kids. I also put Kyuhyun on that table.”

Changmin grins. “That’s perfect.” He cuddles against Yunho for a moment, then says in a soft, wheedling tone, “So what are you wearing?”

“Gwangju Skank,” Yunho says.

Changmin lets go. “What?”

Yunho’s poker face dissolves into a laugh. “Okay, no. I’m wearing Posh Boy.”

“Jung! You are not wearing high street fashion to marry me!” Changmin stamps his foot, a difficult thing to do when he’s sitting on the floor.

Yunho grabs at him and wrestles him down onto the rug, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. “Not wearing Gwangju Skank, not wearing Posh Boy. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises!” Changmin roars, legs and arms going everywhere. “Ugh, you stupid idiot, just tell me!”

“A suit.” Yunho lies still, pinning him. “Signor Sirkis made it.”

Changmin stares. “Signor Sirkis? Is it like the suit he made for me?”

“Wait and see.” A small, satisfied smile curves Yunho’s mouth. “All I’m going to say is that he made my suit right after he’d made your suit and redingote.”

“Wait.” Heart clenching tight, Changmin swallows the emotion that wants to burst out of him. “You’re saying...”

Yunho nods, his eyes dark and serious and full of love. “I told you, baby—I knew. I knew. So I asked Signor Sirkis to make me a suit for the day I married you.”

“Oh God.” Changmin hugs him, clinging tight. “You’re such a romantic sap.”

“You love it,” Yunho says in his ear.

“I love it,” Changmin agrees, and they roll over, crumpling the seating plan.

*
The guests start arriving that weekend. Changmin’s parents and sisters are first, keen to see the results of the Mirador’s refurbishment. Onew hosts a dinner in the new restaurant and Changmin’s father is full of praise for all the staff. Later, Yunho takes Changmin’s sisters out on the town, and they come back at five o’clock in the morning drunk and giggly and bearing roses.

“The local guys loved your sisters,” Yunho says as he crawls into bed while Changmin stands over him, torn between amusement and anger. “Don’t worry, nothing happened. Not that I saw, anyway. They have lots of phone numbers, though. Phone numbers and pretty roses for pretty girls.”

“And this?” Changmin demands, seizing the single pink rose Yunho is clutching. “Who gave you this?”

Yunho goes cross-eyed smiling at him. “Bought it for my gorgeous husband-to-be. Love you, Ch’minnie. Now turn off the light, my eyes hurt.”

“That’s the sun, you idiot,” Changmin snaps, but he makes sure the curtains are closed before he carries the rose into the kitchen and finds a bud vase for it.

A few hours later, Changmin comes in from the patio where he’s been working and finds Yunho sitting on the rug surrounded by a pile of opened envelopes. Marchesa is draped across his bare feet, and Yunho is holding an RSVP card in his hand and staring at it with a look of disbelief.

“Changminnie,” he says, not tearing his gaze from the card. “Changminnie, this is from Karl Lagerfeld. Karl Lagerfeld is coming to our wedding.”

“That’s impossible!” Changmin sways against the doorframe, feeling dizzy. “I didn’t invite him. Not specifically. I told him we were getting married, I told him the date and everything and... I said, very casually I said he could come if he was free, but I didn’t expect him to agree because he’s so busy, and...”

Yunho waves the RSVP card. He’s still wearing that look of stunned disbelief. “He’s coming. And while most people are happy with a plus one, he’s bringing plus nine.”

“What?”

“He’s even given their names and dietary requirements.” Yunho refers to the card. “Kylie Minogue. Victoria Beckham. Kate Moss. Heidi Klum. Joanna Coles. Michael Kors. Nina Garcia. Isaac Mizrahi. Georgina Chapman.” He pauses. “Georgina Chapman is the founder of Marchesa, right?”

The spaniel pup wags her tail.

"Co-founder." Changmin slides down the doorframe. “Oh God. My wedding day has just turned into an industry event.”

“Isabelle de la Tour called. She’s bringing Jean-Michel Jarre as her date,” Yunho adds. “Oh, and Jeremy Scott can’t make it.”

“I didn’t invite him, either!” Changmin clutches his head. “This was supposed to be our special day. This was supposed to be about us.”

“It’s okay, they’re only coming to the reception,” Yunho says. “Your dad will be so pleased. The Mirador looks absolutely fantastic. It’s a wonderful promotional opportunity for the hotel.”

“It’s not a promotional opportunity! It’s my wedding!” Changmin wails.

Yunho drops the cards and nudges Marchesa to one side. He comes over to Changmin and wraps him up tight. “Deep breaths, baby. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Except it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be fine, even though everything is running smoothly with nothing for them to worry about for these last few days. All the hard work has been done, all the arrangements set in place long ago. More of their guests are arriving each day and are settling into the Mirador. Everyone is getting on and having a good time, but Changmin can’t relax.

He spends every day in a state of constant nervous tension, and whenever Yunho touches him, he jumps and skitters like a startled rabbit. Every morning he wakes exhausted with the threat of a headache, and though it’s only a few more days to the wedding, he wants it over with so he can bury himself in Yunho’s arms and find some release from all this pressure.

By Wednesday he’s coming apart at the seams. His parents both try to talk to him, but he can barely hold a thought in his head. Onew asks him a question and he has no idea what reply he makes. Changmin finds himself standing by the new Nasrid-style pool staring at the flock of colourful birds, wishing that they’d snatch him up and carry him away to their gigantic nest in the mountains.

Instead of the parakeets, Yunho snatches him up instead.

“We’re going away for the day,” Yunho tells everyone, putting an arm around Changmin and steering him past their guests.

“But bro, it’s your rehearsal this afternoon,” Donghae says. “You can’t just take off.”

Yunho makes an irritated gesture. “Milhye and Siwon can stand in for us. Or you and Zhou Mi.”

“I’m not marrying that prissy, high maintenance bitch,” Donghae snarls. “I’m not even pretending to marry him!”

“Whatever.” Yunho rolls his eyes and guides Changmin through the hotel and into a waiting taxi.

They take the fast train to Cordoba. By the time they arrive, Changmin is feeling human again. He’s also feeling guilty for his vacant meltdown that morning, but since Yunho left their phones at the Mirador, he can’t ring anyone to apologise or to flail. Changmin frets about that, walking too fast, but then Yunho catches him and holds his hand, and slowly Changmin feels his worries begin to lift.

Cordoba basks in the sun, the narrow winding streets of the old town filled with colour and scent and noise. Pink and red geraniums burst from blue earthenware pots fixed to whitewashed walls. Pop music from a shop entrance wars with the notes of a classical guitar played by an old man seated in a chair on a street corner. Iberian hams hang in the window of a deli above sliced cheeses and stuffed olives and heaps of spiced nuts. The smell of food cooking drifts from dozens of restaurants, and Yunho leads Changmin on, further and deeper into the heart of the city.

They walk around the Mezquita, stroll through the forest of columns with their red and white banded arches, and stand looking up at the glittering golden dome, holding hands in silence. Afterwards they have lunch at a small pizza place and then make their way across to the gardens of the Alcázar. For a while they wander around the pathways, content to watch the play of water from the fountains and to admire the towers red against the blue sky, and then Yunho says, “Come with me.”

Changmin would follow him anywhere. They go back into the city, passing through the Almodovar Gate into the Juderia. Yunho walks with purpose, checking the names of streets and passageways, and then he produces a heavy iron key from his pocket and opens a large, brass-studded wooden door set into an old building made of worn, creamy-gold masonry.

It’s dark and cool in the entrance, and Changmin, sun-blind for a moment, has to blink before his eyes adjust. Yunho reaches out and pushes at another door ahead of them. It opens to reveal a courtyard, small and perfect, filled with greenery and sunlight. A tiny fountain dribbles water into a tiny pool against the high wall of the adjoining house. Around the rest of courtyard are a series of marble colonnades, a tangle of vines spilling out from one side. A flight of shallow stone steps leads upstairs. Colourful Moorish tiles gleam from interior rooms along with the elegant curlicues of stucco, and Changmin glimpses silk cushions and tapestries and long, low, comfortable divans.

He turns to Yunho, charmed and delighted. “What is this?”

“A twelfth-century Mudéjar townhouse. I know you said you don’t like surprises, but... surprise.” The faintest hint of uncertainty passes through Yunho’s expression. “I got it for our honeymoon. If you’d like to go somewhere more exotic for the second week, you know I’ll go anywhere with you. But for the first week, I don’t want to share you with the rest of the world. I want us to stay right here and nest together. I want to hold you in my arms every day and I want us to enjoy our first week as a married couple without any distractions. Just you and me in this lovely old house, getting to know one another all over again.”

Changmin crushes into Yunho’s arms. “I want that, too,” he whispers, fierce and passionate. “I just want us to get married now, without all this fuss and all those people. I just want it to be you and me.”

“I know,” Yunho says, smiling.

They go into the courtyard and sit at the side of the pool. Changmin dips in his hand. The water is cool and clear, and there’s the scent of earthiness around them, the stones closest to the fountain flocked with green lichen.

“Changmin.” Yunho takes his hands. “You are the most precious, most perfect thing in my life. Marry me on Friday. Make me the happiest man on earth.”

“So silly, Jung.” Changmin blinks. He must have lichen dust in his eye. It’s probably a good idea for him to close his eyes before any more lichen dust can get in.

Yunho takes advantage of this to kiss him. Changmin presses closer, wraps his arms around Yunho, strokes a hand up into his hair.

“Show me the honeymoon suite,” Changmin whispers when they part. “I don’t think I can wait.”

*
The day of their wedding dawns bright with promise. Staying true to tradition, they’d spent the night apart—Changmin in one of the Mirador’s suites while Yunho slept in their apartment. Changmin’s sisters wake him early with a huge breakfast and raucous, exaggerated accounts of Yunho’s stag night, which apparently culminated in Yunho, Donghae, Spoon, Sungmin, Zhou Mi, and the Estonian guy breaking into the Roman theatre and singing Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’ to loud cheers from the local populace. Also, Donghae and Zhou Mi had got back together, which his sisters claim was a more impressive feat than Yunho going around Málaga telling everyone how much he loves Changmin and how much he wants to be Mr Shim.

“Weird,” Changmin says, polishing off a croissant and thinking how refined his ‘hen’ night with Milhye, Jiheun, Isabelle, Amber, and Siwon had been in comparison. “I thought he’d keep his surname.”

“No, no,” his younger sister says, totally straight-faced. “He wants to be a Shim.”

“That’s right,” his other sister agrees, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. “He wants to be a winner.”

Changmin flicks crumbs at them and laughs.

Time seems both to drag and to flash by. Changmin takes a shower, shaves, and dresses in the beautiful bespoke Sirkis suit. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and sees no worry, no tension—just excitement and happiness.

His sisters and Yunho’s sister come knocking on the door to his suite. They’re wearing his designs, dark green satin sheath dresses with a gold organza trim at the bodice, and they’re holding bouquets of sunflowers.

“The car is here,” his younger sister says. “Oh, Min. I’m so happy for you!”

The rest of the guests have already left for the Alcazaba. It’s a short drive from the Mirador down the hill and into the city, but it seems endless. Changmin leans past his sisters and peers up at the red walls of the fortress, heart racing and his pulse thumping at the knowledge that Yunho is in there waiting for him.

It’s all a blur when they pass beneath the first gate of the Alcazaba and walk up the cobbled incline, past high walls dotted with grasses and flowers, past Roman columns and worn marble carvings. The girls whisper excitedly, their high heels clattering on the stone, the sunflowers a bright flash of colour as they move.

Changmin remembers to breathe, puts one foot in front of the other, and drinks in the day, the beautiful, wonderful day with its vibrant late morning light reflecting off the sun-warmed masonry and glinting from the water trickling in channels from beneath the next gatehouse.

They emerge from the shadow of the gate and turn left, up another pathway, and then they arrive at a wide, sunny terrace with water channels and a fountain amidst shaped box hedges, and a bower of trellised vines swagged with garlands of roses and sunflowers.

Pedro sits on the wall overlooking the city and plays a haunting tune on his guitar. Rosa is holding Marchesa on a lead, and the puppy has a miniature sunflower tucked into her collar. Their guests turn to look at him, and there’s a collective sigh as he walks up the steps onto the terrace, his bridesmaids behind him, and everything in Changmin tightens with a rich thrill of anticipation.

He steps forward. He can’t stop smiling. He smiles at everyone, from Onew to Siwon to Madame Oh, and his parents are there smiling back at him, and his father is wiping his eyes. Yunho’s parents beam at him, and Changmin focuses his gaze on the smiling figure of the judge who’ll preside over the ceremony.

And then there’s Donghae, the best man, wearing a Posh Boy suit. He grins and nudges Yunho, making him turn around.

Yunho is wearing a velvet three-piece in the exact same shade as Changmin’s suit. It has a tailcoat, which shows off the width of Yunho’s shoulders and the high nip of his waist and emphasises the length of his thighs. It fits him perfectly, and Changmin falls in love all over again.

He increases his pace, not wanting to delay a moment longer.

Yunho reaches out, tears of joy in his eyes, a trembling smile on his lips. Changmin takes Yunho’s hand. He feels safe and warm as soon as they touch, happiness lighting him inside and out.

He squeezes Yunho’s fingers, smiles and smiles. They turn as one to face the judge, ready for the ceremony to begin.

They’re going to do this. They’re going to be married. No matter what lies ahead, they’ll have each other.

Together, they’ll make it work.

Fic: Sunflowers [TVXQ RPS | AU] 1/2

glitterburn — Thu, 08 Nov 2012 16:27:31 GMT

Title: Sunflowers
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17
Summary: Needing residency in Spain so he can marry Changmin, Yunho takes a job at East Coast/West Coast Hotels’ newest acquisition in Málaga. In between renovations, a flock of birds, a new puppy, Changmin’s Chanel job and the distraction of a wet vest, there’s just enough time for them to make it to the altar...
Notes: AU. Sequel to For Fashion’s Sake.

Sunflowers
i. Before you go

Changmin knows his father means business when he receives an actual written invitation to a meeting at East Coast/West Coast’s most premier hotel in Seoul. Not the flagship hotel, the one he knew he was expected to manage when he returned home after his time in London, but the Hideaway.

The name is so literal he always wants to pull an ugh face when he sees it, but the boutique hotel is so exclusive there’s a ten-month waiting list to stay there. It’s his sisters’ brainchild—a discreet, ultra-luxurious home-better-than-home catering for the jet-set elite. Royalty, oligarchs, a certain breed of music and movie stars... Basically, it’s a hotel with bespoke service for anyone who wants to avoid media attention rather than court it.

According to his father, the Hideaway has enjoyed greater success than he’d anticipated. Changmin wasn’t surprised. His sisters were determined women. They were winners, just like him. And maybe now they’ve decided to add more of the winning Shim formula to their hotel by commissioning Changmin to design the bed linen or the curtains.

He hopes not. Prints really aren’t his thing. Yunho, on the other hand—Yunho just loves prints. A shame that most of them would be too garish for a place like the Hideaway. Maybe they could work together and create something elegant and classy. Yes, Changmin thinks as he makes his way across the city, that would do it. Yunho has always wanted them to work together, and although curtains and duvet covers aren’t exactly what either of them had envisaged for HoMin pour Homme, such a project will be a good test of their abilities to work as a team.

They’ve worked together before, of course, creating an outfit for one another on Stitched Up. Changmin can’t actually remember a whole lot about that creative process. His mind always gets stuck on the memory of Yunho seducing him, over and over. And maybe he seduced Yunho a few times, too. Looking back, it’s a wonder either of them made it into the final three at all.

Changmin can’t stop the foolish happy smile from spreading across his face. He only ever lets out a smile of this sappy silliness when he’s alone in the car, because otherwise Yunho would pounce on him and say something ridiculous like, “Changminnie, why are you smiling, did I make my posh boy happy just by existing?” and while it’s true that yes, Yunho does make him happy just by existing and being such a huge, warm, snuggly, aggravating, adorable, smart, idiotic part of his life, Changmin doesn’t like to admit it too often.

Especially not now they’re engaged. He refuses to be under the thumb for his affianced life, and when they get married he’s going to be the one wearing the trousers in the relationship. Perhaps literally, since Yunho is currently on a kick for shorts and three-quarter length trousers, which in Changmin’s opinion are not really trousers at all.

He drives down a ramp into an underground car park and comes to a halt outside the hotel entrance. A valet opens the door for him and takes his keys. Changmin steps through into the lobby and nods at the smiling receptionist.

“Your father is expecting you,” she says. “Go right up to the terrace garden.”

Changmin thanks her and heads for the lifts. The Hideaway has three apartments, all luxuriously appointed, and each one offers subtle play on an aspect of Korean culture. The apartments are all separate, so guests need not mingle with one another, but the terrace garden is a shared space. It’s constructed in such a way that, if certain distinguished visitors want to enjoy the view but aren’t feeling sociable, an elegant curved, interlocking wall can be raised to divide the garden and to ensure privacy.

Today the walls are down, and there’s a long table set beneath the elaborate trellised archways hung with vines and bougainvillea. A few fancy snacks are laid upon the table, alongside a bottle of champagne. Changmin’s father sits at the head of the table, his wife beside him. On either side of the table, Changmin’s two sisters are seated. There’s two other chairs. Everyone’s smiling at him in a soothing, indulgent kind of way.

Changmin feels his hackles rise. His father had worn the same expression when he’d come back home, a graduate of St Martin’s with an internship at Chanel beneath his belt and an impressive portfolio of work. His achievements hadn’t mattered. His father had sat him down and told him he’d be taking over management of the Seoul Plaza Majestic whilst studying at business school, and that he’d better show the same drive and determination he’d applied to his fashion design because he was lagging behind his sisters in experience.

That had been a hideous interview. Changmin had stood his ground and refused to go into the family business. The resulting argument led him to apply for Stitched Up, and now here he is—successful, happy, engaged to be married to the man he loves, with two insane dogs and a never-ending legal wrangle between Versace and Chanel for his design services.

And his father is smiling that smile. That I know better than you smile.

“Son!” His father gets to his feet in welcome, smile getting wider. “Glad you could make it. Do sit down.”

His youngest sister shoves out the seat closest to her and gives him a wink.

“Thank you.” Changmin sits, looking at his family. Then he looks at the empty chair. There’s a champagne flute placed at its setting. “Are we expecting someone else?”

His father’s brow wrinkles and he casts a glance at his watch. “As a matter of fact, yes, but I had word that he’s been delayed.”

“I see.” Changmin tries to relax, sitting back in his chair. His other sister grins, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He wishes Yunho were here. Yunho has always been able to charm his family, especially his sisters and mother, and his father respects Yunho and considers him a sound businessman. But Yunho is in Gwangju for a few days, sorting out some drama at the warehouse and checking over some ‘really good’ stock that Donghae had ‘acquired’ from somewhere.

“Well, now.” His father sits back down again and reaches for his wife’s hand. His smile flickers towards uncertainty for a moment and then he recovers his poise. It’s a Shim trait to turn uncertainty into confidence, but the sight of it in his father makes Changmin uneasy.

“Your wedding,” his father says, and then stops.

The uneasy feeling starts a slow unravel towards panic. Changmin swallows and starts to fiddle with his platinum engagement ring. “What about it?”

His youngest sister rolls her eyes. “Dad! Get on with it or I’ll tell him.”

His father glowers. “That wouldn’t be proper. Just give me a minute to collect my thoughts.”

Changmin’s mother sighs and pats her husband’s hand. “Dongsik, you wrote out a speech a week ago. Don’t pretend to be tongue-tied now.”

“Speech?” Changmin echoes, startled and possibly also a little horrified. “You’ve been discussing my wedding? Without reference to me? Why would you do that? I know what I want my wedding to be like. I’m going to organise everything. You don’t need to concern yourselves. I’ll take care of the whole thing. I know what I’m doing.”

His family turn reassuring looks upon him and smile.

“Sure, big brother,” his youngest sister says. “You know how you and Yun want to get married in Spain? You did know about the residency criteria, didn’t you—the part where you actually have to have residency in Spain so you can get married there? You were totally aware of that, weren’t you?”

Changmin stares at her. “I—I... Yunho said he was going to take care of that. I just have to—to arrange the flowers and the guest list and the location and—and I’ve been learning a bit of Spanish but I’ve been busy, the puppies need me when Yunho isn’t around and he’s been even busier than me lately, and it’s probably because he’s been so busy that he forgot to tell me about the residency thing, and oh God how could he have forgotten something like that?”

His other sister giggles. “Are you throwing your fiancé under the bus?”

“No!” Changmin flails and then takes a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s fine. We were planning on a June wedding. That’s eight months away. We have plenty of time to sort out residency.”

His father leans forward. “And when does your contract with Chanel start?”

Changmin exhales. “The middle of February.”

“So...” his father is smiling again, looking encouraging, “wouldn’t it make sense to go to Spain sooner rather than later? It only takes two and a half hours to fly between Paris and Málaga, and there’s at least four flights a day—a reasonable commute, I think you’ll agree, and if you maintain a little apartment in Paris and go back to Málaga for the weekends, you’ll be able to maintain your relationship, too!”

“What?” Changmin grips the side of the table. His head is starting to spin. “Málaga? What are you talking about? I don’t even know where Málaga is!”

“It’s a city in Spain,” his youngest sister says, straight-faced but with repressed hilarity dancing in her eyes. “It’s on the Costa del Sol. Sun, sea, and I’m sure Yunho can provide the third part of that particular equation...”

“Don’t be crude, darling.” Changmin’s mother gives her daughter a mock-severe look then turns a loving smile on her son. “It’s like this. Your father has just acquired a property in Spain—in Málaga, to be precise—and we thought it would be helpful for your residency status if you and Yunho were to live there for the next eight months until the wedding.”

“A property.” Changmin looks at each member of his family, suspicion deepening. “You mean a hotel.”

His father nods. “The Hotel Mirador, a beautiful 1920s villa-style hotel built on the Gibralfaro, commanding views of the whole city!”

“You want me and Yun to live in a hotel.” Changmin sits back in his seat, folds his arms, and lets his chin jut out in annoyance. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me yet. Some kind of catch. You want me to invite an extra sixty people to the wedding and make them all stay at your new hotel. Or maybe you want all of the Stitched Up contestants to be there. Or—”

“I wouldn’t mind if you invited Siwon, he’s hot,” the elder of his sisters murmurs.

“Actually, he’s not hot at all,” Changmin says, bristling. “But you’re right. I should invite him.”

“There’s no catch,” his father says, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “But there is a proviso.”

Of course there is. Changmin goes still. “What is it?”

His father beams. “To ensure residency, you need to be employed within Spain.”

“I’ll be working for Chanel,” Changmin says, bewildered. “I’ll be employed by the French.”

“Fortunately,” his father continues, smile still fixed in place as if Changmin hadn’t interrupted, “only one person within the couple intending to marry needs to be employed within Spain, although both need to be resident. Therefore—”

“Wait,” Changmin says, frowning, “is this your way of making me work for you? Because I refused the Plaza Majestic, you’re trying to palm off your new Spanish hotel onto me instead? Father, we’ve already had this discussion! I know you think designing clothes is something I can do in my sleep, but it’s not that easy! The Chanel job is too important for me to dilute it with—with—”

“Changmin.” His father’s expression turns serious. “Son. I’m well aware of how difficult it is to be a fashion designer. I watched that ridiculous reality TV show you did. Both of them. I know I told you I didn’t, but I did. Your mother made me watch, and I have to say I quite enjoyed it. I’ve even watched some of the other seasons, but none of the other designers were as good as you.”

Changmin pushes his champagne flute towards his sister. “I really need a drink.”

She laughs.

“So no, I wasn’t going to make you manage the hotel, even though I still think you’d be good at it,” his father continues. “Instead I’m going to appoint you to a spurious nepotistic position that means all you need to do is keep an eye on the deputy manager.”

“Deputy manager,” Changmin repeats. “Who...?”

His father glances at his watch. “He should be arriving any minute now.”

Right on cue, the doors to the terrace open and Yunho comes rushing out, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and three-day stubble darkening his jaw, and he’s wearing ripped jeans and a Gwangju Skank t-shirt under a bright orange puffa jacket. He shoves his sunglasses up onto his head, disordering his already dishevelled hair, and he beams around at the gathered Shim family.

“Hi, future in-laws! Changminnie, ooh, you look so edible...” Yunho bounces around the table and cuddles Changmin, gives him a swift kiss and rubs the plush of his stubble against Changmin’s face. At the same time he whispers, “Don’t kill me, baby. Your dad came to me with the idea and I thought it was a good one. We have to be resident in Spain to be able to get married there, and since I can design from anywhere in the world and Donghae is mostly capable of running things on his own, it seemed like a good opportunity for us to spend some time having fun in the sun.”

“I... You...” Changmin is speechless. He tries to pull himself together. It’s hard to be all tough and businesslike when your idiot fiancé is pressed against you and he smells so good, feels so warm, looks so sexy, and the touch of his skin is so welcome and wanted and and and...

“Wait.” Changmin tamps down on his wandering thoughts and fixes his father with a gimlet eye. “You’re appointing Yunho as the deputy manager of your new hotel?”

“Why not?” his father asks, popping the cork on the champagne bottle and filling all the glasses with practised ease. “It’s not as if anything could go wrong. He’ll be reporting to an experienced manager from one of our Jeju resorts. If he’s not performing to Shim standards, you’ll be his line manager, so it’ll be up to you to—to...”

“Discipline him,” Changmin’s sister says, tongue firmly in cheek.

Yunho splutters with laughter and raises his champagne flute. “I’ll drink to that.”

Summoning a cool, haughty look, Changmin touches his glass to Yunho’s. “You may regret that remark. I’m a hard taskmaster.”

“I know how demanding you are, baby.” Yunho smiles and leans closer, lips whispering over the shell of Changmin’s ear. “Chastise and discipline me all you want—but make sure you do it in Spanish.”

Changmin quivers. Suddenly this idea doesn’t seem so crackpot after all.

* * *
ii. Like a Disney princess

Every Sunday morning they have a Skype date. Sunday morning in Spain is late afternoon in Korea, and no matter what they’ve been doing the night before, whether it was a hotel function or a romantic meal out or simply a long, tender session of lovemaking, Yunho is up bright and early and dragging the laptop over to the bed.

“It won’t hurt to miss it just this once,” Changmin says, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning is too damn early for anything in his opinion. Not that Yunho pays any attention to his opinion in this particular matter.

“I’m not going to miss it.” Yunho gives him a look of devastated woe. “How can you be so mean? Our puppies will forget us if they don’t see Happy Daddy and Grumpy Daddy every week. It’s bad enough that we had to leave them behind when we came here. Donghae said that Lagerfeld was inconsolable for a whole month and cried every night, and Pucci practically wore out the rug at the front door pacing back and forth waiting for us to come home. How can you dismiss such faithful behaviour by suggesting that we skip our Skype date?”

Changmin huffs and runs a hand through his fringe, pushing it back. “Donghae also said that after a month they calmed down and now they’re completely happy with him and the rest of the Gwangju Skank mob. He even said that Pucci is so well behaved these days that Zhou Mi isn’t frightened of him anymore.”

“I’m sure Zhou Mi is just stringing Donghae along.” Yunho boots up the laptop and settles back against the pillows as he waits. “He was totally dating Siwon and now he’s all over Donghae.”

“He’s probably just using him to get more discounted Tag Heuer watches and dishwashers.” Changmin snuggles closer and clicks on the Skype icon.

“Or maybe he’s just using him for sex,” Yunho says darkly, skimming down their list of contacts and selecting Donghae’s number.

“What’s wrong with that?” Changmin turns onto his side and nuzzles at Yunho’s neck. “I’m still using you for sex. The fact that I got a marriage proposal out of it is the icing on the cake.”

“Mm.” Yunho quirks an eyebrow. “You do know I’m only marrying you because I need to be able to tap this,” he pats Changmin’s pyjama-clad ass, “whenever I want for the rest of my life?”

Changmin giggles and presses even closer. “Baby, that’s why I said yes.”

They kiss, smiling into each other’s mouths, and then the embrace turns hot and passionate. Changmin gasps, puts one arm around Yunho and shoves against him, cock instantly hard. The laptop slides sideways as Yunho turns and gathers Changmin closer.

“I love you, I love you,” Yunho whispers, brushing tiny kisses all over his face before claiming his mouth again.

Changmin can only make a muffled sound in reply as he slides his hand up into Yunho’s hair and sighs.

“Oh God.” Donghae’s annoyed tone jerks them apart and they stare at the laptop, which is lying at an odd angle on the bed.

Yunho sits up again and rights it, then curls an arm around Changmin’s shoulders and beams at the screen. “Hi, Donghae. Sorry about that.”

Donghae shakes his head in mock disgust. “Seriously, guys, if you want Skype visiting rights to your mutts, you have to show yourselves to be responsible parents. Making out in front of me is not winning you points. Just letting you know.”

Aware of the blush burning across his face, Changmin sinks towards the duvet.

Yunho pulls the laptop a little closer, his expression bright with anticipation. “Can we see them?”

“Sure.” Donghae looks off-camera and whistles. “Hey, mutts. Wanna see Horny Daddy and Embarrassed Daddy?”

“They’re not mutts,” Yunho corrects automatically, “they’re— Puppies!” His tone changes and he bounces where he sits, joy blazing from him as Pucci looms into the screen. The huge Leonberger barks with excitement, doggy drool spattering the laptop.

“Eww, gross,” Changmin says, then laughs when Donghae says the exact same thing a second later.

“And here’s Lagerfeld.” Donghae wipes the drool from the camera, making the picture smear a little, and then he picks up the pug and holds him to the screen.

“Feldie!” Yunho reaches out as if he can pet the dogs. “Feldie, are you being a good boy for Uncle Hae?”

“Yeah, he’s been pretty good this week, haven’t you, mate?” Donghae rolls the pug in his arms and tickles Lagerfeld’s tummy. The pug yips and squirms all the way around and then starts licking Donghae’s jaw, trying to give him an adoring kiss. “Dude, please—doggy breath,” Donghae exclaims, but he’s laughing and he’s not pushing Lagerfeld away.

Changmin chuckles at how cute it is, but when he glances over at Yunho, he sees not amusement but a look of hurt. It’s gone in an instant, and then Yunho is laughing along with Donghae and teasing Lagerfeld, and then Pucci’s fluffy tail smacks Donghae in the face and Yunho’s laughter becomes genuine, but even so, Changmin knows what he just saw.

After a few more minutes of the dogs shoving their noses towards the camera and Yunho baby-talking to them, Donghae whistles again and says, “Scram, mutts,” and the dogs chase away, barking and yapping. A moment later there’s a loud crash. Donghae winces.

“Is everything alright?” Changmin asks.

“Yeah. I didn’t like that lamp anyway.” Donghae grins. “A gift from Mimi. The guy has no taste in interior decoration but man, does he have legs and does he know how to use ‘em.”

“Changmin’s legs were the first things I noticed about him,” Yunho says.

“You said it was my eyes.” Changmin digs his elbow into Yunho’s ribs.

Yunho yelps. “Your legs and your eyes. And your mouth. And your grumpy expression. All at the same time. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“Better.” Changmin smiles and kisses his cheek, then waves to Donghae. “I’ll let you guys chat. See you at the same time next week.”

“Catch ya later.” Donghae salutes.

Changmin gets out of bed while Yunho asks after several of his Gwangju friends and enquires how the market stalls are doing. This part of the conversation generally takes up to anything between half an hour to an hour, so Changmin usually excuses himself from it, makes his ablutions and gets dressed, and then fetches the newspaper and breakfast. True, the newspaper is in Spanish, but it’s part of their nesting ritual from home. The Sunday newspaper and warm, fresh croissants with butter and jam, all to be consumed whilst lolling on the bed.

It’s the middle of January, and bright morning sunlight streams through the windows of their apartment. Changmin stands for a moment and gazes out at the panorama of the city. Though the apartment only has three rooms—a kitchen, a bathroom, and a huge open plan bedroom/office/dining room—the views are spectacular. From their bed they can see half of Málaga from the Moorish fortress-palace of the Alcazaba north towards the rolling hills. From the kitchen window they can look out over their private patio and pool area, surrounded by pine forest and with a view of the walls of Gibralfaro Castle.

The apartment is built on top of and behind the Hotel Mirador, occupying its own little terrace. The hotel itself is impressive even by East Coast/West Coast standards. An elegant villa-style building spread across a plateau, it’s both classy and discreet. Once a private residence, it’s since been extended in a manner wholly sympathetic to the original design and with an eye to the beauty of the national park around it.

Changmin strips off his pyjamas and steps into the shower cubicle. The apartment is the only truly modern addition to the hotel. Though updated and modernised, the guest rooms and public rooms retain their 1920s decor and furnishings. One of Yunho’s tasks when they first arrived here was to decide with Onew, the manager Changmin’s father had appointed fresh from one of the company’s Jeju resorts, whether or not the Mirador needed renovation or redecoration. The number of guests staying at the hotel had dwindled over the last few years, and Changmin’s father wanted to change that.

“I think we should emulate your sisters’ idea with the Hideaway,” Yunho had said. “This city has so much history. We should use it, but subtly. The Mirador shouldn’t be some tacky theme hotel. Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Conquistadors... We have a lot to work with. We shouldn’t close the hotel while we renovate, either; we should keep sections of it open and maybe drop the prices, offer weekly deals. We want the clientele to come back even when the Mirador is completely refurbished and charging full whack.”

Onew had agreed. So did Changmin, and the board of directors and Changmin’s father, and they’d asked Yunho to project-manage the whole thing as well as to act as lead designer. That had thrown him, and he’d clung to Changmin, confidence crumbling, and said, “But I don’t know anything about interior design! I don’t know anything about hotels! Changminnie, please help me!”

And so Changmin had found himself doing what his father had planned for him all along—working for the family business. Strangely enough, it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

Turning the dial, Changmin switches on the shower and luxuriates beneath the spray of hot water. He lets the cubicle steam up, smiling at the blurred ghost-lines of the Hangeul characters Yunho had written on the glass last night: Gwangju Skank loves Posh Boy. Deputy Manager Jung loves Designer Shim. And then, with hearts and flowers around it: Yunho & Changmin.

Good job they do the cleaning themselves. Onew had told them they could use the services of the hotel staff, like he did in maintaining his suite within the main body of the Mirador, but Yunho had insisted that he’d keep their apartment tidy himself.

“If I’m going to help run this hotel, I should know how to do even the most menial of tasks,” he’d said, and so for their first few weeks in Spain he’d worked alongside the chambermaids, the cooks, the waiters, the receptionists, the gardeners, and the porters. He’d gone to the market every weekday morning and learned how to haggle over the produce, and he’d gone down to the port to meet the fishermen who brought in the daily catch. He’d visited all the Mirador’s suppliers throughout the city and further afield, and he’d got to know Málaga and its people, dragging Changmin with him on voyages of discovery through narrow streets, into tapas bars and cafes, into museums and churches and shops, and on bus and train trips to Ronda and Cordoba and Granada and Seville.

Along the way he’d fallen in love with Andalusia. Changmin can see it in him, and he’s glad. He’d been so worried that Yunho would resent the job thrust upon him, but he’d underestimated Yunho’s gift of exuberance and his willingness to embrace anything new and exciting. Yunho’s comprehension of Spanish is improving by leaps and bounds, aided by a phrasebook, a dictionary, and one of the chambermaids, Rosa, who comes to sit with him after her shift is over and patiently teaches him not just her language but also about Spanish food and dance and music and history and literature.

In short, he’s an absolutely ideal deputy manager, and Changmin’s father is delighted. So is Onew, who struggles to understand even the most basic of conversations with his staff and keeps making mistakes, which Yunho then fixes. It should lead to tension, but it doesn’t, because Onew is genuinely nice and he does know how to run a hotel, just not a hotel in Spain.

Changmin turns off the shower and gets out, wraps a towel around his waist while he shaves, and then he wanders out of the bathroom.

The bed is empty. The laptop is back on the desk. Yunho is nowhere in sight.

Dressing quickly in a pair of jeans and a thin rust-coloured woollen sweater, Changmin opens the back door of their apartment and goes out barefoot onto the patio. The stone paving is cold beneath his feet, but he knows that the sun will warm the terrace through soon enough. It’s a perfect suntrap even in winter, protected from the wind by the pine forest, which spreads its cool, sharp scent over the patio, and by the walls of the castle high above them.

Yunho is standing at the edge of the terrace on the other side of the pool. He’s looking up at Gibralfaro. They both like sitting out on the sun loungers of an evening, watching the sky darken into night, waiting for the tinted floodlights to come on and illuminate the castle walls. While they lie cuddled together beneath a blanket, Yunho spins wild, fantastical stories about the people who once lived there.

Changmin loves listening to him, finds himself thinking of the stories for days and sometimes even weeks afterwards, and occasionally he asks for sequels. Yunho obliges, and sometimes the stories take a sensual, erotic turn, and Changmin likes those even more, especially when Yunho whispers those stories to him when they’re making love. Changmin imagines himself as tribute for a king, with Yunho dressed in gold and silks and sitting arrogant upon a throne, or he imagines himself as the commander of a battalion of soldiers trying to storm the castle, and Yunho is the feisty runaway slave who falls in love with him and reveals the secret weakness in the castle defences.

Yunho’s stories always have happy endings. Changmin looks at him now and sees sadness and confusion. Trying to ignore the feeling that he’s caused this somehow, Changmin pads over and asks, “Everything okay?”

Without looking around, Yunho nods. “Yes. The new advertising campaign for Posh Boy has been a success. It was a good idea of yours to approach that crappy boyband to model for us. There’s so many kids in that group we didn’t need to double them up for any of the garments. The clothes are flying off the shelves, Donghae says. The remainder of last season’s stock as well as this season’s, and—”

“Yun.” Changmin hugs him from behind and presses a kiss to his nape. “I know you miss the dogs. It’s okay.”

A deep sigh shudders out of him. “I miss them so much.” Yunho’s voice is tight, unhappy. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve tried so hard not to let it get to me, but I just wish we could’ve brought them with us.”

Changmin rests his chin on Yunho’s shoulder. “We discussed this before we left. It would’ve been cruel to bring them all this way, to subject them to the turmoil and discomfort of long-haul travel and then making them endure the same thing when we go back. We both agreed it was best for the puppies to stay at home with someone they know and trust. Donghae is your best friend. He takes good care of them. I think he even enjoys having them around.”

“They’re forgetting us. It hasn’t even been three months and they’re forgetting us already.” Yunho’s shoulders quiver and he swallows a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “No, it’s not that. You saw the way Feldie was with Hae just now. He only ever cuddles like that with me. He won’t even do that with you, but...”

Changmin pulls Yunho around to face him. “Are you jealous?”

“No.” Yunho tips his head back, blinking furiously. He touches his fingertips to his eyes, wipes at his cheeks. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mopey on you.”

“I’m your fiancé,” Changmin says, taking Yunho’s hands and squeezing them. “You’re supposed to share everything with me. Including mopiness. Especially that.” He tilts his head, gives Yunho a questioning look. “So you’re really not jealous of Donghae stealing the love and affection of our puppies?”

Yunho laughs. “No. Really, I’m not. I’m happy that they’re having fun and that he’s so comfortable with them. It’s what I wanted when I asked Hae if he’d take them. It’s just...”

Changmin knows they’re getting to the root of it now. He moves closer, lets go of one of Yunho’s hands so he can touch his cheek. “What is it?”

“Oh.” Yunho closes his eyes and leans into Changmin’s caress. “It’s stupid.”

“I’ve never seen you this upset before.” Turning his hand, Changmin cradles Yunho’s face, heart clenched tight. “Tell me.”

Yunho sniffs. He takes a deep breath and looks into Changmin’s eyes. “I love it here. I absolutely love it. I love my job and I love the people and I love Málaga. I’m having so much fun and I’m still able to design for Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy, and Spoon has asked me to collaborate with him again because his festival wear collection was such a big hit, and the Estonian guy wants my input on a range of shoes, and... I have you and everything’s perfect, but...”

“But?” Changmin repeats, softly.

“It’s stupid,” Yunho says again. He disengages from Changmin and moves away, taking a few steps towards the swimming pool. “I miss the puppies because I’m afraid of being lonely.”

Before Changmin can find the words to respond, Yunho turns to face him. “In less than a month you’ll be going to Paris and starting work for Chanel. I’m excited for you, baby, I’m really, really excited. I know you want this. You’ve worked for it and you’ve suffered for it, and I’m so proud of you. You’re going to be amazing. You’re going to be a star. And I know Paris is only two and a half hours away by plane and I’m going to turn up uninvited like I did in Milan and you’re going to show me the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and a thousand other things, and I know you’ll be coming back here as often as you can, but...”

His brave, determined expression crumples. “Changminnie, I’m going to miss you. It’s selfish and I’m sorry, but I missed you so much when you were in Italy and it was okay then because we were still finding our way together as a couple, it was okay because when you came home it was so much sweeter because of the separation, but this time—oh God, this time it’s going to be so much harder because pretty much for the last ten months I’ve had you all to myself, and I’m selfish, okay? I’m selfish, but I want you to do the things that are important to you, to us, and I’m just... I’m going to be lonely. That’s all.”

Changmin stares, flailing inwardly, stunned by this outpouring of emotion. “Yunho,” he says, and it comes out choked and broken. “Yunho,” he says again and goes to him, wraps his arms around him and holds on tight. “I’ll resign,” he promises, his heart torn in two. “I’ll find a way to do it even if Chanel sues me, and we’ll go home.”

“No. God, no.” Yunho lifts his head. He looks fierce and resolute. “This is what you want. It’s what I want for you. We’ve moved halfway around the world for this. It’s your dream.” He smiles, and this time it’s real and it’s beautiful even though it wobbles at the corners. “I’m happy, don’t you see? I’m happy. I’m content. I love my life. I’m just afraid of being lonely. It’s always been my biggest fear, and though I got sad while you were in Milan, I had the puppies to keep me company at night.”

Now Changmin feels just as wobbly. Unable to help himself, he blurts out, “I always knew you let them sleep on the bed when I wasn’t there.”

That makes Yunho laugh. “Sorry.” They lean together, foreheads touching, and Yunho smiles again. “Everything will be fine, baby. Rosa has already invited me to join her family for tapas evenings, and Pedro is going to teach me how to play flamenco guitar, and Onew might be a bit of an idiot but he’s a good guy really and he’s cool to hang out with, so I know I won’t really be lonely.”

“I’ll come home every weekend. I promise.” Changmin holds him tighter. “And if I can’t, you’re coming to Paris. I insist. I absolutely insist. Because it’s going to be just as hard for me to be away from you. And I’m going to run up a huge phone bill because even though you just design skanky urban clothes, I’m going to want your opinion on my fabulous couture outfits.”

Stepping back, Changmin cuffs at his cheeks, feeling raw and vulnerable. He looks up at the castle walls and feels a huge crushing swell of emotion. God, he’s going to cry, he’s one hundred percent going to start sobbing any moment now and he can’t deal with it. He’s a winner, not some kind of ridiculous emotional sap.

He’s desperate for a distraction, something, anything, and there it is. A bright flash of colour, a flock of birds flying between the trees, twittering and swooping, painting the morning with blue and green and yellow and pink.

He blinks hard, sniffs, then once he’s got himself under control, he points upwards. “If you think you’re going to be lonely, you should set yourself a project. You should tame those birds. Canaries or parakeets or whatever they are. People have them as pets and they’re quite loving. It’s not the same as the puppies, but...”

Yunho looks at the birds, blank for a moment, and then slowly his expression brightens and he smiles. “My mum always said I could charm the birds from the trees if I wanted. I think I’ll try it.”

*
Yunho sets about accomplishing his task the very next day. He sneaks out of bed at some god-awful hour, trying hard to be as quiet as possible, and then trips over the rug and goes sprawling on the floor. Changmin yowls in complaint at the disturbance and pulls the duvet over his head, hiding there until Yunho crawls over him and cuddles him through the quilt.

“I’m going out, baby,” Yunho tells him. “I’ll be back for breakfast.”

“Are you going into town?” Changmin peeps bleary-eyed over the top of the duvet. “If you are, can you go into that bakery on Larios and buy some lemon tart?”

“I wasn’t going into town, but I will now.” Yunho kisses Changmin’s head and bounces off the bed.

“No,” Changmin says, not particularly loudly and muffling his words with a pillow, “don’t make a special journey just for me. Oh, if you insist...”

He falls asleep again, feeling spoiled and happy.

When Changmin wakes again, it’s almost nine o’clock. He finds the lemon tart on the kitchen bench along with two plates, their favourite mugs, and with a jug of fresh coffee keeping warm. Yawning and stretching, Changmin glances out of the window and sees Yunho standing stock-still at the edge of the patio, gazing towards the pine trees.

The terrace is cut from the rock, the cliff rising up and doubling back on itself in bumps and folds as it climbs up to Gibralfaro. Grasses, flowers and trailing plants grow where they can, and where the forest starts, the property is fenced in with black-painted wrought iron railings. Yunho’s attention is fixed on the railings, Changmin realises as he leans closer to the window. And then he sees why.

A yellow canary is perched there. As Changmin watches, the bird jigs back and forth, then darts down to the ground. It hops towards Yunho, then pecks at something—is that bird seed?—before flying back to the railings. It repeats this action a few more times, and then a green parakeet appears, swoops right down and takes the remaining seed, and the yellow canary chases it.

Yunho finally moves. He’s smiling.

He does the same thing in the afternoon, leaving a scatter of bird seed on the far side of the pool and then standing nearby, waiting for the parakeets and canaries and finches to come and feed. The yellow canary makes a reappearance, along with the green parakeet and a slightly smaller pink bird. Changmin stands at the back door and watches as the birds hop down and take the seed, and Yunho talks to them, very softly, talks to them in Korean and then in Spanish, and he crouches down and offers more seed.

He does it every day, twice a day. At first Changmin finds it entertaining, but Yunho can be out there communing with the birds for half an hour or more, and after that he’s either going straight to the office to oversee the refurbishment or he’s off doing some other hotel business, and after a week, Changmin starts to find it a little bit annoying.

“I was joking about taming the birds,” he says.

Yunho blinks. “I like them. They’re pretty. And they sing.”

“It’s more like a screech.” Changmin goes over and fixes Yunho’s tie. He’s wearing a Posh Boy suit and he looks gorgeous. Ordinarily Changmin would grab the tie and tow Yunho over to the bed for a quickie, but thanks to those damn birds, they don’t have time.

“They whistle,” Yunho says. “I’m trying to whistle to them, too, but I’m not very good at whistling. I think that’s why the puppies like Donghae so much, because he can whistle.”

“I can whistle.” Changmin finishes arranging the tie and puts his hands on Yunho’s chest. “It’s not hard to do. You just put your lips together and—”

Yunho kisses him just as Changmin tries to demonstrate.

“I have to run, baby.” Yunho breaks free with obvious reluctance. “Let’s have lunch together in town.”

“Sure.” Changmin walks him to the front door and waves him off. The world’s shortest commute, home to work in the amount of time it takes to walk down the steps into the hotel grounds. Changmin leans against the doorframe, the warmth of Yunho’s kiss still lingering. He watches Yunho stride along the path through the gardens, watches him greet Pedro, the head gardener, and then Changmin straightens up, staring, as a small flock of colourful birds comes swooping out of the date palms and—honest to God—follows Yunho as far as the arched colonnade leading to the main dining room.

Changmin doesn’t know if that’s impressive or creepy.

By the start of February, the flock of birds has swelled in numbers. When Changmin looks out of the kitchen window in the mornings, the trees are alive with green and blue and pink and yellow birds, and when Yunho goes out, smiling and making the noise he claims is a whistle, the avian audience erupts in a cacophony of trills and shrills. They launch themselves from the branches and circle the patio, practically darkening the sky, while Yunho scatters a generous amount of seed and breadcrumbs on the ground. But it’s only when he calls to them, puts his hand up into the air as a signal, that the birds descend.

Onew witnesses it one morning when he comes by with a fax from one of the hotel suppliers. Changmin leads him into the kitchen and they both watch in awe as dozens of birds fly and squabble and swarm across the patio at Yunho’s feet.

“Wow,” Onew says. “He’s like a Disney princess, but with genus Myiopsitta instead of bluebirds.”

“Disney bluebirds don’t crap all over the patio,” Changmin grumbles. “Do you know how hard it is to get guano off stone? Not to mention the smell. And they follow him, did you know that? Even when it’s not feeding time. They follow him like something out of a Hitchcock movie. I’m terrified that one day they’ll turn on him and peck him to death, or else they’ll carry him away and make him their king in a gigantic nest in the mountains, or—”

Onew snorts. “Is there the slightest possibility that you might be over-reacting?”

Changmin glares at him. “No.”

“A gigantic nest in the mountains,” Onew repeats.

“Okay.” Changmin sighs. “Maybe just a little.”

“A little nest?”

“I’m exaggerating a little.” Changmin presses his mouth into a line, trying not to laugh. “But the poop problem is real. And the birds really do follow him around.”

“Yeah, the staff have mentioned it.” Onew grins. “But if we spin it the right way, it could be a unique selling point and draw in visitors.”

“But will those visitors really want bird shit spattered over their windows or on their patios? I’m telling you, it’s hell to clean. Or at least I find it quite troubling to watch Yunho clean it up.”

Onew laughs so hard he has to hold onto the kitchen counter. “You really are your father’s son,” he says, wiping at his tears of mirth.

Once the comparison would have annoyed him, but now Changmin just smiles. “Yes,” he says, an idea taking shape. An idea worthy of his father’s modus operandi. “Yes, I am.”

He doesn’t say anything to Yunho about his plan. He wants it to be a surprise. He approaches Pedro and a few other staff members, asking for their assistance, and five days before Changmin is due to go to Paris, their search is successful.

Changmin puts his packing to one side and goes with Pedro into the mountains. They return with a cardboard box lined with a raggedy pink blanket, and Changmin sits in the back of the car with the box cradled on his knees and croons soothing nonsense to the precious contents all the way back to the hotel.

It takes some quick thinking to hustle the box past Yunho, who’s standing in the central courtyard with Onew and a contractor, discussing plans for a new Nasrid-style marble pool to replace the old fountain. When he sees Changmin, Yunho starts to come over, asking for his opinion on a selection of tiles. Changmin takes off his Ralph Lauren jacket and casually slings it on top of the box, which he then hands to Pedro, saying, “Could you just drop that off outside the apartment? Thank you so much.”

As Pedro hurries away, Changmin hears a small growl and his jacket is yanked into the box. He hopes Yunho didn’t notice.

The next fifteen minutes seem interminable. Changmin listens to the discussion between Yunho and the contractor, and Onew nods occasionally, pretending he understands what’s being said, and they look at the tiles and refer to the plans Yunho has drawn up, and all the while, Changmin worries that his surprise will have got out of the box and wandered off.

Finally the meeting comes to an end. They shake hands with the contractor and Onew starts to lead the man away. Before he goes, he raises his eyebrows at Changmin in silent question, and when Changmin gives a small nod, Onew’s grin is almost as sunshine-bright as one of Yunho’s smiles.

“Are you sure those tiles were the best choice?” Yunho asks, frowning at the pattern sheet still clutched in his hand. “I liked these, too. But perhaps the design is too modern and the ones we agreed on are best.”

“Don’t over-think it,” Changmin says, aware of the irony of that statement as he takes Yunho’s free hand. “Leave that for a moment. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Yunho smiles. “A surprise? Does it involve you and me getting naked somewhere we shouldn’t?”

“No.” Changmin ducks his head and blushes, thinking of the day last week when they’d hidden in the castle ruins after closing time. Once the staff had gone home and they had Gibralfaro all to themselves, they’d re-enacted one of Yunho’s stories. Changmin had pretended to be a nobleman’s son taken as hostage-tribute, and Yunho was the king who desired him. Feigning unwillingness, Changmin fled across the castle grounds and ran along the battlements, heart pounding and excitement thrilling every part of him as he tried to evade capture. But then Yunho caught him, dragged him into the watchtower on the north side of the castle, and hauled him up to the top floor where a rug had been spread out, and there, to their noisy, mutual satisfaction, he’d claimed his prize.

“It’s nothing like that,” Changmin says, tugging on Yunho’s hand. “Come and see.”

From out of the trees, the flock of parakeets comes swooping. Changmin flashes them a smug glance, knowing that their days of crapping all over the patio are numbered. He just hopes Yunho won’t be too sad about losing his status as the resident Disney princess.

They reach the hotel gardens. Pedro is sitting on the steps to their apartment, the box placed to one side. Changmin smiles with relief. He should have known that Pedro wouldn’t have abandoned the surprise and left it without supervision. He also should have known better than to throw his Ralph Lauren jacket over the box, because one of the sleeves is hanging over the side and it looks like it’s been comprehensively chewed.

Nevertheless, he thanks Pedro, who gives him a big grin and sidles off, and then, keeping one eye on the contents of the box—it’s squirming beneath his jacket and making soft little sounds—he turns to Yunho.

“This is for you,” he says, gesturing towards the box. “Actually it’s for both of us, but mainly it’s for you. So you won’t be lonely when I’m in Paris. So you’ll have someone to talk to when I’m not there. So you’ll have someone to hold at night. So you’ll have someone who’ll give you back all that crazy love and affection you share so easily, and for all the love she gives you, know it’s from me, too.”

Smiling, Yunho raises his eyebrows. “She?”

“Just look.” Changmin flaps his hands towards the box.

Yunho goes over to the steps and sits beside the box. Carefully he lifts off the chewed Ralph Lauren jacket. He stares down at the contents and then looks at Changmin, an expression of utter incredulous joy shining from his face. “A puppy,” he says. “You bought me a puppy!”

“Do you like her?” Changmin twists back and forth, suddenly shy and uncertain. “She’s three months old. She’s had all her shots and everything, and she’s microchipped and I’ve got the paperwork to get her a pet passport, so if you like her we can take her home with us at the end of the year.”

“Like her? I love her!” Yunho reaches into the box and gently picks up the spaniel pup. “A Springer spaniel. Look at her darling ears. And her tail. Oh Changminnie, she’s beautiful.”

“A Welsh Springer,” Changmin says. “Apparently they’re quite crazy. I thought she’d fit right into our little family.”

“God, I love you.” Cradling the puppy against his chest, Yunho gets up and kisses Changmin. “Thank you. Thank you so much. She’s perfect.”

“You have to think of a name for her.” Changmin slides an arm around Yunho and rests his head on his shoulder, smiling at the wriggling red and white puppy with her big, melting brown eyes.

“Marchesa,” Yunho says. “She’s going to be a proper lady amongst a household of men.”

“Hi, Marchesa.” Changmin strokes the puppy’s head and lets her lick his fingers. “Hey, girl. You’re allowed to sleep on the bed when I’m not here, okay?”

Yunho laughs and holds Marchesa up. She yaps excitedly, and there’s a flurry from the trees as the flock of parakeets takes flight. Noticing the movement, Marchesa wags her tail and yaps some more.

“Changmin!” Eyes dancing with amusement, Yunho cuddles Marchesa close again. “Did you buy me a puppy just to scare away the birds?”

Changmin gives what he hopes is a mysterious smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just being a loving, caring fiancé.”

Yunho laughs again and shakes his head. “Shim Changmin, you’re—you’re...”

“A winner,” Changmin says. He picks up the box and gestures up the steps to their front door. “Let’s get Marchesa settled in her new home.”

* * *

Part 2 >>

Fic: Roman Holiday [TVXQ RPS | AU]

glitterburn — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 09:46:45 GMT

Title: Roman Holiday
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Changmin/Yunho
Rating: NC17
Summary: Yunho takes Changmin to Rome for his birthday—and discovers that Italian really is the language of love.
Notes: Fashion designers AU. Falls somewhere between Perfect Fit and For Fashion’s Sake. A knowing wink and tip of the hat to A Fish Called Wanda.

Roman Holiday
i. Cave Canem

“Ah, Rome!”

Changmin stirs from the warmth of the heaped quilts and pushes aside a pillow. He squints at the drench of bright grey light pouring through the wide-open curtains, then sighs and sits up. Yunho is standing at the window, completely naked, greedily staring through the glass at the street below.

Except it’s not really a street. Their hotel, a former convent, is at the south end of Piazza Navona. It’s terribly romantic, with roses stuccoed onto the ceiling and plasterwork vine tendrils swagged beneath the cornice and terracotta floor tiles and antique dressers, but it’s also terribly noisy. The cobblestones on the street outside might look charming, but boy, do they amplify noise. As does the arrangement of buildings, which all seem to have been constructed with the express purpose of funnelling the sound of engines backfiring and the squeal of tyres, plus general traffic noise along with drunken shouting at four o’clock in the morning.

And when there’s a brief moment of calm, a miniscule scrap of silence, there’s a caged bird on the terrace below their window that starts singing.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

“Changminnie, we’re in Rome!” Yunho declares as if this whole thing is a surprise.

Technically it is a surprise, or at least it was when Changmin had gone home to his apartment in Milan yesterday evening and discovered Yunho sitting on the marble steps outside, drooping with jetlag and unshaven, clutching a bunch of pale pink roses that he’d dropped onto the ground when he’d launched himself into Changmin’s arms.

“What—” Changmin had managed to say before Yunho kissed him.

Ten minutes later they’d stumbled into Changmin’s apartment, where Yunho had resisted every attempt Changmin made to get him naked and into bed.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow, baby,” Yunho said, opening Changmin’s wardrobe and drawers and packing a truly random selection of garments into a weekend bag. “I’m taking you to Rome.”

“I’ve never been to Rome,” Changmin said, still stunned that his ridiculous, adorable boyfriend had flown halfway across the world for him.

“And I’ve never been to Italy.” Yunho zipped the bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Get your passport. Our flight leaves in forty-five minutes.”

A series of delays saw their plane rescheduled for three hours later. After a year of working for Versace, Changmin was accustomed to the Italian way of doing things. He simply ordered a coffee and sipped at it, sitting bolt upright in his elegant Gieves & Hawkes suit. Yunho, in ripped jeans and a fluffy jumper and a three-quarter length dark blue military-style coat with red piping at the collar, laid his head on Changmin’s shoulder and fell asleep.

He woke up enough to shamble onto the plane, and then he slept all the way to Rome. He was groggy by the time Changmin collected their luggage and steered him into a taxi, but roused himself enough to give the address of their hotel. Halfway between exasperated and amused, Changmin paid the driver, took their bags, checked them in, and put Yunho to bed.

After he’d unpacked, Changmin had taken a shower, brushed his teeth, then snuggled beneath the quilts. It was so nice to be able to hold Yunho again, even if he was out for the count and making cute little snoring noises. Even the din from the traffic on the cobbles and the echo of revellers’ voices from the street paled into insignificance as Changmin cuddled into Yunho’s warmth. Oh God, he’d missed him so much...

He’d fallen asleep not long afterwards, only to be woken by Yunho sliding possessive, arousing touches all over his body. They’d made love without words, just two bodies in the dark, gasping and moaning and plunging, slick with sweat and with the scent of musk and the taste of adoration between them. Yunho had slept again later, but Changmin had remained awake, too conscious of the noise outside and—though he’ll never admit it—desperately aware of how precious Yunho was to him.

Now he ruffles a hand through his hair and leans back against the pillows, admiring Yunho’s long, lean, gloriously naked body lit by a drizzly February sky.

“Did you gain weight?” Changmin asks, eyeing the lush expanse of Yunho’s chest with pleasure.

“Maybe a little.” Yunho gives a shy smile. “I have a tendency to comfort-eat when you’re away for really long stretches of time. The puppies have been helping me, though.” He stops, then continues quickly, “I don’t mean I’m feeding them comfort food. Not my comfort food, anyway. A few extra treats, maybe, because they miss you, too, but...”

He’s just getting himself tangled. Yunho wrinkles his nose, draws in a deep breath, and says, “I’m taking them for more walks. You know how Pucci loves his walks, and Lagerfeld is so enthusiastic, too. He’s eaten eight Frisbees recently. He thinks they’re chew toys rather than things to chase. But anyway, that’s what I mean. That’s how they’re helping me. Because Happy Daddy is more like Mopey Daddy while Grumpy Daddy is away.”

Changmin snorts. “You’re such an idiot.” He tempers this with a smile and pushes back the quilt in invitation, then pulls the covers back up, because (a) it’s surprisingly cold, and (b) he’s just been struck by a nasty thought. “What did you do with the dogs while you’re here?”

Yunho swings his arms and patters around the room, apparently oblivious to the cold. “They’re having fun at puppy camp.”

That doesn’t reassure Changmin. “Describe ‘puppy camp’ in more detail.”

The faint look of guilt on Yunho’s face is even less reassuring. “Um, they’re staying with a friend.”

Changmin narrows his gaze. Although Pucci and Lagerfeld are gross and irritating beasts that drool on the cushions, slobber over the bed linen, and chew his fabric swatches, he does quite like them. Mainly because Yunho heaps love over them, and Changmin secretly finds it all kinds of adorable. For this reason alone, he wouldn’t want the mangy curs to be shipped off to some second-rate kennels; and considering how easily Yunho makes friends, the idea that the animals are staying with someone unqualified to care for such cherished pups makes Changmin uneasy.

“Donghae?” he guesses hopefully. “Did you take those mutts down to Gwangju?”

“Er.” Yunho opens a drawer and starts sorting through their clothes. He holds up a Gwangju Skank hoodie. “Look, they finally went into production! Do you like it? I brought you one, too.”

“The dogs.” Changmin says, his heart sinking. He puts steel into his tone. “Where are the dogs?”

Yunho’s smile looks a little ragged around the corners. He places the hoodie on the side of the bed. “I got you the orange one. Mine is teal. But we can swap if you don’t like orange.”

Changmin sits up and glares. “Jung. Answer the question. Where are the dogs?”

“With Siwon.” Yunho steps back out of range and stands there, toes curling on the tiled floor and a sweet, innocent expression on his face.

“Siwon,” Changmin repeats. “Siwon has the dogs.”

“I asked Donghae first,” Yunho says, as if that makes it all right. “But he said Zhou Mi was visiting, and Zhou Mi is allergic or something, so...”

“So you asked Siwon.” Changmin’s tone is neutral. Usually he can’t even hear Siwon’s name without feeling an irrational spike of jealousy, but oddly this time it doesn’t even register.

It’s not just because he’s remembering all the times Pucci has chewed his hideously expensive handmade shoes, or all the times Lagerfeld has left smelly deposits on the kitchen floor. It’s not just the thought of Pucci moulting all over the bed or Lagerfeld dribbling on the pillows. It’s not just the thought that the dogs will do all these things and worse to Siwon’s house and possessions, although it does amuse Changmin quite a lot if he’s honest.

No, what makes it okay is the knowledge that Yunho is here—with him, for him. Changmin can’t be jealous when he’s won and when he keeps on winning.

He’ll keep that to himself, though.

With a contented smile curving his mouth, Changmin relaxes again. “Siwon has the dogs,” he says, imagining the utter havoc those stupid curs will create. “Good choice. I really can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

* * *
ii. La bella figura

Washed and shaved, Yunho scrubs up nicely, Changmin decides as they stroll around the city doing the whole tourist experience. The Roman women certainly seem appreciative, giving them both long second glances. Even a few guys stop and stare. Changmin is glad he’s wearing Armani, even if it’s from two seasons ago. He’d managed to talk Yunho out of wearing the Gwangju Skank hoodie, and instead he’s dressed in the most severe of the Posh Boy suits, a dark, sexy pinstripe that does magnificent things to Yunho’s body.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t have just dressed all urban and casual while we wandered around?” Yunho asks over their breakfast of cappuccino and biscotti.

“Positive,” Changmin says. “This is Italy. This is Rome. There might be more fashion-conscious cities today, but Romans have been practicing la bella figura for over two thousand years.”

“La bella figura,” Yunho says musingly. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a philosophy. A way of life for the Italians.” Changmin encounters it on a daily basis at Versace and he’s trying to adapt it to fit his own lifestyle and behaviour while he’s working in Milan. “It’s not just a way of dressing, of always looking one’s best—it’s the way you behave, the way you order your home or set the table or the way you cook. Everything is beautiful, everything has meaning because it’s beautiful, and even the most commonplace object becomes beautiful because of the attitude of la bella figura.”

Yunho considers this as he sips at his coffee. He licks froth from his top lip and gives Changmin a melting smile. “La bella figura describes you.”

“I... Maybe.” Ducking his head to hide a blush, Changmin can’t stop the warm glow inside him.

He always knew he was different. Going against his father’s wishes to become a fashion designer had both set him free and fenced him in at the same time. At St Martin’s, at Chanel, he’d had the space to spread his wings, only to have them clipped again when he returned home. But going on Stitched Up and meeting Yunho, having Yunho’s love and belief to bolster him—that had made him happy and secure for the first time in his life, and had led to him taking the opportunity offered by Versace.

It’s just a shame that his design work, which he does genuinely love, keeps him apart from Yunho for such long periods of time. It’s like the thing that makes him happy takes him away from the other thing that makes him happy, and Changmin wonders if the balance is being tipped unfairly. It certainly feels like it, sometimes. But not now. Now he has Yunho beside him in this haunting, ancient city, and they’re together and they’re dressed beautifully, and they are the very embodiment of la bella figura.

After breakfast they visit the Forum and the Colosseum and then cross the city to the Spanish Steps. The clouds are lowering, a wash of grey flattening the vibrant colours of the buildings, but at the same time bringing a strange new life into the monumental statues. Misted rain glistens on marble skin and slides across sightless eyes. At the top of the Spanish Steps sprawl a group of stoners smoking weed, and the leaf-sweet scent carries down to the Trevi Fountain.

They throw in the obligatory coin, then walk down the Via Condotti. Familiar names flash and glitter from boutiques and larger stores; in some windows there’s a display of a single pair of shoes on a velvet cushion, while in others mannequins pose against a bright backdrop. Yunho keeps up a running commentary on everything they see, and Changmin laughs and adds his own scathing remarks. One should never trash-talk the competition, but seriously, some of the outfits on display are absolutely hideous, and Changmin is not ashamed to say it out loud. Especially as he’s fairly sure no one on the street can understand Korean.

They head towards the Vatican and spend a while walking along the sludgy waters of the Tiber before Yunho cuts along a street and leads Changmin back into the heart of the city. Changmin is a little lost, but Yunho obviously knows where he’s going, pausing every now and then as if checking directions against a map held in his head. Usually this would be cause for alarm, but not today. Changmin is enjoying himself too much.

By a roundabout route they emerge at Largo Argentina and head towards the Capitoline, squeezing into a jumbled warren of streets that suddenly seem different to the rest of the city. Changmin looks around, curious, trying to discern what’s changed. There’s a sense of otherness here, and there’s fewer people, less traffic.

“This is the old ghetto,” Yunho says when Changmin remarks on the feeling of quiet isolation. “The Jewish quarter. Many Jews still live here, as they have done for the past five hundred years.”

He seems to be counting alleyways, then suddenly turns left. Changmin follows, cautious as they move away from the street and along a narrow passageway. The buildings seem rundown, plaster crumbling from the walls to reveal marble blocks beneath. An ancient Corinthian column holds up a Renaissance doorway. Yunho finally stops outside a heavy wooden door and presses a buzzer. A moment later, a little old man with a face resembling uncooked dough peers out. Yunho presents a card to the man, and the door opens fully to admit them.

Inside, it’s dim and shadowy and smells of tobacco. The old man vanishes somewhere. Yunho walks through an internal courtyard and into a salon that’s full of light. Painted in shades of cream and egg-yolk yellow, it’s a bright and sunny room even on a grey day. Mirrors line one wall, and there’s a large, plain black folding screen in one corner. The floor is made of polished, pitted wood that looks like generations have danced upon it.

“Remember the Estonian guy?” Yunho says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “He told me about this place. It’s super-exclusive. Signor Sirkis, the man who let us in just now, he’s the Estonian guy’s second cousin once removed or something, and he makes four outfits a year, that’s how exclusive it is.”

Changmin perks up. “He’s a tailor?”

“A very, very exclusive tailor. A couturier tailor.” Yunho shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous. “I sent your measurements in advance. It’s not usually how Signor Sirkis does things, but I explained through the Estonian guy—he kind of translated for me over the phone, it was a really weird conference call, let me tell you—I told him it was for a very special occasion and he agreed to make an exception...”

“Wait.” Changmin spins around. “You said this guy makes four suits a year. It’s February. When did you put in your order?”

Yunho bites his lip. “Fourteen months ago.”

“Fourteen...” The meaning doesn’t sink in for a moment, and then it hits Changmin all at once. “Fourteen months ago, we’d been together for five months, including the time we spent on Stitched Up,” he says, feeling wobbly. “Fourteen months ago, I’d been working for Versace for two months.”

His words fall into silence. Yunho has his shoulders hunched and he’s twisting like a dancer, his emotions openly unravelling. “I knew you were the one. I’d been waiting for you all my life and there you were, scolding me about my pineapple lumps and nagging me about a rota for washing the dishes with Sungmin and Spoon, and I never, ever expected it, Changminnie, I really didn’t, because I thought I was aiming far too high when I saw you, all legs and cheekbones and those big eyes and your hair and your beautiful, beautiful mouth, and...”

He stops. Takes a breath. “I looked at you and I knew. And when you got the job at Versace, I called the Estonian guy because I knew I was going to do this, I knew I’d bring you here and...”

The door to the salon opens and Signor Sirkis comes in carrying a suit. He hangs it from a hook on the folding screen and presents it to Changmin with a slight bow.

It’s exquisite. Dark, dark blue wool with a satin finish that suggests the sheen of a starling’s wing, a myriad of colours that move against the grain almost in an optical illusion. The cut is classic and elegant, one of those timeless styles to which Changmin always aspires with his own designs. It looks effortless, the kind of thing he could wear to any event in any season safe in the knowledge that he’ll be the best-dressed man in the room.

It’s a work of art, and it’s all for him.

Changmin stares. “Yunho,” he says. “Yunho.”

“Do you like it?” Yunho asks, still nervous. “There’s something else. A companion piece...”

Signor Sirkis leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a redingote of black serge. Fitted and styled to resemble a Regency frockcoat, it has a gloriously whimsical high-necked collar of soft, downy black feathers.

“You had a redingote when you came on Stitched Up,” Yunho says. “I loved the shape of it on you. I always wanted to make something like it, but I’m not architectural enough as a designer. Same with the suit. I can make casual and easy, but I’m not couture. I’m never going to be high-end, like my posh boy, but I wanted to give you this. I told Signor Sirkis what I had in my mind, what was in my heart, and he made magic for me. For you.”

Changmin puts a hand over his mouth. Tears sting his eyes. A hundred emotions swamp him, overwhelm him. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He wants to run around the room until he’s giddy. He wants to hold onto Yunho until he can find all the words he wants to say.

Yunho comes closer. “Is it okay?”

“It’s beautiful.” Turning to him, Changmin hooks an arm around Yunho’s neck and hides his face against Yunho’s throat. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to warm skin, feeling the jump of Yunho’s pulse. “Thank you,” Changmin whispers. “Thank you.”

Yunho nuzzles into Changmin’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Try it on. Signor Sirkis will want to make the final adjustments.”

Changmin pulls away, dabbing at his eyes. He takes the coat and the suit and goes behind the folding screen. He loves his Armani two-piece, but Signor Sirkis’ work is beyond compare. The suit is lined with silk; the redingote is lined with velvet of the finest nap. The garments are absolutely sublime. The fit is perfect.

He emerges from behind the screen and stands in the middle of the cream and yellow room, the grey February light suddenly dazzling.

Signor Sirkis studies him carefully and then nods approval.

Yunho is wide-eyed. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, Changminnie, you look...” He can’t say anything else. For possibly the first time in his life, Jung Yunho is speechless.

“How do I look?” Changmin knows what that silence means. He can see it written all over Yunho’s face, but still he wants to hear it. Not because he needs the reassurance, but because he wants to hear it from the man who mirrors his soul.

“Changmin.” Yunho gazes at him, looking utterly broken and utterly radiant. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I love you.”

Changmin dips his head and smiles and smiles.

* * *
iii. Per favore, ripeta più lentamente

Changmin wears his new suit and redingote that evening when they go out to dinner. He feels amazing, and judging from the admiring glances thrown in his direction from everyone from a traffic cop to a tramp to a politician hurrying to the Senate House, he looks pretty damn good, too.

Yunho walks alongside him, holding his hand and glowing with pride and happiness. It’s one of the things Changmin likes best about him, this ability to express himself so freely and unselfconsciously. When Yunho is sad he tries to hide it, but when he’s happy there’s no pretence and everyone is invited to smile along with him.

It makes Changmin smile, too, even though he’s still a little embarrassed that his emotions are starting to unlatch and roll around under Yunho’s influence. He still needs to maintain some decorum, after all. High-end fashion designers rarely shriek with excitement as they chase their boyfriend around the Quirinal Gardens before dragging him off into the nearest ancient ruin for a long, smouldering kiss. But then, this high-end fashion designer is on holiday and he deserves to have fun.

The restaurant is in the Campo dei Fiori neighbourhood and was also recommended by the Estonian guy. Housed in a low building that looks on the verge of collapse, inside it’s all old wooden beams across the ceiling and a stone-flagged floor and intimate lighting. There’s only four tables, and the couples at the other three tables are too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to Yunho and Changmin.

“The Estonian guy said this place serves traditional Roman food and also specialises in rustic cooking,” Yunho says as they sit down and look at the menu. “I can’t read Italian, Changminnie. Would you...?”

Pleased to be able to show off a little, Changmin paraphrases what’s on the handwritten card. “Everything is fresh today,” he says, impressed. “The menu is never the same from one day to the next. I think we should start with chickpea and bean stew—it’s a Roman speciality. I guess even ancient Romans ate it. Let’s try it.”

Yunho smiles. “When in Rome...”

“Quite.” Changmin reads through the menu again. Yunho decides on pork chops cooked with sage and stuffed with chestnuts, while Changmin orders schiacciata with girolles, garlic and rosemary. They drink a bottle of red wine and lean closer across the table, smiling at each other. The evening lingers and stretches, winding around them. Changmin doesn’t want it to end. He’s so loath to leave the restaurant that he orders dessert, a moist, crumbly polenta and apple cake, accompanied by vin santo and coffee.

He’s been speaking Italian to the waiter all night. It’s not like he’s fluent or anything, but he knows more than the average tourist. Even if some of his vocabulary consists of north Italian swearwords, he’s more than capable of holding a conversation, so when the waiter comes over with the bill and asks if they enjoyed their meal, Changmin answers with fulsome praise for the chef.

Turns out that the waiter is the chef’s nephew and he’s happy to discuss the food. Changmin holds Yunho’s hand across the table and chats away with the waiter, pleased to be able to practice his Italian. Then he realises that Yunho is restless. Not that Yunho is showing it outwardly; he’d never be that rude. He’s smiling and looking between Changmin and the waiter, and Changmin is translating what they’re saying so Yunho doesn’t feel excluded, but still—Yunho’s fingers twitch slightly in Changmin’s grasp and his smile is a tiny bit frantic.

The waiter thanks them for their interest and takes Yunho’s credit card over to the cash desk. By now Yunho is almost wriggling in his seat.

Changmin gives him a concerned look. “What is it?”

Yunho takes a deep breath. He stares at Changmin, mouth soft, eyes bright, a flush on his cheeks. He’s quivering. He looks like he’s massively turned on, but Changmin can’t understand what’s caused it.

“Yun?” he asks gently. “Are you...”

“Say it in Italian,” Yunho says in a rush. “Oh God, please.”

“Che cosa c’è che non va?”

A deep, deep shiver runs through Yunho. “Oh, baby.”

“Che cos’è questo?” Changmin tilts his head, curious and amused and wondering how best to play this to his advantage. “Do you... like me speaking Italian?”

Yunho nods frantically, his blush deepening. “Very much. Changminnie, you sound—you sound so sexy. Oh, you could do anything to me. I mean you could do anything to me anyway because you’re you and I can’t resist you, but when you speak Italian, it... it does things to me.”

Changmin smiles. “What kind of things?”

“Ohhhh. Don’t. Don’t ask me.” Yunho puts his hands to his face and looks at Changmin with big, soft eyes.

“Mi scusi,” Changmin murmurs throatily. “Comportato malissimo.”

Yunho squirms. “Changmin!”

The possibilities of this untapped kink excite Changmin, but he still can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re so silly, Jung.”

Yunho shakes his head. “You get turned on when I speak in dialect. Why is it so weird that I get hot hearing you speak foreign?”

That makes Changmin laugh. “My accent is Milanese. To the Romans, that’s... not so hot.”

“I don’t care. It’s hot to me.” Yunho heaves a long, shivering sigh and makes puppy-dog eyes. “Changminnie, would you...”

The waiter returns with Yunho’s credit card and the slip of paper for him to sign. In a flurry of thanks and smiles, they get up and make ready to leave.

“By the way,” the waiter says, “I couldn’t help but admire your suit, and also your coat. Beautiful pieces.”

“Thank you. They were a birthday gift.” Changmin smiles at Yunho.

“Ah.” The waiter beams. “Then may you wear them in good health and happiness always, and may you remember Rome fondly.”

As they leave the restaurant, Changmin leans close and says in Yunho’s ear, “I don’t care if you have any other birthday treats lined up for me. We’re going to go back to the hotel and I’m going to fuck you. Vieni?”

Yunho whimpers in response.

Changmin has a thought and stops. “Wait. Just so I know—did you arrange any other birthday treats?”

“Not for today.” Yunho smiles. “Tomorrow, yes. But tonight I hoped we could make love. Or we can just fuck. Whatever you prefer, baby.”

Desire weaves hungry, grasping tendrils through Changmin. He grabs at Yunho’s arm and hustles him along the street. “First we fuck. Then we make love. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you all around me, squeezing me... Oh, hurry, hurry.”

Yunho giggles. “I want you to speak Italian while you fuck me.”

Changmin can barely remember any vocabulary. “Si, si,” he manages. “Presto, presto.”

They make it back to the hotel in double-quick time, almost running across the terracotta tiles of the convent floor. Yunho is yanking at his tie as he sprints up the staircase. He pivots on the landing and gives Changmin a bright smile, the tie hanging loose, the top few buttons of his shirt undone.

“Take off your jacket,” Changmin says, not hurrying his ascent.

Yunho slides the jacket from his shoulders.

Changmin walks up the next few steps. “Unbutton the rest of your shirt.”

Excitement flashes in Yunho’s eyes. He hangs his jacket over the banister and unfastens the buttons, untucking the shirt and letting it ease open so Changmin can see more than a sliver of warm, bare skin.

“Take the shirt off.” Changmin advances one more step.

Yunho makes a soft, desperate sound and does as he’s told, the shirt and tie joining the jacket.

Changmin rests one hand on the slope of the banister and looks up at Yunho. They’re still in the public part of the hotel. There’s another room off to the other side of the landing, not to mention rooms above them. Anyone could walk down the stairs and see what they’re doing, and it’s this thought that pushes Changmin on.

“Take off your trousers,” he says.

Yunho gasps. “Changminnie!”

“Per piacere,” Changmin says. “Please.”

Blushing, Yunho rests his hands on the waistband of his trousers. He curls his fingers, then drops his gaze, suddenly shy, and undoes his belt. The buckle clinks. The button next, and then the zipper, the noise seemingly loud in the charged silence.

Just before Yunho can push the trousers down from his hips, Changmin taps his fingers on the banister and says, “I’ve changed my mind. Take everything off.”

Yunho’s head jerks up. He looks shocked and very, very excited. He rocks a little on his feet, his smile giving lie to his moan of protest: “Changminnie, no, don’t make me do this...”

Changmin takes one more step up the staircase. “Do it for me, baby. It’s my birthday. I get whatever I want on my birthday, isn’t that right? I got this beautiful suit and this gorgeous redingote, and I had a fabulous meal with the perfect company, and now I want my boyfriend to undress for me.”

“Anything,” Yunho says, his expression hazy with love and desire. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

Changmin quirks an eyebrow. “I’m still waiting.”

“Oh!” Blushing all over again, Yunho bends down and unlaces his shoes, slips them off, unpeels his socks, then stands up straight. He bites his lip, casts uncertain glances sidelong at the door opposite and then up the stairs. He shivers a little, his sweet, lush, copper-coloured nipples going hard and tight in the chill.

Changmin clutches at the banister and stifles a groan. He wants to run up the remaining few steps and shove Yunho up against the wall. No, he wants to get them into their room so he can spread Yunho across the bed and feast on him. He loves Yunho’s chest, loves the faint little jiggle and those perky nipples, loves to bury his face against that abundance of flesh, so soft and strong at the same time.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Changmin to stand there and watch as Yunho hooks his fingers beneath his underwear and trousers and takes both items off together. It’s not quite as smooth an operation as it could be, because Yunho’s cock is half hard and he has to jump and wriggle a bit before he shimmies free of the garments, and then the clothes are in a pool around his ankles. He steps out of them and stands on the landing absolutely naked but for his shy smile.

The door opens on the floor above them.

Yunho’s smile turns into an expression of panic. Changmin bolts up the final few steps, wrestling the key from his jacket pocket. Yunho collects up his clothes and darts through the door. He drops a shoe and collides with Changmin as they both turn to pick it up. Changmin utters a deranged squawk, kicks the shoe into the room, then heaves the door shut with a thud.

Yunho hangs in his arms, giggling helplessly. “That was close.”

Changmin holds him tight and says nothing. Mainly it’s because his heart is still pounding and he can’t believe he made Yunho strip for him on the hotel stairs, but it’s also because he’s trying to regain control of the situation. He splays his hands across Yunho’s naked back and thinks oh wait, oh God, I have all the control here. He’s naked. He’s... naked.

Lust slams into him so hard he gasps. Cradling Yunho tighter, Changmin strokes one hand and then the other over the sweep of Yunho’s back, then brushes his caress down to the tiny, tight curve of Yunho’s ass before repeating the touch again and again until Yunho’s giggles have faded into soft, panting moans.

“You’re naked,” Changmin says in Yunho’s ear, feeling the shiver go through him. “You’re naked and I’m fully clothed. How does it feel against your bare skin, the rough-smoothness of the serge? And the feathers on the collar... do they tickle? Do they tickle your throat, baby?”

Yunho lifts his head and kisses Changmin, holds his face between his hands and kisses and kisses him, making greedy, frantic noises that sing through Changmin’s blood and make everything hotter and tighter.

Changmin breaks the kiss. “Take off my redingote,” he says, stepping away from the door. Yunho is breathing fast, arousal pinking across his face and down to his chest. His cock is hard, fully erect, and Changmin can’t resist touching it, just weighing the lovely heft of it in his hand before he lets go.

Yunho quivers, then rises up onto his tiptoes and, with utmost care, locates the fastening hidden within the nest of black feathers at Changmin’s throat and undoes it.

“This is so beautiful,” he says, unfastening the next leather and velvet button on the coat. “I wanted to send Signor Sirkis a photograph of you, but he said there was no need. He asked me to describe you instead. I must’ve spent an hour trying to describe everything about you. I’m not even sure the Estonian guy could translate it all that well, but... this is perfect.”

Changmin bows his head, not wanting to be overwhelmed by mushy emotion right now. He holds his arms backwards, and Yunho steps behind him and gently slides off the redingote. Still careful, he puts the coat on its hanger and into the antique wardrobe.

“My suit,” Changmin says, resting a hand on the elegant knot of his tie. “Take off my suit.”

Yunho works faster this time, unfastening buttons and easing off the jacket and then the trousers, catching up both garments before they can fall and again placing them onto hangers in the wardrobe. He does all this with a smile, even though goosebumps rise over his body and his feet leave warm ghost-prints on the cold floor tiles.

He’s still aroused, and he breathes in Changmin’s scent from the collar of the suit jacket, saying, “We should create a fragrance, baby—one that smells of you, all clean and sharp like winter in a pine forest but with that hint of warmth, like the knowledge of home,” and Changmin wants to melt into a puddle of goo but he can’t; he’s in charge and he wants to sink inside Yunho and love him all night long.

“My tie,” Changmin says, voice gone husky. “My shirt. Everything else. Make me naked like you.”

Yunho falls on him, much more careless now as he hurries to strip Changmin of his remaining clothes. Off come his shoes, his socks, his tie, his shirt, his underwear, and finally they press together, both naked, Changmin’s skin still flushed with warmth and Yunho deliciously cold against him.

“Bed,” Changmin says. “Letto.”

“Yes, yes, in Italian, tell me in Italian,” Yunho begs, towing Changmin across the room and falling back onto the soft, heaped quilts.

“I don’t know all the words I want to know,” Changmin admits, following Yunho down onto the bed and rolling around.

“I don’t care.” Yunho strokes the long sweep of Changmin’s hair from his eyes and smiles at him. “You can read the fire escape notice on the back of the door or count to one hundred, I really don’t care. Just let me hear you speak Italian.”

“Coniglio ripieno,” Changmin says, somewhat desperately. The only phrases he can remember are all dishes from the restaurants he frequents in Milan. “Dolce di mandorle, fragole con la panna...”

“Oh.” Yunho squirms, shudders, and then goes still, a look of utter rapture on his face. “Ohhhhh, Changminnie. More. Tell me more.”

“Seppia, manzo brasato, gambero di fiume,” Changmin murmurs, feeling like a fraud but also not giving that much of a fuck because the way Yunho is slow-writhing across the quilt is incredibly sexy.

“Bite me,” Yunho says, voice thick with need. “Scratch me. Take me.”

“You can bite me, too,” Changmin says on a burst of honesty. Usually he’s afraid of love-bites. Not so much the receiving as the display of them, but he wants Yunho to mark him the way he’s going to mark Yunho.

Yunho draws him closer, kissing at first, then licking, and his teeth just graze Changmin’s skin close to where shoulder and neck meet. There’s a hint of pain, a spark of pleasure, and Changmin jolts, thrusts and bucks because God, fuck, it’s driving him crazy, and it’s the care Yunho is taking with him, so gentle yet so certain; he’s being as careful as he was with the suit and the redingote, and Changmin feels as fragile and delicate and beautiful as those exquisite garments handmade just for him, and oh, oh, that’s what this is about—it’s like he was made for Yunho and Yunho was made for him, and that’s just perfect.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He’s going to drown in emotion. He really needs to get a grip. Changmin slides a hand down between their bodies and cups Yunho’s cock, rubs and rubs until Yunho is making little growly noises and his dick is leaking warm wetness from the swollen crown all the way down that lovely long shaft.

“Questo è per uso personale... questo pacco è fragile. Non c’è bisogno che lo incarti,” Changmin says, disengaging his brain and letting sensation take over. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, but he’s fairly certain it wouldn’t classify as dirty talk to any real Italian. “Non vi dovete muovere. Mi aspetti.”

“Changminnie.” Yunho’s eyes are wide, his expression full of joy as he spreads his legs and wraps them around Changmin’s waist. He’s impatient, holding on tight as Changmin reaches for the lube tucked inside the bedside drawer. He runs his hands all over Changmin’s body as Changmin tries to kneel up and slick them both with the slippery gel, and then Changmin throws the little bottle aside and strokes the head of his cock through the wetness and nudges it against Yunho’s hole.

Yunho pushes up, hair in his face, head turning in restless need. “Yes. Yes. Do it, baby. Please. I want you.”

Still Changmin hesitates, wanting to remember this night forever, and Yunho arches up against him, opening up to take him, and Changmin gasps as he slides inside, the long, solid weight of his dick pushing and pushing into that tight, hot, silken grip.

“Oh God,” Yunho babbles, shaking as he keeps on lifting up, as he takes more and more, “oh, Changminnie, you feel so good, so good, baby.”

Changmin doesn’t have the words. He’s panting for breath and he’s tense, every muscle in his body held tight, and it feels like freedom when he lets go, when he surrenders to instinct and rocks into Yunho, drawing back, driving in, and Yunho gets his arms and legs around Changmin and clings tight, showers him with kisses all over his shoulders and throat and face.

“E’ buono questo?” Changmin asks, even though it’s beyond obvious that yes, this is very, very good.

“More,” Yunho begs. “More Italian. Please, please.”

Changmin struggles to recall words, any words, in any order. His memory keeps on fading in and out, presenting him with phrases he uses at work: Posso mandarlo per corriere? and Voglio far stirare questi vestiti, and he blurts them out, sees Yunho’s eyes close and his head go back and his breathing get all hot and fractured.

It’s such a glorious sight that Changmin responds, dick swelling, thrusts getting harder, hips jerking faster. He grabs at Yunho’s wrists and pins him down, fixes his gaze on Yunho’s mouth, on the sheen of sweat at the base of his throat, at the sexy little jiggle of his chest as Changmin pounds into him. God, yes, those beautiful ripe nipples—Changmin wants, he wants so bad, and he flattens himself over Yunho and mouths at his nipples, catches one between his lips and sucks hard, then when Yunho groans and shoves against him, Changmin uses his teeth.

“Bite me,” Yunho gasps, and Changmin does. He bites and licks and bites again, feeling every action roll through them both. Yunho’s skin is hot, skimmed with sweat and tasting of spice and musk, and the scent of sex surrounds them, strong and complex, a layering of desire.

“Tela,” Changmin says, lifting his head only long enough to transfer his full attention to the other nipple. He lets go of one of Yunho’s wrists and claws his hand into the soft plumpness of Yunho’s chest, feeling the brush of the stiff, saliva-slicked nipple beneath his palm.

“Pelliccia. Maglione. Cuoio,” Changmin growls, fastening his teeth around the other nipple and biting down as he scratches Yunho’s chest.

“Oh God,” Yunho wails, “Changminnie, Changminnie, oh—”

“Lino,” Changmin snarls, fucking into him harder and harder and feeling Yunho go over. His orgasm is slow and stumbling at first, and then Yunho’s hips churn and he goes wild, shaking and crying out, and then he shoots between them, sticky warm heat spreading over their bellies and up to their chests. Changmin plunges into him again, conscious of the way Yunho tightens around him, and it’s bright and breathtaking and Changmin can feel his climax gathering.

“Merletto, seta, camoscio.” The words come thick and fast now, a litany of fabrics, and he keeps coming back to his favourites, to the ones he wants to dress Yunho in, fur and silk and velvet. “Oh baby,” Changmin says, almost sobbing with the need to come, “seta, pelliccia, oh Yun, oh—oh velluto, oh velluto, seta, Yunho—”

He breaks like a dam bursting, silenced by the force of his orgasm, gasping and shuddering through his open mouth, and he jerks and jerks inside Yunho, filling him up with hot, wet seed over and over.

“Yunho,” he breathes, slumping on top of him, burying his face against Yunho’s neck, licking at the sweet taste of sweat from his skin, “Yunho, I fucking love you.”

And Yunho holds him close and ruffles his hair and whispers back, “Ti amo.”

* * *
iv. Occhio d’amore

The next day, Yunho wakes Changmin early and—though it’s no longer his birthday—takes him out to breakfast in Trastevere. They walk through mist-shrouded streets already teeming with traffic and noise and cross the river near the Isola Tiberina. There’s a small, family-run restaurant in the Piazza Santa Maria that’s been open since dawn, and the first catch of the day is served up for breakfast.

Changmin tucks into tiny grilled fish and scrambled eggs and venison sausages and whatever else they bring to the table, and it’s so good he even foregoes his usual dainty cappuccino in favour of thick, strong espresso, and a lot of it.

“Don’t tell me, the Estonian guy recommended this place, too,” he says around a mouthful of brioche and apricot preserve.

“Nope.” Yunho grins. “I looked it up on the internet.”

Afterwards, they take a very leisurely stroll along the Tiber towards Vatican City and spend the rest of the morning in St Peter’s and the Vatican Museum. Changmin looks at everything with a detached interest. He tries hard to be genuinely enthused by what he’s seeing and feels bad that he’s not moved by the experience, but by the time they make it out of the Sistine Chapel, Changmin has a headache and he’s feeling weirdly depressed.

Yunho notices. Outside in the huge, arcing embrace of St Peter’s Square, they stand beneath the grey sky and Yunho looks at him, silent and understanding.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Changmin says at last, and that’s such a patently stupid statement that he stamps his foot and huffs out a sigh and scrubs both hands through his hair.

“It’s because I’m leaving tomorrow,” Yunho says.

“It’s because you’re leaving tomorrow,” Changmin says at the same time.

They laugh, but their amusement soon fades. There’s a lump the size of an iceberg in Changmin’s chest. It’s stopping him from saying anything else, but he keeps on trying. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t, either.” Yunho comes closer, his eyes warm and so soft. “I hate it when we’re apart, but it won’t be forever. You’ll be home soon, and the puppies will jump all over you and you’ll nag me to put things away and you’ll turn your nose up at the next season of Stitched Up because—this is top secret, classified gossip, by the way—Siwon has been asked to take part, and—”

“Siwon!” Changmin splutters, torn between horror and laughter. “What does he know about designing and making clothes?”

Yunho holds up his hands. “Nevertheless, they’ve invited him onto the show and he’s going to do it.”

“A very good reason for me to stay in Italy,” Changmin retorts.

“I’ll make sure I record every episode for you.” Yunho takes Changmin’s hand and pulls him towards Ponte St Angelo. They walk, still holding hands, and Yunho says, “It’s important that you’re here. What you’re doing at Versace... you couldn’t do it in Korea. Not to the same level of international success. I think that’s important right now, and if you decide that one day it isn’t, then we’ll think of something else.”

Changmin stops. “What do you mean?”

Yunho comes back to him, smiling. “I mean that one day I’d like you and me to have our own line.”

“Are you serious?” Changmin doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding quite like that. He’s just surprised. Very surprised. And, if truth be told, he’s actually quite excited by the idea.

“Totally serious.” Yunho slips an arm around him and tucks a hand into the back pocket of Changmin’s jeans. “I know it’s too soon right now. I’m barely out of my Evisu contract and I’m absolutely rushed off my feet with the work for Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy, plus Spoon really wants me to help him with his waterproof festival wear, so I’m kind of super-busy for the next wee while, but...” He breaks off, sighing.

“But one day you want us to design together,” Changmin says, feeling wobbly and emotional all over again. “You and me.”

“I already have the label name,” Yunho says. “HoMin pour Homme.”

“MinHo pour Homme,” Changmin corrects. “That sounds better.”

Yunho laughs. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Much more cheerful now at this bright prospect in his future, Changmin starts walking again. Yunho squeaks and disengages his hand from Changmin’s back pocket, and they giggle stupidly and squash together and kiss.

It starts raining, the blank grey cloud lowering to dust the city with lacy scraps of fog. Hand in hand, they hurry across the bridge and back into the heart of Rome, Yunho leading the way through streets that are beginning to look familiar after only a couple of days’ acquaintance.

They stop for an ice cream, a double scoop of pinola and pistachio for Yunho, while Changmin picks stracciatella and raspberry ripple.

“Jung, it’s raining, why are we eating ice cream?” Changmin asks, his orange Gwangju Skank hoodie dewed wet over his shoulders and down his chest.

Yunho, his hair draggling damp in his eyes, flicks it back, smiles brilliantly, and says, “Because we’re in Rome.”

The rain is pouring down now, beating a heavy tattoo on the striped awning above them. Yunho eats his ice cream and surveys the drenched neighbourhood, moving to one side when a moped goes past, splashing water from the overflowing gutters.

“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Changmin says hopefully. He’s had a nice idea involving the remainder of his ice cream melting over Yunho’s warm, naked back, but if he wants the fantasy to become a reality they’ll have to go right this instant, because otherwise the ice cream is just too delicious and he’ll have eaten it all.

“There’s just one more place I want us to see,” Yunho says. He scrapes out the little plastic tub of the last of his ice cream and then tosses the carton into the nearby bin. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me there, and then we’ll spend the rest of the day in bed. How about that?”

“Sounds perfect.” Changmin shovels the rest of the raspberry ripple into his mouth, making a mental note to come back this way for more ice cream en route to bed.

They dash out from beneath the awning and splash through the puddles that have formed across the cobblestones. Hurrying down an alleyway, they emerge onto a deceptively wide, sloping piazza. An obelisk surmounts a small fountain in front of a circular building with a long portico of eight columns.

Changmin knows what this is. “The Pantheon,” he says, taking Yunho’s hand as they make a final dash through a fresh cloudburst.

“Yes.” Yunho leads him inside to the stark yet oddly beautiful interior.

It’s not the individual altars and burial monuments that catch Changmin’s attention, garish and gilt-laden though they are; it’s the domed roof, honeycombed and monumental and completely unsupported, with its open oculus staring up at the sky. He wonders if he could mimic that honeycomb design and create a ballgown out of the manipulated fabric. It’s worth a try.

Green patches of lichen crawl from one side of the oculus. The honeycomb is stained dark with water where it’s rained in, and the marble floor beneath the unblinking wide eye is slippery-shiny with spray from high above. A custodian has erected a velvet-roped barrier to stop tourists walking over the wet marble, but the wind is changing direction all the time and the rain drifts in to other parts of the Pantheon floor.

Yunho comes to a halt beneath the oculus, careless of the spray of rain. “This place is round. That’s why it’s important.”

Changmin laughs. “It’s important because it’s a temple to all the gods and it became a church, so it’s still fulfilling its purpose, and also because the dome is a triumph of structural engineering.”

“Yes,” Yunho says, nodding, “but the most important thing is because it’s round. And because it has a hole in the roof so Heaven can look in.”

“You’re so silly,” Changmin says.

Yunho takes both of Changmin’s hands and squeezes them, then tips back his head to look up. He smiles at the grey sky and the honeycombed dome, and then he looks back at Changmin and the smile grows warmer and sweeter.

“This,” Yunho says, turning them in a careful, dancing circle over the wet marble, “this is like my love for you. It goes around and around. It goes on forever. It’s eternal.”

Changmin catches Yunho around the waist and pulls him close. He knows he should revert to type and shrug off that gorgeous, imbecilic, heartstopping, romantic declaration; he should glower and make a snarky comment, but he can’t. Not when he knows Yunho is telling the truth. Not when he feels exactly the same way.

Yunho nestles closer, whispers, “Oh, Changminnie,” and then they’re kissing.

There’s no need for words. There’s no need for anything at all, and the rain drifts down from the oculus, and it’s all just perfect.

Fic: Let Go [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 16:35:07 GMT

Title: Let Go
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17
Summary: Changmin wants something. Yunho isn’t sure he can give it.
Notes: For haeym's watersports prompt on the kink meme.

Let Go
“Yunho,” Changmin says one evening. “Yunho, I want you to pee on me.”

Perhaps he should have picked a better moment. This kind of announcement is probably not best delivered in the middle of food preparation. Certainly not judging by Yunho’s reaction, which is a strangled squawk as the vegetable knife slips off the half-dome of an onion and slices through flesh.

“Shit. I mean—uh. Oh.” Yunho snatches his hand away from the knife and stares at the welling bead of blood.

“Run it under the tap,” Changmin says patiently, accustomed to his boyfriend’s clumsiness. “Here.” He takes Yunho’s wrist, guides him over to the sink, turns on the tap, then shoves Yunho’s injured finger beneath the stream of cold water.

They stand there for a moment, Changmin’s hand still around Yunho’s wrist, and then Yunho pulls free. “It’s fine now. Thanks.” He darts a sidelong glance, a flush on his cheeks as he looks-but-doesn’t-look at Changmin.

Sometimes Yunho can be so shy. Changmin likes that about him; likes that the fearless leader—ha!—can be so uncertain. He’s not prudish, not exactly. His mind fits certain paths and he excels in what he does along those paths, but sometimes Changmin thinks Yunho should... experiment a little more.

Especially if he, Changmin, gets to be the beneficiary.

Yunho holds his finger to his mouth and licks at the cut, rapid and kittenish. He sends Changmin a few more glances. “Um, what did you say just now?”

Changmin takes it as a challenge, even though Yunho’s expression is wary and non-combative. “You heard me perfectly well. I want you to pee on me.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Yunho examines his finger then just stands there, as if he’s not sure what to do with his hands now. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?” Changmin raises his eyebrows.

Yunho lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug. “I guess not. But...”

Changmin turns off the tap and resumes making dinner. Discussions of intimate matters, he’s found, usually have a positive outcome when distraction is involved. The most effective distraction is sex, but he doubts that’ll work this time. Cooking will have to do instead.

He’s unpeeling the papery casing from a clove of garlic when Yunho shuffles back over. Picking up the knife, Yunho prods at the onion like he’s giving it acupuncture. Changmin stifles a sigh and takes over the task, chopping and dicing with practised ease.

“Why?” Yunho asks again.

There are many reasons, not least Because I want you to. Mixed up in that is Because I think it’ll feel nice along with Because I want you to put your scent all over me, but mainly it’s all about Because I want to see you let go. Changmin doesn’t say any of this. Instead he says, “Because of some porno I watched.”

Yunho lays both hands on the kitchen counter. “Oh.”

“Boil the kettle.”

“What?”

“The kettle.” Changmin points in the appropriate direction. “I need hot water to blanch the tomatoes.”

“Right. I thought... Never mind.” Yunho busies himself with filling the kettle and switching it on. “What porno was this?”

Changmin is starting to wish he hadn’t broached the subject. He’d wanted a yes or no answer, not twenty questions as to his motivations. Any minute now Yunho will invite him to lie on the couch and try to give him therapy or something.

“You haven’t seen it,” he says shortly.

“Maybe I should. So I know. You know, so I know what to do.”

Changmin stares at him. “Please tell me you’re potty-trained.”

Yunho blushes, then laughs, and although it’s uncertain, embarrassed laughter, it’s still laughter and that’s a good thing. He ducks his head. “You know what I mean.”

The onion and garlic get tipped into a saucepan over a low heat. Changmin wipes his hands down the side of his jeans and reaches out, curling a finger beneath Yunho’s chin to make him look up. “It’s no big deal if you don’t want to do it. I want you to enjoy it, too.”

Yunho gazes at him. “You really want me to do that?”

“Yes. Really.” Changmin lets his hand drop. The kettle judders across the bench, bubbles roiling, steam clouding from the spout. He takes it off the boil and pours the hot water into another pan on top of the tomatoes. “Just think about it, okay?”

“I’m thinking.”

“But don’t think too much.”

“Okay.” Yunho wrinkles his nose. “It’s just... it seems...”

“It’s not dirty,” Changmin says, anticipating that line of argument. “Some people advocate drinking urine for health reasons.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that, because now Yunho is staring at him with an expression halfway between appalled and amused.

“It’s really not dirty,” Changmin says again, using the knife to poke at the tomatoes. The skins are peeling free of the flesh. “And it’s not deviant, either. It’s just... specialised.”

Yunho takes a breath and exhales. “I’ll think about it.”

*
Giving Yunho time to think about anything is usually a bad idea. Changmin watches him considering the proposition. Actually, was it even a proposition? It was more of a statement. Or a demand. Whatever. For the rest of the evening, Yunho sits curled up with a cushion in his lap, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth as he stares blankly at the television. He’s obviously still thinking about it when he goes to bed. Stands to reason it’ll still be on his mind first thing in the morning.

Changmin counts on it.

They don’t always sleep together, a state of affairs both frustrating and satisfying. Changmin wakes early and lies in his bed, listening, convinced that Yunho will have been awake half the night thinking. The alarm clock shrills next door, then it’s silenced. Changmin sits up, pushing back the duvet. He hears Yunho shuffling around, then the click of the bedroom door, footsteps, and Yunho yawning as he wanders towards the bathroom.

As soon as the bathroom door closes, Changmin springs from his bed and bolts out of his room. He shoves at the bathroom door—Yunho never locks it—and strides in.

“Changmin!” Yunho is standing at the toilet. He makes an entirely useless attempt to cover himself, trying to shove his dick back inside his underwear.

Changmin rolls his eyes. “Seen it all before.”

“Yes, but it’s different now.” Yunho is blushing.

“Different because I asked you to pee on me?” Changmin turns on the tap in the sink. He doesn’t open it halfway, as is his usual habit. He just lets the water dribble and spurt, and he watches Yunho blush even redder.

“Turn that off,” Yunho says. “Please.”

“Sure.” Point made, Changmin silences the tap. He leans against the sink and huffs, making a circling gesture with his hand. “Hurry up, will you? I need to go, too.”

Yunho gives him a doubtful look and moves around the toilet until his back is to Changmin. There’s the rustle of clothing. Then nothing.

Changmin folds his lips together, trying not to laugh. He steps forward, going right into Yunho’s space and pressing up against his body. Yunho is tense, breathing fast. No wonder he can’t go. Performance anxiety is a bitch.

“Come on,” Changmin says, sliding his arms around Yunho’s waist. He rubs his right hand low over Yunho’s belly, stroking a heavy caress in slow circles. His left hand rests at Yunho’s hip, safe and non-threatening. He nuzzles into the razored softness of hair at Yunho’s nape. “C’mon, baby. Do it.”

“Don’t,” Yunho gasps. “Changmin, no. I can’t. I’ll... I’ll get hard and—”

“Think of boring things.” Changmin licks a wet line down the back of Yunho’s neck, then blows on it.

Yunho writhes. “How can I think of boring things when you’re kissing my neck!”

“Have some self-control.”

“Thought you wanted me to lose control.”

“Not exactly.” Changmin whispers more kisses up the side of Yunho’s throat, then bites at his earlobe. “Mm. You can do it. Let me help.” He creeps his left hand down from Yunho’s hip and curls it around his cock.

Yunho makes a strangled sound. “Yeah, that’s really going to help me take a piss. Is that how you hold yours? Don’t aim it there. That’s not... Fuck.” His tone of complaint wavers. “Changminnie, I really need to pee. Please let me do this on my own.”

Changmin smiles against his neck. “Are you embarrassed?”

“No.” Yunho is practically glowing with shame. “Yes. I don’t know.”

“You’ve done it in front of me before.”

“Not like this!”

“Is it the sound it makes when it goes all splish-splash?” Changmin asks, trying to sound loving and considerate. “Want me to turn the tap on again?”

“No. No.” Urgency tints Yunho’s voice. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m not. I’m just waiting my turn. You’re taking ages. You must be desperate by now.” Changmin rubs over Yunho’s belly again, exerting gentle pressure on his bladder.

Yunho jerks backwards. “Shim Changmin!”

“Just take a leak already, will you?” Changmin says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “I honestly don’t want to stand here all day holding your dick.”

“I’m not forcing you,” Yunho says. “Just reminding you, it’s totally your choice.”

“Mm.” Changmin bends his head and bites Yunho’s bare shoulder, does it sharp and hard. At the same time he presses the heel of his hand down over Yunho’s bladder.

Yunho yelps and lets go. A stream of pee arcs into the toilet bowl, strong and steady. Changmin makes a pleased sound and urges his hand along the length of Yunho’s cock. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, breathing in the rich, sharp smell hot from Yunho’s body. “Oh, baby, don’t stop.”

Yunho squirms in his arms, face flaming, but there’s the uncomplicated pleasure of relief in his expression and he’s smiling, embarrassed and awkward.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” Changmin asks, low and sweet, coaxing out the last few droplets. “Imagine how much better it’ll feel when you do it all over me. I want it, Yun. I really want it.”

He gives Yunho’s cock a little shake; runs his thumb over the tip. Then he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks it.

Yunho makes a shocked sound, staring at him.

Changmin smiles, then leans forward and flushes the toilet.

*
A few days later, Changmin comes home to find Yunho sitting in front of the television. Two empty beer bottles are on the floor. He’s almost finished the contents of a third bottle.

“Have a drink,” he says.

Changmin shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“No.” Yunho looks at him, almost pleading. “Have a drink.”

It takes Changmin a moment, but then he realises what might—might—be about to happen, and he says, “Oh. Right. Why not. I’m kind of thirsty, actually.” He goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and takes out two bottles. He uncaps them both, then returns to the living room, offering one to Yunho. “I got you another. In case you need it.”

“Thanks.” Yunho appears to be stone-cold sober. It’s only the slight pinking over his cheeks and the slow, careful way he raises the bottle to his lips that suggest otherwise. He finishes the third bottle and starts on the fourth.

Changmin lifts his own beer and takes a swig. It’s cool and smooth on his tongue, a clean taste. He settles into an armchair and watches Yunho watching the television.

Yunho is nervous but determined. When he’s in this kind of mood, he goes almost completely still. It’s pretty close to the way he behaves when they’re working, when he’s preparing for a live performance: shut down and focused, imagining a successful outcome long before they take to the stage. He sinks into himself then, in those moments when he doesn’t have to acknowledge anyone else’s hopes or expectations, but Changmin knows that’ll come, and he doesn’t want it on those terms.

“Yunho.” Changmin puts down his beer and goes over to the couch, kneels on the floor and takes the bottle from Yunho’s hand. “Not like this.”

Yunho blinks at him. “I want to give you what you want.”

Changmin catches Yunho’s hand and rubs his cheek against it. “I want you to want it, too.”

Defeat sags the resolute set of Yunho’s shoulders. “I’m not sure. It seems...”

“Degrading? Humiliating?” Changmin tilts his head and smiles. “It’s not. It won’t be. Not between us.”

Yunho bites his lip. He’s still uncertain, but there’s something in his eyes, an expression that suggests he’s not entirely averse to the idea. Changmin just needs to push a little harder. Maybe it’s time to be honest, because while Yunho’s been thinking about it, so has Changmin; and now he’s ready to give answers to the question Yunho is no longer asking.

“I want it,” Changmin says softly. “I want the warmth of it, hot and fresh. I want what was inside of you to splash all over me. I want the scent of it. I want to be covered in it, as if you’re marking me. Like a possessive thing, like animals do. It’s sexy, Yun. It’s so sexy, being claimed in such a primal way.”

He pauses, conscious of his arousal, tight and insistent. Changmin laughs. “God, look at me. We’re just talking about it and I’m hard.”

Yunho strokes a hand through Changmin’s hair, ruffling it into his eyes. “Any other reason?”

“Yes.” Changmin tosses his head and meets Yunho’s gaze. “I really want to see you do it. That’s going to be the biggest turn-on of all. I want to see you let go, and in more than a sexual way. I want to see you let go for me, because I asked you to, because you want to.”

There’s a long silence.

“Okay.” Yunho slides his hand down to Changmin’s shoulder. He smiles. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

A fluttering of nerves wakens in Changmin. “Now?”

“Yeah. Now.”

They go into the bathroom. Yunho is slightly unsteady on his feet, the kick of the alcohol finally catching up with him. Changmin enjoys the chance to fuss over him a little, undressing in haste and then taking Yunho’s clothes off with slow deliberation and excited anticipation. He kisses Yunho, brushes his mouth over lips, neck, chest.

“Don’t,” Yunho warns, “don’t turn me on.”

“Sorry.” Changmin pulls away. He climbs into the bath by the taps and kneels there, cock stiff, balls hanging low between his thighs. His erection dips a little at the hard chill of the ceramic tub and the cold, uncomfortable touch of the taps against his back. The position is painful without any padding under his knees, but he doesn’t want to get out and fetch a towel. He doesn’t dare spoil this moment.

Yunho hesitates a second longer before stepping into the bath. He puts one hand flat against the tiled wall and stands right at the far end of the tub, then shuffles closer, edges backwards, and moves forwards again as if he’s calculating distances. There’s probably some sort of mathematical equation for working out the correct position for a man to stand in order to achieve optimum flow and pressure when he pees on his boyfriend. Changmin swallows the laughter that threatens to shake itself free at the thought. He doesn’t want Yunho to think he’s laughing at him.

Instead he fixes his gaze on Yunho’s cock. It’s long and thick, his balls heavy, framed by the dark brush of pubic hair. Changmin’s mouth waters. He wants to lean forwards and snuffle through that hair, wants to nuzzle at Yunho’s balls and roll them on his tongue, wants to lick and lick at Yunho’s cock until he’s huge and stiff and making Changmin moan around it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Yunho says, taking his cock in hand. He’s blushing and flustered and absolutely adorable. “This is difficult enough as it is. You’re naked and hard and now you’re looking at me like you want to...”

“Don’t think about it.” Changmin sits back as Yunho’s dick starts to swell and lift. “No! Don’t get turned on!”

“I’m trying not to.” Yunho draws in a deep breath and looks at the tiles on the wall. His jaw tightens and he goes all tense, then takes a few more calming breaths. After a while, he blinks. “Wow, it’s kind of cold in here. I really need to pee.”

“Yes,” Changmin coaxes. “Give it to me.”

“Don’t say anything!” Yunho shifts on his feet, jiggles up and down a little, his nose scrunching. “Ohhh, I really need to go. Oh, Changminnie. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can.”

Please, Changmin thinks. For me. Do it for me.

A blush burning across his face, Yunho shakes his head forward until his hair hangs in his eyes. He sways forward onto his toes. Quivers. “Oh God. Oh.”

The first spurt splashes out. Changmin scoots closer, excitement scrambling through him as the droplets land on his knee, hot and wet.

“Oh,” Yunho says again, screwing his eyes shut tight for an agonised moment, “oh, baby,” and he lets go.

Changmin gasps and arches against the jet of liquid, tilting his head back as long, deep shudders go through him like an orgasm. “Yes,” he says, high and excited, “oh yes, yes, give me everything, let me take it, oh—”

Yunho stares down at him, directing the warm, trickling stream all over him, up Changmin’s thighs, over his cock and balls and into his pubic hair, up over his belly and his arms and chest, soaking him, making him wet and dripping.

Changmin twists on his knees and moans, racked by a savage pulse of lust. Spiked by Yunho’s wide-eyed gaze, Changmin palms his dick, begs, “More, more, cover me,” and jerks off, his hand wet, cock glistening. Yunho’s scent surrounds him, hot and sharp. Changmin utters frantic cries, urging himself on. He has to do this fast, reeling from the punch of desire; faster, faster; and as Yunho finally finishes, dick still held in his hand, Changmin sways forward and takes him in his mouth, working his own cock harder and harder.

Sensation dizzies him. The salty taste of Yunho’s pee on his tongue. The softness of his cock. The smell of him, musky and warm. Changmin moans, pulling himself on. He needs to come. He needs to give Yunho this. Letting Yunho’s dick slip free of his mouth, Changmin turns his head. He leans against Yunho’s thigh, Yunho’s hands in his hair now, stroking so gently.

“Come,” Yunho says, fingers tightening in command. “Come for me, Changminnie. Let go.”

Changmin gasps, presses his lips to Yunho’s skin, and climaxes in a hot, jerking rush.

His head is spinning, his breathing heavy and fractured, perspiration already cooling over his body. He shivers.

Yunho crouches in front of him, kisses his cheek, his nose, his mouth. “Was that good? Was it what you wanted?”

“Yes.” Another shiver. Changmin’s voice cracks. “Thank you.”

“So polite, Changminnie.” Yunho smiles.

They’re in a trickling, cooling mess of urine and semen. Changmin snorts with laughter and clings to Yunho. “I think we need a shower.”

“Good idea,” Yunho says, still smiling. “And then you’re going to clean the bath.”

Changmin grins. It’s a small price to pay.

Fic: Naufragis [Paradise Ranch/Poseidon FPS]

glitterburn — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 18:47:00 GMT

Title: Naufragis
Fandom: Paradise Ranch/Poseidon crossover
Pairing: Han Dongjoo/Kang Eunchul
Rating: R
Summary: All his life, Dongjoo has thought of himself as a failure. Until he meets Eunchul, who teaches him there's no worth in regrets.
Notes: For the prompt 'two worlds collide' in diagon's Twelve Months of HoMin challenge. naufragis is Latin; it literally means ‘shipwrecks’ and thence poetically ‘men who've suffered ruin’.

Naufragis
Dongjoo joins the army to forget.

It’s his duty, too; the duty of every reasonably healthy, reasonably sane man between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. He feels neither sane nor healthy when he presents his papers. It’s duty that’ll get him through the next two years. He hopes that duty will subsume the losses he carries with him.

An NCO directs him to a hut on the other side of the parade ground. He queues with a few dozen other recruits and receives his fatigues in exchange for his street clothes. He goes into the changing rooms and takes off each garment, stripping away the layers of his old life. No more designer jeans. No more cashmere jumpers. No more luxurious cotton shirts. No more lie-ins and expensive meals, no more comfortable bedding, of being able to loaf around all day watching television. No more privacy.

No more Daji.

This thought still hurts the most, even though Daji hasn’t been part of his life for five months.

He folds his clothes into a neat pile, ready to package them up to send home. Mothers are supposed to weep over their son’s clothes when they receive them, but for all her sentimentality and affection, Dongjoo knows his mother won’t cry for him.

He puts on his army fatigues. The cloth is olive drab, stiff and cool. The fabric chafes between his legs. Maybe if he washes it, the cloth will soften. He doesn’t know how to use a washing machine. He supposes he’ll just have to learn.

The changing room is silent except for the sound of zippers and fasteners and the curdled breathing of men. Everyone avoids looking at their neighbour, as if overtures of friendship aren’t allowed. Everyone is trapped inside their own skin, even as their outward shell becomes the same.

Dongjoo finds this comforting. This place will serve him as well as he serves it. He thinks he’s the only man here to have joined the army because of a broken heart.

He’s wrong.

* * *
He’d announced his decision ten days ago. He’d sat on the sitting room couch in meditative pose, his back straight, his chin slightly dipped so he was aware of his breathing, and he’d closed his eyes and mapped out his future. Bravely, as befitting a soldier; cleverly, as befitting the heir to a business empire. In those twenty-six minutes of meditation, Dongjoo put aside his childish dreams of Daji and his silly belief in romance and happily ever after, and decided to be a man.

When his parents and grandfather came in, he’d opened his eyes and told them he was ready to do his army service.

None of them reacted the way he’d expected. His father’s response was perhaps only two shades away from normal. Instead of blustering and waving his arms and turning red in the face, his father blinked, silent for a moment, then said, “I have contacts. Favours I can call in. We’ll get you a level four position in the city. A nice desk job. Your mother will appreciate that.”

His mother had shot her husband a look of scorn. “I do not appreciate your inference that our son is a coward.”

But I am a coward, Dongjoo wanted to tell her, but his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his throat was dry and his palms damp as they discussed him as if he weren’t there.

“You want him to go to the front line? Is that how you show your anger towards me now?” His father turned, cutting Dongjoo out of the discussion they hadn’t been having. He faced his wife, gestures tight even as words spun out of him. “You want my son to come back maimed, with a leg blown off from a landmine’s blast like the Song’s boy? Do you hate me that much that you’ll do this to my only child?”

“Dongjoo is my only child,” his mother said with quiet dignity. “But perhaps you have another elsewhere.”

Dongjoo uncrossed his legs, pins and needles white-hot in his feet when he set them on the floor. A small pain that would swiftly be gone, unlike this long, endless attrition of a sniper’s war between his parents.

“I have made my decision,” he said, rising to his full height, trying to look calm despite the stabbing discomfort of the cramp.

His grandfather stood gazing at the bonsai, an elegant Japanese pine, displayed on the table at the head of the room. It was his habit to talk to the tree each day, to check its sprouting growths and to test the moisture in the moss that covered its twisted roots. He allowed no one—not even Dongjoo—to touch the tree, lest clumsy prodding result in fallen needles and bare branches.

Now he stared at the bonsai, seemingly lost in contemplation while his son and daughter-in-law trod the well-worn paths of argument and while Dongjoo looked at him for guidance.

“In ancient times,” his grandfather said at last, talking over the bickering, “a man would join the army for one of two reasons.”

“Patriotism,” Dongjoo said.

His grandfather smiled, but kept his gaze on the pine tree. “No. That was always given as a spurious reason. It was an excuse, but it was not the cause.”

“Money,” his father said.

Again his grandfather smiled. “Only a man of infinite foolishness would join the army in search of wealth.”

Dongjoo lowered his head to hide his expression. He shouldn’t be amused by his grandfather’s continual digs at his father. Daji had once said his family was toxic: his grandfather belittling his father, his father belittling his son, his father betraying his mother; but he hadn’t agreed.

“They all love me,” he’d said, because they did. His mother doted on him, his grandfather spoilt him, and if his father put him down, why, that didn’t matter because his father was a fool, and fools showed affection in peculiar ways—like coming to his room drunk late at night and patting his head, clumsily, and whispering, “My son, my precious son.”

Daji had wrinkled her nose. “I wish your father was more like mine.”

“Constantly worried?” Dongjoo had asked, raising his eyebrows. “Leaving his daughters to fend for themselves while he scrapes at others’ feet to support you?”

“At least he understands the importance of family,” she’d argued, and then, because he hadn’t known how to respond, he’d huffed and looked angry, and she’d backed off and giggled, and nothing had been resolved.

The same way nothing was resolved now, even though his decision had already been taken.

His mother crossed the sunken floor space and stepped up beside the bonsai. Her gaze was calm and peaceful, resting first on Dongjoo, then on her father-in-law. “Men joined the army to escape from a situation.”

His grandfather nodded, pleased with her answer. “Exactly.”

“You said there were two reasons,” Dongjoo said. “What’s the other?”

“They are one and the same,” his grandfather said. “Two sides of the same coin. A man voluntarily joins the army because he has nothing left. He’s driven to it by an absence of emotion. Another man joins the army because he has an excess of emotion. Both of them are running away, although they’ll be lauded for their courage. Both of them expect to find something, even if it’s nothing.”

He fixes Dongjoo with his gaze, old and weary and sad but also full of hope. “Know which one you are, Dongjoo, and this will be the most valuable experience of your life.”

“What if I don’t know?” Dongjoo asked, although he thought he did.

His grandfather smiled. “Don’t shut yourself off from possibility. You have not yet learned everything.”

* * *
Basic training is well named. They’re taught to march, to climb ropes and drag a pack twice their weight; they’re expected to run five miles in full kit without collapsing. They learn how to phrase their complaints and miseries in gruff remarks and crude jokes, and they learn that the old-timers are telling the truth when they advise the raw recruits to piss in their boots and let it stand overnight to soften the leather. They’re taught to handle a firearm, and gimlet-eyed instructors grade their every movement and scream at them rather than offering words of praise.

Dongjoo expected it to be tough, but it’s not. Even though he’s never lifted anything heavier than his suitcase, he finds himself falling into the rhythm of the physical exercise. He doesn’t have to think when he’s running, when he’s climbing, when he’s crawling through the mud, and though he needs to think when he goes for firearms training, it’s a mechanical process, not creative.

He’d come into the army believing he had an excess of emotion. Now he reconsiders.

The social aspect of his new life troubles him. He’s a model soldier on the field, but in the billets he’s quiet and reserved. He tells himself there’s no point in making friends here. Basic training lasts a matter of weeks before the recruits are shipped out to complete the rest of their service in specialist units or on bases elsewhere. It’s common sense that stops him from forming friendly attachments now.

Except Dongjoo knows it has nothing to do with that. It’s shyness, and perhaps it’s pride, but most of all it’s self-consciousness.

He’s not the richest of the recruits. Amongst their number is the son of a billionaire, who hides behind his father’s wealth and influence and refuses to do any of the tasks assigned to him. The instructors take a dim view of this. They don’t seem intimidated when the boy shouts that his father will have them all sent to the front line, dismissed without their pensions, or sued through every court in Korea. They simply laugh and carry him out of the hut after lights out. The next thing Dongjoo and his hut-mates know, the boy has been downgraded to a level three due to health reasons.

There’s also an idol actor living amongst them. Dongjoo recognises him from the dramas Daeun watched. Back then, Daji had said the actor was too pretty—“How can a flower boy survive growing up? Better for a man to be handsome,” and he’d said, “But you call me your flower boy,” and she’d laughed—but to everyone’s surprise, the actor proves himself more than competent.

“They all think I’m weak, so I have to be strong,” the actor tells Dongjoo after they’ve completed a training exercise, the only two in their squad to have beaten the record set by a previous batch of recruits. “It’s all fake, though. I just want to go home.”

Dongjoo ponders on this. Like the actor, he’s hiding his weakness, but he doesn’t want to go home. He’s failed as a husband and he’s failed as a son. He can’t go back until he can regain the face he’s lost, but he doesn’t know what he wants and he doesn’t know how to get it.

* * *
He’s sent to Busan. Only three others from his squad go with him, and he loses sight of them as they’re packed onto the military transports that’ll drive them the length and breadth of the country. It feels like they’re going to the ends of the earth. Dongjoo has been away from Seoul before. He’s been to Australia and Fiji and Japan and America on holiday, but none of those places seemed as far away as Busan.

He relaxes a little when one of the other soldiers, Hyuksu, tells him that Busan is considered an easy posting. “Sun, sea, and sex,” Hyuksu says with a laugh. “Better than freezing your bollocks off up a mountain in the north or fiddling with missile systems in the east. Biggest challenge in Busan is finding a way off the base so you can go on the pull. Place is crawling with pussy and cheap bars. Russian girls everywhere looking for a good time.”

His words are greeted with ragged cheers from the rest of the men clustered inside the truck. Dongjoo forces a smile. Maybe a Russian girl will help him get over Daji.

Turns out that most of the Russian girls are prostitutes. Busan is the entry point for many of the country’s most lucrative trade deals—drugs, guns, and human trafficking. The army base is there as a symbol of force and power, a deterrent against the smugglers and drug dealers.

It seems a rather emasculated symbol, in Dongjoo’s opinion. There’s not much opportunity for the recruits to go off-base and sample the cheap moonshine and expensive white flesh of Busan’s most notorious hotspots. Their COs keep them confined to barracks and endless rounds of PT combined with drill and firearms practice.

It’s a boring existence made worse by the knowledge that, beyond the gates, real excitement awaits. Hyuksu now rages against the system that sent him here. “Better to be up a bloody mountain in the fucking snow than suffer this torment,” he complains to Dongjoo as they run their twenty-sixth lap of the parade ground under the midday sun. “No leave for another eight weeks, and even then we’re fucking chaperoned! Christ, it’s enough to make a man rethink his decisions.”

Dongjoo sympathises, but secretly he’s pleased that he doesn’t have to go out and embarrass himself on dance floors and at bars in the name of chasing tail.

He’s got a reputation, one that’s spread to other billets. He’s the second youngest in the hut, which would usually mean that he’s invisible. Instead, the others come to him for advice, romantic and sexual, because of his six-month marriage.

“I’m divorced,” he tells the men when they sit on the edge of his bed before lights out and ask all manner of questions in halting, embarrassed tones, but this doesn’t stop them. In fact, it seems to elevate him even higher in their collective opinion. A married man knows things about women, the assumption goes; therefore a divorced man must have needs and expectations that his ex-wife couldn’t fulfil. What for Dongjoo is a source of shame to his hut-mates is a source of pride, and he finds himself in great demand as advice-giver and sage.

Most of the guys who come to him with their questions are country boys or sheltered young men from good families, like him. Dongjoo doesn’t want to disappoint them, so he pretends a greater knowledge than he possesses and relies on information gleaned from the Western magazines his mother reads, from books and foreign films and most of all, from porn.

It’s fine when he’s advising men of his own age, but when older men, experienced men, start seeking his help, Dongjoo feels like a fraud. He has no idea how to counsel a soldier eight years older than him who suspects his fiancée of cheating on him. He’s tongue-tied when a simple-minded but much-feared sergeant from another hut corners him in the showers and asks, voice breaking with fear, if the red weals on his genitals are something serious or completely normal.

Dongjoo does his best to advise and assist where he can, and his reputation spreads. When his words of wisdom bear fruit, his grateful ‘clients’ reward him. This makes Dongjoo feel even worse, so he accepts the gifts only for the sake of his hut-mates. The first time he’s offered a twenty-four hour pass out of the base, he gives it to Hyuksu, who goes out excited and returns deflated and in need of advice on how best to woo a Russian girl.

Dongjoo tells Hyuksu to be himself. He wishes he could do the same.

* * *
Five weeks into his service at Busan, Dongjoo and a couple of other soldiers from neighbouring huts are called in front of a CO. In that uniquely military manner that divulges information without giving anything away, the Major tells them that they’ve been selected on the basis of their expertise during basic training and that they’ll be assisting the coast guard with an important duty. The Major then exits the room, leaving them none the wiser.

Despite the fact that he’s the youngest, the other two soldiers turn to Dongjoo and ask him what the hell is going on. He wants to say that his perceived expertise as a relationships counsellor doesn’t extend to mindreading or prophecy, but instead he uses logic and asks, “What were you good at in basic training?”

Their skills are disparate. They can find no common thread, and so they spend the next fifteen minutes concocting wild scenarios that would show off the best of their abilities. Mainly this involves sprinting along the beach resuscitating pretty girls before abseiling down a cliff under cover of darkness.

“That can’t be it,” Dongjoo says over the laughter of the other two men. “The coast guard probably has specialists who do that sort of thing all the time.”

“We do,” says a voice from the open door. “We have very intensive training. Especially in resuscitating pretty girls. Or pretty boys. These days we have to be aware of equal opportunities.”

They fumble to their feet, uncertain of protocol. Should they salute? Dongjoo skims a glance over the coast guard standing tall and still against the doorframe, gaze going to the flashes worn on his shoulders. A sergeant by anyone’s reckoning. Dongjoo salutes; the other two copy him. “Sir!”

“At ease.” The sergeant strolls into the room and takes up position at the window, looking out onto the parade ground. He seems to be in no rush to explain what he’s doing here or what he wants with them.

Dongjoo studies him. The coast guard’s uniform is a source of envy to all soldiers, especially the SSAT uniform. It’s black, worn either smart and flattering or padded and armoured. It seems to be the only uniform that’s designed to be worn with cool sunglasses. The sergeant’s boots lace above his ankles and have straps and buckles that wouldn’t be permitted on a soldier’s boots. The leather looks soft yet sturdy. Dongjoo bets the sergeant didn’t have to piss in those boots to make them wearable.

The sergeant continues to stare out of the window as if oblivious to the attention directed his way. His hair is short, black and glossy like a raven’s wing, but longer on the front, flicked forwards like a spiked wave. The style balances the shape of his face—slashing brows, a sharp chin and fine jaw, a full lower lip, and dark, assessing eyes now turned on Dongjoo.

“Like what you see?” the sergeant asks, unsmiling.

Dongjoo is too surprised to be flustered. “Sir?”

“Never mind.” The sergeant leaves the window and takes up position at the head of the room, demanding their attention. “I am Sergeant Kang Eunchul, liaison officer between the coast guard and the army. Largely this is a thankless task, so if you’re still labouring under the belief that your CO selected you for this duty as a reward for good behaviour, think again.”

Eunchul looks at each man in turn. “What the powers that be define as ‘liaison’ is open to a certain degree of interpretation. This is how I see it: the army lends its assistance to the coast guard as and when we deem necessary. The coast guard knows itself to be more than capable of handling whatever situation arises, but acknowledges that sometimes it’s practical to employ cannon-fodder. The army gets to feel righteous and thinks the coast guard should be grateful. Meanwhile, the navy looks down on us both, and so the army and the coast guard are united against a bunch of web-footed wankers.”

The other two soldiers laugh. Dongjoo keeps his gaze fixed on Eunchul.

“I need an assistant,” Eunchul continues. “I don’t need three. Just one.” He pauses; even smiles after a fashion. “Let me state again—this is a thankless task. It does not involve abseiling off cliffs and resuscitating babes in bikinis, although if the opportunity presents itself, you have my blessing to do both of these things, and at the same time if necessary.

“You will report to me. You will work off-base for as long as I require your assistance. Mostly you will be engaged in clerking, filing, or follow-up work. Essentially this is a desk job, so I assume the Major chose you because you all display some sort of competence with the written word.”

Dongjoo blinks. He doesn’t want a desk job. He doesn’t want anything that’ll take him from the familiarity of the army base. He certainly doesn’t want to be forced into close proximity with this hard man and his sharp edges and his clear eyes that seem to see right through everything.

“You will not be paid for this duty,” Eunchul says, sounding as bored as if reciting from the dictionary. “You will receive no other form of compensation. In fact, you will lose most of your free time and a good eighty percent of your leave will be curtailed. You will still be required to take part in your squad’s proscribed activities, though you will be excused general fatigues if and when the situation requires it.”

Into the ensuing silence, one of the other men says in horrified tones, “It’s a punishment.”

Eunchul smiles, and for the first time he looks genuinely amused. “It’s your duty. You should embrace it.”

“It’s voluntary, right, sir?” the second man asks.

“You’ve already been volunteered.” Eunchul takes a step back and perches on the edge of a desk. “All that remains is for me to select one of you.” His smile fades, expression turning businesslike once more. “I left you alone for fifteen minutes for a reason. Now you all know one another at least on a superficial level, perhaps you’d tell me why your colleagues—not yourselves—should be given this duty.”

There’s a moment of silence. Dongjoo narrows his eyes and presses his lips into a line, aware of the ramifications of what Eunchul is asking.

Eunchul looks at him. The smile is back, just the hint of it, a tease, a challenge. Dongjoo refuses to drop his gaze. He already knows what his answer will be, but the sergeant doesn’t call on him first. Instead Eunchul gestures to the soldier at the end of the row. “You. Begin.”

The soldier shoots them an apologetic glance and mumbles his way through mostly invented reasons as to why Dongjoo and the other man should be picked as Eunchul’s assistant.

The second soldier repeats him almost word for word.

“Now you,” Eunchul says, turning to Dongjoo.

Dongjoo remains silent. The other two soldiers look at him in confusion.

Eunchul smiles, his eyes gleaming. “I know you’re capable of speech. I’ve heard at least one word from you.”

“Sir,” Dongjoo says, stiffly.

“That’s the word I heard.” Eunchul slides off the desk and takes a step towards Dongjoo, still smiling. There’s something dangerous about him, something that makes Dongjoo want to run away and go closer at the same time. “Tell me why your colleagues should be given this duty.”

Dongjoo takes a deep breath; lets it out slowly and carefully. “Sir, I choose not to speak, sir.”

Eunchul stops right in front of him. “And why is that?”

“Sir.” Dongjoo flashes a glance that’s pure insubordination, though he keeps his voice polite and respectful. “We are the army, sir. We are all equal.”

The other two soldiers shift in their seats and murmur belated agreement.

Eunchul’s smile is perfect and deadly. “Well said. What’s your name, soldier?”

Dongjoo lifts his chin and meets Eunchul’s hard gaze. “Han Dongjoo, sir.”

“Han Dongjoo.” Eunchul says his name slowly, thoughtfully, as if savouring it, and then gives him a mocking bow. “I look forwards to working with you.”

* * *
The Busan coast guard headquarters is a large, modern building, all glass and steel, filled with the kind of high-tech equipment Dongjoo has only seen on television. Banks of computers, screens that can be scrolled and dropped and retrieved with the wave of a hand, radar and satellite images, things that churn out coordinates, infra-red and GPS and cameras on tiny armoured submersibles with grabby mechanical hands.

The coast guard clearly has more money than the army. More resources, a better uniform, and it employs women. Some of them are pretty, and Dongjoo is embarrassed to be seen wearing his ill-fitting army fatigues.

“Chin up,” Eunchul murmurs. “You’re here to do an important job.”

Bolstered by this statement, Dongjoo draws back his shoulders and imitates the cool, confident way Eunchul moves. He catches sight of his reflection in the smoked glass windows of a conference room and realises he looks like an idiot. He feels stupid, too tall, too skinny, not yet in complete control of his limbs. His eyes look huge in his pale face, the effect exaggerated because of the short crop of his hair.

He puts his head down and shuffles after Eunchul.

After the tour, which both cows Dongjoo and also fills him with a kind of misplaced pride, Eunchul drives him across town to an older concrete building with a corrugated roof and a triple-locked door and bars on the windows. A faint smell of damp permeates the air.

“This is your office,” Eunchul says, pointing to a battered desk in one corner of a large, mostly empty room. An old computer terminal stands on the desk beside a pile of files easily two feet high. There’s six filing cabinets against the back wall. Two of them bear the imprint of booted feet. The walls are covered with maps showing the Korean peninsula and the surrounding waters. There’s also a blackboard with a long list of operation names and personal names painted on it. Some are crossed through.

“Your caseload.” Eunchul gestures at the names on the board. “If you manage to clear even one of those, we’ll be grateful. Your predecessor managed to file about a third of the paperwork for Operation Hippocamp before he finished his term of service.”

“Hippocamp?” Dongjoo stares at the list, not relishing the enormity of the task ahead of him.

“My CO has the habit of naming operations after ancient shit.” Eunchul sits in a swivel chair behind a similarly battered desk with a slightly more modern computer.

“A hippocamp is a seahorse.” Dongjoo takes a seat. The back of his chair creaks alarmingly and almost tips him onto the floor.

“I’ll requisition you a new chair.” Eunchul boots up his computer. “And yes, a hippocamp is a seahorse. A made-up one.”

“They’re in Roman mosaics. I saw some at the Getty in Los Angeles.” Dongjoo doesn’t know why he’s still talking. He copies Eunchul and turns on his computer, too. It’s so crappy it doesn’t even prompt him for a password.

“Rich kid, huh.” Eunchul doesn’t sound as if he’s judging him.

“Yes.” Dongjoo opens the first file on the teetering pile. It’s a report on the theft of a fishing boat.

“Me too,” Eunchul says, almost as an afterthought.

Dongjoo glances up, startled. He hadn’t pegged Kang Eunchul as someone who came from money. Men raised in privilege have an air about them, a gloss that renders them sleek and smug. Dongjoo recognises it in himself occasionally. He thinks his gloss is more transparent because he lives with his father’s example, and he knows he can’t feel self-satisfied when his marriage failed after only half a year.

But he hasn’t seen any of that gloss in Eunchul. Quite the opposite, in fact. Dongjoo waits, hoping for more, but Eunchul taps at the keyboard and reads something on his computer screen.

“I’ll make a start with this,” Dongjoo says. “Sir.”

It’s only then that he realises it’s the first time he’s called Eunchul sir all day.

* * *
Though the army permits him to leave the base every morning, they don’t give him a mode of transport. His first proper day of liaison work sees him walk-running, army-style, for almost seven miles. He has no phone and no money, and by the time he reaches the office, he’s forty-five minutes late and his fatigues are wet with sweat.

Eunchul looks up from his paperwork, then checks the time.

“I’m sorry,” Dongjoo pants, bending double and resting his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. “Sir, I’m sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.”

Dongjoo straightens and goes over to his desk. His legs feel rubbery with adrenalin and his hands shake when he boots up the computer.

A moment later, Eunchul brings him a cup of coffee. “Seven miles in forty-five minutes.”

“I got lost. Took the wrong turning and found myself at the port. Had to backtrack.” Dongjoo pulls the coffee towards him, inhales the heady scent, and takes a grateful sip. It’s exactly how he prefers it. Right now, he thinks he loves Sergeant Kang Eunchul.

“Seven miles in forty-five minutes when you got lost and when you didn’t expect it,” Eunchul says. He smiles and ruffles the soft re-growth of Dongjoo’s hair. “You’re tougher than you think.”

Dongjoo blinks, lips wet with coffee. “I didn’t want to let you down, sir.”

Eunchul smiles again. “Tomorrow, I’ll pick you up.”

* * *
They fall into a rhythm. Eunchul meets him every morning at the gates of the base and drops him off in the evening. During the day, Dongjoo works his way through the files. He tells his hut-mates that the job is so tedious and boring he often falls asleep at his desk. He tells them the most classified thing he’s ever handled was a dispute over where to drop crab pots. His hut-mates make sympathetic noises of the ‘rather you than me’ variety and eventually stop asking if he met any hot girls at the coast guard HQ or in a coffee shop or the post office or just walking around the town.

Dongjoo enjoys his work. He doesn’t want to tell anyone in case it’s taken away from him. Given a clear directive and left alone to do things in his own way and at his own speed, he’s surprised to find himself more than capable. Most of the files relate to minor disturbances and petty theft as well as to applications for extending marine berths, reports of accidents, and investigations into cargo manifestos. He’s never been academically gifted, but he remembers things and he makes connections, and by the end of his third week with the coast guard liaison, he’s drawn a line through both Operation Hippocamp and the next name on the list.

Dongjoo enjoys working for Eunchul. He’s never going to tell anyone that, either, because they might get the wrong idea. Even though Eunchul is only a few years older, Dongjoo looks up to him, perhaps even hero-worships him a little, because not only has he done his military service and holds rank and wears a hot uniform, he’s also confident and seems so certain of his place in the world.

In that respect, Eunchul is a lot like Dongjoo’s grandfather. Unlike his grandfather, Eunchul doesn’t play games. He’s straightforward, tells Dongjoo what he wants, compromises when necessary without making a fuss, and when Dongjoo produces results, Eunchul offers uncomplicated praise. He smiles and says, “Good job,” and puts a hand on Dongjoo’s shoulder, ruffles his hair and brings him coffee the way he likes it.

Even though Dongjoo feels as if he could burst with pride on those occasions, he tells no one. Not even his mother or his grandfather, in his occasional letters and phone calls home. He wants to keep this sense of achievement to himself.

As the weeks wear on, Eunchul is in the office less and less as he attends to his coast guard duties. He doesn’t talk about these operations and call-outs directly, but instead takes to dictating his reports to Dongjoo. Most of what is reported is classified. Dongjoo knows that probably he shouldn’t be hearing these things. He also knows that, as a soldier, he’s automatically bound by oath and duty to remain silent in a way that the stenographers employed by the coast guard aren’t.

In a straightforward, roundabout way, Eunchul is showing Dongjoo how much he trusts him. How much he values him. Dongjoo thrives on this unspoken regard and works harder, setting aside his allotted tasks to transcribe Eunchul’s reports and then printing them out for him to check over.

“Your spelling,” Eunchul chides him gently, making corrections with a green pen.

“Daji scolded me for the same thing,” Dongjoo says one time. “I would never have passed my exams without her help.”

Eunchul looks at him. “Your girlfriend?”

A blush creeps across Dongjoo’s face. “My wife. Ex-wife.”

Incredulity lights Eunchul’s expression. “You were married?”

“Six months.” Dongjoo drops his gaze and fiddles with the selection of coloured pens he uses to annotate the files. “We were very young. We made a mistake.”

“In getting married or in getting divorced?”

Dongjoo glances up. Eunchul is looking at him. He doesn’t know how to reply.

“You’re so full of regrets,” Eunchul says after a moment. “That’s not the way to live. Not for someone like you.”

“What about you?” The words blurt out. Dongjoo adds “Sir”, as if that’s going to make the question more palatable.

Eunchul continues to look at him, gaze gone dark and thoughtful. “Tonight,” he says, returning the corrected report to Dongjoo, “we’re going out drinking, you and me.”

“But sir, I need to be back at the base for dinner at nineteen-hundred hours,” Dongjoo says.

“Not tonight. I’ll get you the necessary permissions. We’re going out.”

That becomes a habit, too. Once a week, at first, and then twice a week, and though they spend part of the evening talking about work, the rest of the time is their own. Despite the difference in rank and service, Eunchul is easy to talk to. He’s a good listener and he always knows the right thing to say, whether to draw out a confidence or to turn awkwardness into humour. Dongjoo is grateful to find someone who won’t judge him and who seems to respect him.

For the first time in his life, Dongjoo feels like a man.

One evening, as they sit in what’s become their favourite bar, Eunchul says, “Your army buddies say you’re the font of all knowledge in dealing with women.”

“They think that because I was married.” Dongjoo slides his beer bottle across the gleaming surface of the bar. “In actual fact, I know nothing.”

Eunchul lifts his drink to his lips. “Oh?”

The truth has been a burden for so long. Dongjoo needs to shed its load. He trusts Eunchul. Clutching his beer, he says in a rush, “We never slept together. Daji and I, we didn’t... I mean, I wanted to. And we were married. It’s not like it’s wrong for a husband and wife to... But we were so young. And I was afraid of making her pregnant. I didn’t—I didn’t want to hurt her.”

Eunchul puts down his drink. “You thought you might hurt her?”

“Yes.” Dongjoo isn’t thirsty any more. He hangs his head. “I know it’s stupid.”

“Fear isn’t stupid.” Eunchul covers Dongjoo’s hand with his own. “It can be irrational, but it’s never stupid.”

Dongjoo stares at him. “I bet you’re not afraid of anything. Sir.”

Eunchul laughs. He doesn’t take his hand away. It feels nice there. “I’m afraid of everything,” he says, smiling. “That’s the only way I can keep ahead.”

“Ahead of what?” Dongjoo asks, thinking that, because of the smile, Eunchul is joking.

“The regrets.” Eunchul stops smiling. He lifts his hand and signals for another drink.

* * *
Occasionally Eunchul’s friends and colleagues from the SSAT join them on their nights out. Dongjoo feels like an outsider then, especially when a guy called Kim Sunwoo tries to monopolise Eunchul with conversations that invariably begin with ‘Do you remember when...’, but Eunchul balances his attentions with careful skill and never, ever makes Dongjoo feel like an unwanted guest.

Sunwoo remarks upon it one time, smile broad and easy, his eyes hard and sharp. “You hoping this kid will switch allegiance at the end of his term of service and join the coast guard?”

“No.” Eunchul leans back in his chair. “Dongjoo will follow his father and grandfather into business.”

Sunwoo frowns. “Then why are you...” He pauses briefly, long enough for Dongjoo to insert the words wasting your time before Sunwoo continues, “mentoring him?”

Eunchul raises his eyebrows. “Am I mentoring him?”

“Bro.” Sunwoo laughs. “You guys are in here twice a week. Are you telling me this is a social thing? A date?”

Dongjoo frowns. “What’s wrong with a guy going out with a friend?”

Sunwoo gives him a withering stare. “Eunchul doesn’t have friends. He’s a career man. He has five-year plans, ten-year plans, twenty-year plans. He’s going to run the coast guard by the time he’s forty. All those plans don’t leave a lot of room for friendships unless they’re politically useful.”

“You’re my friend,” Eunchul says, mildly.

“We trained together!” Sunwoo lifts his hands in an exasperated gesture. “We’ve known each other six years and I still don’t know you. Not properly. It’s like we’re friends because we’re colleagues when it should be the other way around.”

Eunchul half smiles. “Are you jealous, Sunwoo?”

“Of that child?” Sunwoo jerks his chin at Dongjoo. “Hell, no. I just don’t get why you’re hanging out with him if he can’t do anything for your career.”

“I like him,” Eunchul says. “Dongjoo is interesting and funny and kind.”

Sunwoo’s mouth drops open. “Kind? What—”

“It’s important.” Eunchul slides his gaze towards Dongjoo, his smile warming. “Kindness is important.”

* * *
“Do you really like me because I’m kind?”

The question has been pushing at him all night, but Dongjoo only feels safe enough to ask it now, well away from the bar and even further away from Kim Sunwoo.

They’re in Eunchul’s car, parked a short distance from the gates of the army base. He can see the glow of illumination from the sentry hut and the arc-lights cutting across the parade ground further ahead, but the sanctuary of the base seems miles away, a fantasy, and this moment, here within the front seats of the car, is the only reality.

He turns his head to look at Eunchul, waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Eunchul says at last. He’s gazing through the windscreen at the army base, but then he turns his head, too. He meets Dongjoo’s gaze. Holds it. “And,” he adds, very softly, “because of this.” He leans across the gap separating them and kisses Dongjoo.

Eunchul’s lips are firm. His mouth is warm.

Dongjoo freezes for a heartbeat. It’s the first time he’s kissed a man. It’s only the second time he’s been kissed by someone who wasn’t a member of his family. Strangely, it feels right. Daji took his first kiss, awkward and hesitant, the fumbling of a boy with his first girl. Eunchul is giving him the chance to learn how to be a man with another man.

Dongjoo kisses him back. He does it on instinct, parting his lips and allowing more heat into the embrace. Eunchul tastes of beer and confidence. Dongjoo hopes he tastes just as certain.

They’re both wearing seatbelts, so they can’t get too close. Probably that’s a good thing, considering where they are. Eunchul makes a soft, hungry noise and mouths at Dongjoo, giving him gentle love-bites that rouse a fierce throb of desire, more urgent and primal than anything he’s experienced before.

Lust, Dongjoo realises. This is lust.

He likes it. He wants more of it. Most of all, he’s glad it’s Eunchul awakening it in him and not a Russian prostitute.

When it comes to an end quite naturally, there’s no embarrassment, even though Dongjoo thinks perhaps there should be. He looks for it, but it’s not there, and so he forgets about it and focuses instead on how much he’d enjoyed the sensation of Eunchul’s mouth on his, the warmth and taste of him.

“I’m not gay,” he says into the darkened silence.

Eunchul smiles. “I don’t want you to be.”

“Then what do you want?”

After a moment of silence, Eunchul reaches out and strokes a thumb over Dongjoo’s cheek. He looks thoughtful and slightly lost. “I want you to be kind.”

* * *
They become lovers slowly, in increments. Kisses at first, more and more kisses, snatched and stolen whenever work allows. Dongjoo looks forward to them, goes to the office every morning with the hope that he’ll see Eunchul. If he’s not there, it’s okay. Dongjoo does his work and strikes through another name on the list. His day is absorbing enough without the need for Eunchul’s kisses. Those are just a bonus.

But when Eunchul is in the office...

They ration out their kisses. One when Eunchul brings Dongjoo a coffee. Another when Dongjoo types out a report without any spelling mistakes. A third, hot and hungry and desperate, before they leave the office in the evening.

In back alleys and the back seat of Eunchul’s car, they touch one another and explore their bodies and their limits. Dongjoo realises there’s more than one way to masturbate. The first time he and Eunchul press together, grinding and rubbing, all sweat and deliciously hard pressure, Dongjoo comes just from the pleasure of Eunchul’s tongue-tip tracing the shell of his ear. He knows logically it was all that shoving and thrusting that got him there, but what pushed him over was the delicate lick and the hot breath and Eunchul’s soft moan of need.

The first time Eunchul goes down on him, Dongjoo comes way too fast. He’s advised his fellow soldiers about blowjobs based on porn he’d seen and things he’d read, but the reality is quite different. It’s the first sexual act he can’t imagine Daji performing on him. It seems too wicked, too much to do with lust rather than love. He thinks he wants to save this as something he only does with Eunchul.

“I want to do it to you, too,” he announces when he’s caught his breath and the swim of sensation has quieted. Partly it’s to cover his embarrassment at shooting so soon, but mostly it’s because he’s curious. He’s never seen another man’s dick before. In public toilets and shared showers it’s impossible to miss the flash of cock, but he’s never seen one like this, so up close and personal, and Dongjoo takes his time examining Eunchul’s dick, touching and stroking and tasting every inch.

There’s a lot of him to study. Dongjoo finds it thrilling, the knowledge that he’s the one to arouse Eunchul so much, and when he finally parts his lips around the head and takes Eunchul’s big, thick cock into his mouth, Dongjoo is more excited than he’s ever been in his life.

“I’m not gay,” he says again afterwards, the taste of Eunchul’s seed both sweet and bitter on his tongue.

Eunchul murmurs a laugh against his throat. “No, you’re not.”

Dongjoo strokes through Eunchul’s hair. It feels like silk, shorter and softer than Daji’s windswept, slightly frizzy locks. “Are you gay?” he asks, because he honestly doesn’t know.

“I’m...” Eunchul pauses, “complicated.”

Dongjoo smiles and hugs him. “That’s what my grandfather and parents say when they don’t want to talk about something. They say it’s complicated.”

Eunchul lifts his head. His eyes are very dark, glinting in the shadows of night. “One day I’ll tell you everything. But not now.”

* * *
One evening on the base, Dongjoo is approached for advice by a soldier who seems nervous and afraid. Conscious of listening ears from the surrounding beds, Dongjoo suggests that they go out and do a lap of the parade ground. Almost three-quarters of the way around their second lap, the soldier admits that he has feelings for one of his hut-mates.

Dongjoo thinks before he speaks. “Have you felt like this before? Because it’s perfectly normal to have a crush on someone of the same gender, especially if you admire them in some way—if they’re strong or athletic or clever or...”

The soldier keeps his eyes fixed ahead. “It’s not a crush. I think I love him. I’ve felt something similar before. I mean, I’m gay, I know that. But I don’t know if he is, and... It hurts.”

Dongjoo stops jogging. The soldier turns back. “Shit, I’m sorry. You must be disgusted. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Dongjoo waves away the apologies. “I’m not disgusted or shocked. I just... I don’t know how best to advise you.”

The soldier exhales. “Yeah. Shouldn’t have asked a straight guy. Sorry.”

Dongjoo shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not that. People are people and relationships are relationships, no matter what goes where.”

He thinks some more, and they resume their jog and their discussion. By the end of the fifth lap, they’re walking, and Dongjoo has offered the soldier and his friend twenty-four hour off-base passes and has given him the name of a gay bar that they could ‘accidentally’ stumble into on their night out, just as a way of testing the other guy’s reactions.

“How do you know about gay bars in Busan?” the soldier asks, puzzled.

Dongjoo gives him a mysterious smile. “I know everything.”

* * *
The incident makes him think about his relationship with Eunchul, especially when the soldier and his friend return from their twenty-four hour leave looking smug and telling everyone they scored big time. The soldier gives Dongjoo the thumbs up and then rough-houses with his friend, touching and laughing as their mates gather round, eager to hear about their adventures with the Russian girls.

Dongjoo goes to the office next day and works hard, his thoughts not quite confused but not altogether steady. When Eunchul arrives mid-afternoon with a cup of coffee, Dongjoo delays the accompanying kiss, turning his head from the sweet temptation of Eunchul’s lips.

“What is it?” Eunchul asks, straightening but not sliding away from his perch on Dongjoo’s battered old desk.

“I like you.” Dongjoo looks up at him, serious and wide-eyed, not wanting any of this to be misunderstood. “Eunchul, I like you very much. I admire you. You’re handsome and smart and you’re confident and you know how to talk to people and you’re cool and interesting and you wear a hot uniform and... I really like you—”

Eunchul smiles. “But.”

Dongjoo closes his eyes. Opens them again and meets Eunchul’s gaze. “I don’t love you. Is that okay?”

“Oh, Dongjoo. Of course it’s okay.” The smile broadens. “Really, truly, it’s okay. You’re straight. I know that. And you’re still in love with Daji.”

“I am?” Dongjoo stares at him, at first doubting and then accepting the truth. “I am.”

Eunchul strokes the back of a finger down his cheek, still smiling. “Yes, you are. And that’s okay, too.”

“But...” There’s something more, something Dongjoo has to ask. “Do you love me? Because it doesn’t seem fair if you do. Because unreciprocated love hurts, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“The same way you didn’t want to hurt Daji?” Eunchul’s eyes are very bright.

Dongjoo swallows. “It’s different. Everything’s different with you. And not just because you’re a man.”

“Because you don’t love me,” Eunchul says, and leans forward.

Dongjoo kisses him, long and lingering. “Maybe,” he says when they part, “maybe I love you a little.”

Eunchul nuzzles at him, words soft and careful. “You can love me a little. As long as you don’t try to tell yourself that you’re in love with me. Because that would hurt us both, and that really wouldn’t be fair.”

“How do you know so much?” Dongjoo asks, yearning.

Eunchul’s smile is worn through with an odd sort of sadness. “I told you—I’m complicated.”

* * *
Dongjoo loses his virginity on a boat.

It’s his first weekend of leave, and though his hut-mates have invited him to spend forty-eight hours on a mammoth pub-crawl through the city, he pretends he has to work for part of the time and says he’ll catch up with them on Sunday afternoon. While they all rush for the bars and clubs and girls on Friday evening, Dongjoo heads for the marina.

Eunchul is waiting for him. The pretence is that they’re going fishing, but they both know what’s going to happen. Dongjoo is nervous and excited. He’s been in a permanent state of semi-arousal since Eunchul extended the invitation, and he can hardly wait till they’re alone together.

The yacht is a surprise. Dongjoo has been on cruisers and catamarans, but never a smaller class of boat. It’s a racing yacht, its hull low and sleek, the cabin for’ard beneath the lateen rigged mast—or at least that’s how Eunchul introduces it.

“This is yours?” Dongjoo asks, staring at the wheel and the furled sails. On the stern is the name, spangled with the stars of two constellations: Sky Painter.

“Yes.” Eunchul carries Dongjoo’s bag aboard and then holds out his hand.

Dongjoo takes it and steps from dry land into Eunchul’s arms.

They look at one another. “My father wanted to buy me a yacht as a graduation gift,” Eunchul says, tightening his hold on Dongjoo as a swell rocks the boat. “But I didn’t want that. I wanted to buy it myself. The advantage of working in the coast guard is that you know what’s going up for auction before most other people do, and there’s always a favour that can be called in if you want something in particular. Even so, I got Sky Painter above board and legally.”

It’s strange, the way he says it. Dongjoo laughs. “And your father’s gift would have been illegal?”

Eunchul slides his hands free and moves away. “Come and look at the cabin.”

While Dongjoo unpacks and familiarises himself with the low but surprisingly spacious dimensions of the cabin, Eunchul gets them underway. They leave the marina and set a course north, following the coastline. Dongjoo studies their route on the chart as Eunchul powers down the outboard and sets the mainsail to catch the late evening breeze.

It’s peaceful on the water. Eunchul keeps them clear of the main shipping lanes, and although as night falls they see lights from the occasional fishing boat, mostly they’re on their own. It’s the same on land, too—once the sprawl of Busan and its environs is behind them, the lights from houses become few and far between.

Dongjoo lies on the bench at the stern and listens to the sound of the waves, the splash and slap of water against the hull, the creak of the sail and the metallic jingle of the wind in the ratlines. The scent of salt and ozone surrounds him until Eunchul drags out a hamper of food and unpacks it, revealing tubs of cooked meat and kimchi and cold soba noodles and sweet, tangy sauces. There’s wine, too, an excellent vintage Eunchul says he liberated from his father’s cellar, and Dongjoo says his grandfather would have approved.

They eat and drink, and before it gets too dark to navigate, Eunchul casts the anchor and moors the yacht within the sheltering arms of a small bay. They drink another bottle, and Dongjoo feels giddy with wine and happiness and anticipation.

Eunchul moves closer. “I love you,” he says, holding Dongjoo’s gaze. “Let me say it. I love you because you don’t love me, because you love Daji. I love you because you’re kind, and that’s all I need right now.”

Dongjoo stares at him, then swigs down the last of the wine and kisses Eunchul, lips wet and sweet. “Take me to bed,” he says when they break free. “Love me.”

The first time is a surprise. They tangle together on the bed, the quilt rucked up to one side and the yacht listing with the swell, and they kiss and kiss and touch one another until they’re both comfortable with the movement of the waves, and they’re both ready and hungry for one another.

Eunchul rolls a condom over Dongjoo’s cock and slicks lube all over him. Dongjoo is so lost in pleasure that he doesn’t entirely realise what’s happening until Eunchul arranges himself on the bed, a pillow beneath his hips, and he holds out his arms for Dongjoo to come to him.

“You want me to...?” Dongjoo crawls over Eunchul, tense and shivering with excitement. “Oh God, you want me to fuck you?”

“First time for me, too.” Eunchul hooks one leg around Dongjoo’s waist, opening himself up. “I’ve never done it like this before.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dongjoo says, guiding the head of his dick to Eunchul’s lubed hole.

“You won’t. You’ll see. It’ll be good. So good.” Eunchul arches up, pushes down, and Dongjoo is inside him, gripped by tight heat. They both gasp and hold still, and then the boat rocks and they go with it. The swell makes it easier, makes it natural, and Dongjoo forgets to be nervous and instead loses himself in the sounds Eunchul makes, in the taste of his skin and the smell of his sweat, in the heave of their bodies and the glorious crashing pleasure of their release.

The second time, Dongjoo turns onto his front and presses his knees into the mattress and takes Eunchul’s weight over him, and he moans into the quilt as Eunchul licks him out and then fucks him, sensation bright and wonderful as it spikes through him over and over again.

Afterwards, Eunchul fetches another bottle of wine and they toast one another, wrapped in the quilt with the pillows shoved against the bulkhead as they sit up and cuddle together.

“I’m North Korean,” Eunchul says, his hands steady as he pours more wine into Dongjoo’s glass.

Dongjoo stares at him. “What did you say?”

Eunchul puts down the bottle without pouring another glass for himself. He looks at Dongjoo. “I’m North Korean. I’m a political orphan. I was smuggled into Busan in a shipping container when I was seven years old.”

“Oh,” Dongjoo says, aware of how grossly inadequate his response is but not knowing how else to react.

Eunchul smiles. “Drink.”

Dongjoo takes a sip of the wine, then offers out the glass. “You, too.” He watches Eunchul drink, remembers those lips on him, over him, and says, “It doesn’t matter. Why should it matter? You’re still you. Even if you came from Saturn.”

“It does matter.” Eunchul curls a hand around Dongjoo’s arm and slides a caress all the way up to his shoulder. “I’ve grown up here, been educated here, and I work here, but inside...” He hesitates; slips into silence.

“Your father,” Dongjoo says, retrieving the glass. “Is he...?”

Eunchul shakes his head. “He’s not my real father. I was placed into care, a shelter for North Korean kids, and he adopted me. He’s a philanthropist. No children of his own, so he adopted me and a couple of other kids. He says I’m his brightest hope for the future.”

Dongjoo smiles. “That’s nice. He sounds like a good guy. Supportive. He must be proud of you being in the coast guard.”

“Yeah.” Eunchul takes the wineglass again and drains it. “Yeah, he is. But...” He stops, sets aside the glass and puts an arm around Dongjoo. “Sometimes it’s hard to do what a parent wants you to do.”

“Yes.” Dongjoo tilts his head and leans into Eunchul’s embrace, enjoying the feeling of warm, naked skin against him. “Sometimes parental expectation is too much. But in those circumstances, you have to do what your heart tells you.”

Eunchul studies him. “That’s what you did when you married Daji.”

Dongjoo nods. “I don’t regret it,” he says. “Not now. Not now I’ve met you. Now I’ve known you. Does that sound weird? It’s like knowing you made me realise things. Made me put things into order.” He’s quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of Eunchul’s heartbeat. “I won’t have regrets from now on. Even if I never meet her again, even if I never tell her all the things I want to say. Even if I never fall in love again. I won’t regret it, not any of it, and that’s because of you.”

He shifts around in Eunchul’s arms and looks at him. “Thank you.”

Eunchul is wearing the same lost expression as the first time they’d kissed. “Dongjoo,” he says. “I love you.”

They kiss, the boat rising and falling, the swell nudging them together, and Dongjoo thinks I love you too, I love you, I love you, and in that moment it’s true, and it’s forever, and he won’t regret it, not even when they part.

Fic: For Fashion’s Sake [TVXQ RPS | AU | 2/2]

glitterburn — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 19:21:16 GMT

iv. Some Day My Prints Will Come

Zhou Mi wanders into the workroom one morning and asks the designers to gather round, then announces the print challenge.

Changmin cringes. He hates prints. He much prefers the clean simplicity of solid colour. Perhaps he’ll use a little ombré if he really wants to go wild, but generally he goes out of his way to avoid prints.

Today though, that isn’t going to happen. Today they’re supposed to be creating a print based on something meaningful from their past. Henry, a previous challenge winner from season six, comes to give them a motivational speech. Changmin recalls that Henry’s winning print involved red maple leaves against a white background. The maple leaves had badly drawn smiley faces and sported baseball caps, and the phrase YO WASS HAPPENIN DUDES was written underneath. Henry had made a pair of MC Hammer-style pants and teamed them with a black tank top bearing the slogan I ♥ the 80s in case nobody had worked out the reference already.

To this day Changmin still hasn’t worked out why Henry won that challenge, but after watching seven seasons of Stitched Up and ten seasons of Project Runway, he’s come to terms with the fact that sometimes the judges have absolutely no taste and are in fact complete idiots.

Zhou Mi thanks Henry for his insight and then says that they’ll all be given dossiers of inspirational images from their past, and that someone special is going to deliver them. Changmin sits at his bench and hopes Yunho is his special someone. The workroom doors open and in come a succession of designers’ mothers. Changmin cranes his head, looking for Yunho’s bright, beaming sunshine face, but his hopes are dashed when his father’s secretary, Hanna, approaches him with an embarrassed smile.

“Here’s your dossier,” she says, handing it to him. “Your mother had a charity tennis match to attend and your father and sisters are in the middle of a board meeting. This is all they could find at such short notice.”

Right at that moment, Changmin overhears Spoon’s mother exclaiming that three weeks just hadn’t been long enough for her to get together all the pictures she’d wanted to include in his dossier.

Hanna looks even more embarrassed. Changmin’s eyes burn. He bites his lip and gestures for her to sit down.

“I can’t stay,” she says, glancing at the clock. “I need to get back to work.” She hesitates, twisting her hands together. “Good luck, Changmin. I hope you win.”

“Thanks,” he croaks. He watches her leave, escorted out by a puzzled Zhou Mi, and then he bows his head so his hair falls into his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens the dossier.

It’s almost empty. There’s a photocopy of a picture of him in his graduate’s robes in Trafalgar Square. He looks annoyed and amused at the same time, and there’s a pigeon perched on his mortarboard. His university friends surround him, similarly attired, and they’re all laughing and joyful.

Underneath that picture is a snapshot of him at school. He has a bowl haircut that makes his ears stick out and he stares solemnly into the camera lens.

Finally there’s one of the original contact prints from the photo shoot he and Yunho had done for the Posh Boy line. They’re standing close together in an expensive boutique hotel, Yunho in a severe black suit with a white and blue diagonal-striped tie, Changmin much more casual, leaning on the back of a chair and wearing cream trousers and a striped shirt beneath a white-on-red grid-patterned blazer. They’re looking at one another, Yunho all haughty and Changmin just about to smile, and it’s immediately clear to anyone with eyes to see that they want to rip each other’s clothes off and have rampant sex on the floor.

For all the subtextual filth in that photo, it’s actually very classy. Changmin’s mother had admired it, so Yunho had presented it to her in an elegant silver frame. Changmin hadn’t seen it again until this moment, and he wonders where the frame went. Probably it’s housing a picture of his father’s latest acquisition, a hot springs complex somewhere on Shikoku.

He glances at Spoon’s overflowing dossier, at the way Amber is cuddled against her mother as they reminisce, at Milhye and her mum sitting side by side, talking quietly. Though neither of Siwon’s parents are here, his sister is with him, giggling as she flicks through his sketchbook.

Changmin lays his pathetic dossier to one side and gets up. He walks out of the workroom, aware of the cameraman scurrying after him. He stands in the corridor. Probably he should do something dramatic for the sake of the TV audience. He should run into the toilets crying or he should punch the wall, but in all honesty he doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that he misses Yunho so much it hurts.

He even misses those stupid mutts that Yunho had insisted on bringing to live with them. Those mangy curs with their ridiculous names. Pucci should be the name of a small dog, not an enormous beast like the Leonberger. And Lagerfeld is a noble name, not something to be given to a squashed-face pug.

The thought of Yunho and the dogs makes him smile a little. The cameraman wheels around him, whispers, “Are you okay?”

Changmin nods. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m... I’ll go back inside.”

He returns to the workroom. Milhye and Spoon look up, but he waves away their concern. Opening his sketchbook, he doodles random shapes before sliding over to the touch-screen computer upon which he’s supposed to unleash his creativity. He plays around with the colour wheel for a while, writes his name and Yunho’s name and draws flowers and hearts around them, and then dismisses the screen.

He has absolutely no inspiration.

Picking up the dossier again, he studies the three pictures. He supposes they all represent a moment of freedom, for all that they might seem to suggest the opposite. He’d enjoyed his time at school. He was clever and bright and the teachers paid attention to him. Going to St Martin’s had been a different kind of freedom. He’d thought he’d beaten his father and got his own way by going to fashion college on the other side of the world, and when he’d graduated he’d felt nervous and excited at the prospect of returning home.

And then there’s the picture with Yunho. Apart from that very slight suggestion of a smile on Changmin’s face, they both look buttoned-up and proper. No one would ever know that, at the end of the photo shoot, he and Yunho had almost totally trashed that hotel suite shagging like bunnies across every available surface.

Changmin sighs and puts his head down on his sketchbook. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, the sound of conversation gentle around him.

He wakes with a start to the smell of damp paper. Eww, he’s drooled on his sketchpad. Changmin sits bolt upright, blinking, shaking off the memory of a horrible dream in which Siwon was eliminated from the show and decided to call around to visit Yunho, who allowed himself to be seduced by Siwon’s washboard abs and stupid chiffon outfits.

“It’s just a dream,” Changmin mutters to himself. He’d fallen asleep on his mechanical pencil and now he has a really unflattering line imprinted into his forehead. He pulls his fringe forwards to hide it, even though the mothers and Siwon’s sister have gone home and no one cares what he looks like, and then he glances at the clock and realises he has five minutes left to design his print and send it off to the fabric printers.

“Oh crap,” he breathes. “Oh, for fu—fashion’s sake.”

“Girl, I love your new catchphrase,” Spoon calls out.

“Fuuuu fashion fashion fashion,” Changmin squawks, scribbling his finger across the touch-screen in a panicked, random design. He duplicates the image to fill the available space and then presses send before he can even do a test print on paper. Whatever happens tomorrow, he’ll just have to make it work.

After a restless night spent worrying about exactly what kind of subliminal Rorschach test he’ll be sending down the runway, Changmin arrives at the workroom to find the print on his bench. The other designers are ecstatic about seeing their creations brought to life, but Changmin just stares at his, then shrugs and starts cutting out a cute, flirtatious summer dress. He has no idea if the design fits the aesthetic of the print, and frankly he doesn’t care.

The runway show is a confusion of interpretations. Jaejoong, Kyuhyun, Madame Oh, and guest judge Henry look baffled by everything that walks in front of them.

Siwon’s print is a violent mess of contradictory colours overlaid with weird animal shapes, flames, and obscure Biblical passages. He says his inspiration was the Book of Revelation. Kyuhyun says the only revelation he can see is in the use of chiffon to make a pair of dungarees. Amber has made what Madame Oh describes as ‘a prom dress tripping on acid’ from her print of boot prints and tyre tracks, which symbolises her childhood growing up as the only girl amongst a family of eleven guys. Milhye’s print features horses, and Spoon’s print is, surprisingly, of forks.

Then they get to Changmin’s look. There’s a long silence as they stare at the dress. They all tilt their heads sideways.

“It’s a pretty dress,” Jaejoong says, rubbing his fake pregnancy belly thoughtfully. “But what about the print? It’s somewhat odd. I guess if you squint a bit and lie on your side, it kind of looks like the Chinese character for ‘wind’.”

Kyuhyun snorts with laughter, then stops and resumes his serious judging face.

“Isn’t ‘wind’ a synonym for ‘crazy’?” Madame Oh asks.

Changmin has no idea how to explain his print. Maybe he should be honest and admit that he drew it at the last minute, but that would suggest he wasn’t taking the competition seriously. “Uh,” he says, groping for something, anything, to say. “I... This is... It represents...”

His mind has gone completely blank. Oh God, he’s going to lose this challenge. Maybe he should do what every other Stitched Up designer does at one time or another and fake a crying fit on the runway.

Milhye steps forward. “What Changmin is trying to say is that this print reflects his home life over the last couple of years since he first appeared on Stitched Up.”

The judges all say ‘ahhh’ and nod in a sagacious manner.

“Um,” says Changmin. “Uh?”

“I see it now.” Madame Oh gestures at the dress, her bracelets jangling. “The lines, the vertical and the horizontals—it’s a house. Those lines represent a foundation and a wall and a roof.”

“Oh yes!” Jaejoong exclaims, leaning forward. “I see it, too. The foundation is not totally solid yet, you can see the wobbly bit there, but just look at the line of the roof—it’s almost as if it’s protecting the chaos inside.”

“Er,” Changmin says.

“It’s so simple, yet it tells such a story,” Kyuhyun enthuses. “You could read it either way. The chaos inside the house could represent Yunho, with Changmin being the floor and wall and roof, or you could spin it right around and say Changmin is the muddled blob in the middle of Yunho’s protective embrace. Really, it’s so romantic.”

“Yes,” Changmin says, humbled by this display of uninformed opinion. “That’s exactly right.”

* * *
v. Conjugal Rights

Halfway through the unconventional materials challenge—making couture from supplies purchased at a DIY store—one of the producers comes into the workroom to tell Changmin that it’s time for his video chat with Yunho.

Barring an emergency situation, the designers are only permitted one video chat with their loved ones during the filming of the show. Accustomed to being apart from Yunho for a good fifty percent of the time over the last two years when work took him overseas, Changmin had thought that three weeks without his boyfriend would be easy to bear.

Except it’s been unbearable. At least when he was abroad for work, he could call Yunho, hear him and see him and have lots of phone sex, and one time when he was in Milan for his birthday, Yunho had surprised him by turning up and whisking him away to Rome for a few days, where they’d stayed at a former convent with walls three feet thick and with eighteenth century stuccoed roses on the ceiling. The bed was huge and antique and piled high with the softest quilts, and Yunho had taken him to the Pantheon and kissed him beneath the glimmer of light from the oculus even though it was pouring with rain.

Over the past couple of weeks, the other designers have come back from their video chats with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, except for Siwon, who came back quoting from the Apocrypha. Changmin is determined not to get all sappy and emotional. He’s far too sophisticated and in control for such things, and besides, the cameraman will be lurking nearby.

He forces himself not to hurry from the workroom. Milhye asks him to send Yunho her love. Amber asks him to tell Yunho that she’s a big fan of Gwangju Skank clothes. Siwon also wants to send his love, but Changmin ignores that.

The cameraman follows him into the designer’s lounge. He weaves past the couches and the table towards the bench at the back of the room. A chair is placed in front of a touch-screen computer, and beside it is a box of tissues for the inevitable meltdown of designer sobbing.

The screen is in sleep mode. Changmin taps it—Tap This, ugh—and Yunho comes into view. He’s sitting barefoot on the floor at the end of their bed, wearing a khaki shirt unbuttoned over a soft stone-coloured vest and streaked grey jeans. He’s had his hair cut, and now it’s dyed a warm brown with glimmers of red. It looks soft and touchable, and Changmin has to stop himself from reaching out.

Yunho’s face lights up when he sees Changmin. “Puppies, look, it’s Grumpy Daddy!”

Lagerfeld and Pucci appear in the screen. Pucci licks the tiny camera lens and starts barking with excitement. In the background, Changmin hears Lagerfeld yapping. Yunho scolds Pucci for being a bad puppy, and then he holds Lagerfeld up to the screen and the pug wags his tail so hard that he almost wriggles his way out of Yunho’s grasp.

“Jung! Have you been letting the dogs sleep on the bed?” Perhaps this isn’t the most romantic greeting, but it’s a valid and important question.

A shadow of guilt flicks through Yunho’s expression. “Maybe?”

“Oh my God.” Changmin covers his face with his hands. “I swear it should be you that goes to doggy training, not those mutts.”

This conversation is getting more romantic by the minute. Changmin hears the cameraman laugh and shift around behind him to get a better shot of the screen.

“They’re not mutts, they’re pedigrees.” Yunho cuddles Lagerfeld against his chest and hauls Pucci away from the computer. The Leonberger’s massive tail almost sweeps the laptop off the armchair or whatever it’s balanced upon. “Wait just a moment,” Yunho says, then to the dogs, “Come on, puppies, Happy Daddy will give you treats!”

“Just lock them in the kitchen,” Changmin shouts as Yunho and the dogs trail out of shot. “Don’t feed them treats for no reason or they’ll expect it all the time! Jung, are you listening? You’re feeding them between meals, aren’t you? I told you—”

There’s nothing for a couple of minutes. Changmin looks carefully at the shot of their room. A chew-toy lies mostly destroyed beneath the bed. He must remember to remove it when he gets home, because Yunho probably won’t notice. Faintly he can hear barking and yapping and the murmur of Yunho’s voice, and then a door closes, and then another door.

Yunho comes back into shot, sitting himself down on the floor and smiling into the camera. “I’m back,” he says unnecessarily.

“I miss you.” The words blurt out. Changmin looks away, embarrassed that sappiness has managed to override his common sense. He’d written down a bunch of things he’d wanted to say, but he’d left the list in the workroom. He’d meant to complain about the whole Tap This fiasco, and also he has an opinion about the recent revelation, let slip accidentally by Milhye, that the producers had actually asked Yunho to go on the show first, but Yunho had told them they shouldn’t be afraid of asking Changmin instead because obviously they should have asked Changmin first since he’s the better designer.

Changmin really wants to discuss these matters in a loud voice and with a hectoring tone, but now he can see Yunho, he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He lets out a quivering breath and looks back at the screen.

Yunho’s expression has gone all soft. “I miss you, too. The puppies miss you.”

“Stop calling them puppies!”

Yunho smiles, says, “Oh, you’re so grumpy, Changminnie,” and then his smile intensifies, turns a little wicked. “Can I make you feel better?”

Changmin is hard in an instant. Embarrassed and squirmy, he hunches down. “Can’t. The cameraman...”

“Huh.” Yunho comes closer to the lens and tilts his head as if looking for the Stitched Up cameraman. “Hey, Taejoon!” he calls out. “How’s your lovely daughter Sojeong? She must be running rings around you and your wife by now!”

The cameraman shuffles over, all smiles. Changmin glowers, conscious of the uncomfortable ache of desire and the slip of time passing. Of course Yunho would remember their cameraman’s name from two years ago. Of course he’d remember that Taejoon’s wife gave birth to their first child midway through the filming of season five.

They chat away like old friends for a few minutes, and then Taejoon says, “Great talking to you, Designer Jung. I’ll let you and Designer Shim have some quiet time now.” Giving Changmin a knowing grin and a wink, Taejoon and his camera leave the room.

Changmin has the designer’s lounge all to himself.

“Now,” Yunho purrs, “it’s just you and me.”

Excitement spikes. Changmin lets out a shuddery breath. “Are you suggesting...”

Yunho glances at the clock at the bottom right of the screen. “We have about ten minutes before our allotted chat time is up. D’you reckon you can make me come before then?”

Lust hazes Changmin’s vision. “Yes,” he says, his voice husky. “Yes. But wait. Don’t start without me.” He bolts out of the chair.

There’s no lock, so Changmin shoves every movable piece of furniture in front of the door before he makes his way back to the screen. He struts a little, one hand up to unfasten his tie, but Yunho shakes his head.

“Uh-huh, baby. Keep your suit on. You know how much I love you in a suit.”

Changmin sinks down onto the hard plastic chair, arousal thrumming inside him. “You mean...”

“Yeah.” Yunho shrugs out of his shirt and flings it aside. He’s breathing fast, eyes glittering, face flushed. “C’mon, posh boy. Tell me what I should lose next.”

“The vest.” Changmin sits forward on the chair, both feet planted flat on the floor to steady himself. He holds onto the edge of the bench with his left hand. For now, his right hand rests across his knee, even though he wants to cup his erection through his Armani suit and give himself a rub.

Yunho takes off his vest, managing to make it sexy despite the fact that he’s rushing because of the time constraints. Changmin feasts his gaze on the long, lean body exposed to his view, and he moans when Yunho strokes a hand across his chest, shuddering as he teases at his nipples.

“Wish you were here to do this, baby,” Yunho says, gazing straight into the camera. “I love your hands on me.”

“Unh.” In lieu of getting his hands all over Yunho’s sexy body, Changmin has to be content with touching himself. He sits back and unzips his trousers, frees his dick from his underwear.

“Oh, let me see.” Yunho crawls towards the screen, eyes wide. He sounds breathless. “Oh, your beautiful big cock. Look how hard you are. So wet and silky-luscious.” He licks his lips. “Taste it, baby, taste it for me.”

“Fuck, Yunho, don’t.” Changmin is blushing, trembling, but does it anyway. He strokes himself, runs his fingertips over the head of his cock, then lifts his hand to his mouth and dabs at the slick of pre-come with his tongue.

“God, I love you,” Yunho says, heartfelt and desperate.

Time is passing, going too fast. Changmin feels jittery. “Get your trousers off,” he snaps, squeezing the base of his dick to slow things down.

“Yes, sir!”

Changmin groans, watching as Yunho lies on the floor and performs one of his weird yoga moves, feet flat and his hips lifting, back arching. He yanks at the button and zipper, then pushes the jeans down over his thighs. He does it incrementally, and as soon as Changmin glimpses the dark patch of pubic hair, he starts to work his cock hard, gasping out, “Bad boy, Jung, going commando.”

“Somebody stole my underwear,” Yunho says, relaxing out of his arched pose and kicking off his jeans. He kneels up on the floor, completely naked and very aroused.

Changmin can barely concentrate. “You have more than one pair!”

“Yeah,” Yunho says, wrapping a hand around his lovely huge cock and giving it a nice long stroke, “but you took my favourite. And if I wear yours, you’ll only complain.”

“I won’t,” Changmin promises, tugging at himself faster and faster. “I really won’t. Wear some of mine. Please.”

Yunho starts jerking off in earnest. He licks his lips again, brow furrowing slightly in concentration as he stares at Changmin through the computer screen. “I don’t want to wear anything right now. God, you look so sexy, Changminnie. Your hair grows so fast. Look how long it is. Wish I could feel it over my skin, all silky and soft. I love it when you go down on me, when you do it really slow and your hair drags all the way down my chest and across my belly and then it tickles, it tickles when you’re sucking me, and God, baby, it drives me wild.”

Changmin makes a few frantic, incoherent noises and grips his cock tighter, thrusts harder into his hand. The chair squeaks across the floor and he jams his feet down, holds onto the bench with everything he has and then tosses back his head, gasping for breath, sweat trickling and heat rising and rising. He can smell himself, clean and musky, and he misses Yunho’s scent, his cologne, the smell of his skin, the scent they make together.

“Oh God,” Changmin babbles, sensation cresting, orgasm building. “Oh God.”

“You want me, baby?”

“Yes.” Changmin closes his eyes, helpless with lust. He can’t watch any more, he can’t bear to see Yunho naked and desperate for him, jacking off because of him; he can’t bear being apart from him a second longer. Emotion chokes him and he gasps, crushed by the force of his need. “Yes, oh fuck, yes.”

“Tell me, baby, tell me what you are,” Yunho urges.

“Oh,” Changmin mews, flicking his damp hair from his eyes, fixing his gaze feverishly on Yunho, “I’m a winner, oh fuck, oh Yun, I’m a winner.”

Yunho comes so hard he shoots all the way up to his chin. It startles him, and he gives a strangled gasp-laugh that sounds so hot that Changmin goes over a second later, spreading his legs wide and aiming the thick, hot jets of seed at the wall and the floor, shaking with the force of his climax.

“Damn, baby, you came second,” Yunho says, drawing a hand down his chest and smearing his spunk across his body. “I really have to work on my control.”

“And I really wish I could lick you clean,” Changmin says, still panting for breath. “You look delicious, all sweaty and dirty like a proper little skank.”

Yunho laughs, his hair flopping into his eyes as he leans forward. “Whereas you still look like a gentleman, albeit a gentleman with his hand wrapped around his dick.”

“Yun,” Changmin begins, but then a pop-up appears on the screen—10 seconds remaining—and he feels tongue-tied.

“I love you,” Yunho says, obviously having received the same message. He puts his hands up to the camera, his expression serious and warm. “I love you, Changminnie, I love you, I—”

The screen goes blank.

“I love you, too,” Changmin whispers. He leans forward, rests his head on the bench and blows out a long sigh, then puts himself to rights and cleans up with a handful of tissues.

A couple of minutes later, after rearranging the furniture, Changmin emerges from the designer’s lounge flushed but happy.

The producer sidles up to him, red-faced. “Designer Shim, er, how shall I say this... uh, your microphone pack was on the whole time you were, uh, while you were... communicating with Mr Jung just now.”

Horror drenches Changmin. “What!”

“But don’t worry,” the producer continues, his smile the very definition of unconvincing, “we’ll edit it out!”

And that’s when Changmin knows that for the rest of his life, in every interview he gives and every TV show he goes on, he’s going to be haunted by the sound clip of himself sobbing I’m a winner, I’m a winner in a desperate, frantic-to-come voice.

He is going to kill Yunho for this.

* * *
vi. Hello, Ratings!

In an effort to stretch out All Stars Stitched Up for as long as possible, Jaejoong announces a pre-finale challenge for the final three.

“Designers,” he chirps, arms protectively around the fake baby bump that’s so huge now that Changmin wonders if he and Porpoise are expecting twins, “this is a very exciting challenge today. It’s a team challenge.” He puts a hand into the oversize coat he’s wearing and pulls out the velvet button bag.

“I bet you’re all wondering how it can be a team challenge when there’s only three of you. Well, you’re going to have a little bit of help from some familiar faces.” Jaejoong snaps his fingers, and three figures emerge from behind the backdrop.

Changmin squirms when Yunho strides onto the runway, mega-watt smile beaming out at everyone. Following him are Ryeowook from season three and Joohyun from season six.

“Welcome back!” Jaejoong says. “So, designers, you’ll be randomly paired up with these losers who refused to take part in the full show because they had better things to do, and each team will create a head to toe look for one of their rival designers. Let’s see what the button bag has in store for you.”

Changmin doesn’t want to be paired with Yunho. Except he does. But he doesn’t, because they wouldn’t get anything done. Except maybe he should rise to the challenge, embrace it, just to prove to himself that he can focus despite such a glorious, sexy distraction. Although he shouldn’t think of words like ‘rise’ and ‘embrace’. It leads his mind on the wrong path, and he almost misses it when Jaejoong says, “Milhye, you will be working with Yunho.”

Instead of feeling relieved, Changmin is annoyed. He tries not to show it, turning to Milhye and saying, “Good luck, you’ll need it.”

“Milhye and Yunho, you will be designing a look for...” Jaejoong scoops a name from the button bag and dramatic-pauses, “Changmin.”

“Oh fu—fashion,” Changmin says.

Jaejoong pulls out more names. Amber and Joohyun will design for Milhye, while Changmin and Ryeowook will design for Amber.

“To make things fair, you must all design menswear or womenswear that closely mimics menswear,” Jaejoong tells them. “We want to see fashion-forward trouser-suits or separates, but no dresses or skirts. I know we’ve had some strange individuals on the show who enjoy cross-dressing but I’m not one of them, and—”

Ryeowook casts a pointed look at Jaejoong. “That is such a blatant untruth. I’ve seen you out shopping in those pregnancy smocks.”

Jaejoong ignores him. “Zhou Mi will meet you in the workroom and I’ll see you on the runway!”

After the obligatory hugging and squealing as the three teams gather in the workroom, Changmin leads Yunho out into the corridor and spends five minutes of precious sketching time kissing him. It would have gone on for the full thirty minutes if Milhye hadn’t come out and tapped Changmin on the shoulder, enquiring when she could have her tailor back.

“He’s not a tailor,” Changmin says, stung.

“Today I am.” Yunho gives him another kiss. “I know all your measurements, but I think I’ll want to take them again later. Just to ensure a perfect fit.”

Ryeowook comes out to see what’s going on. “Designer Shim, this is a poor way to win a competition.”

“Technically I can’t win anyway,” Changmin says, “but that’s not an excuse not to do my best, so...”

“Changminnie, fighting!” Yunho calls as they head back into the workroom.

They have the rest of the day to create their looks. The time passes in a blur, a frenzy of cutting and sewing and pressing and unpicking and swearing and coffee and more sewing.

For Amber, Changmin designs a pair of low-waisted skinny trousers with narrow stripes of neoprene running the full length of the leg, and a structured, off the shoulder top of metallic pale blue fabric, plus a flirty little capelet.

Over on the other side of the room, Amber’s look for Milhye involves a print that resembles a picnic blanket. Ryeowook studies it and whispers to Changmin, “It’s so Henry Holland, don’t you think? I’d have pegged Milhye as more of a John Rocha girl.”

Milhye has made a suit for Changmin that manages to be both hard and soft at the same time. Yunho is working on the fit of the jacket. “I’m sewing in love with every stitch!” he announces in a really loud and embarrassing voice, and Changmin cringes.

Finally it’s time for the runway. Even though this isn’t actually the finale, all of the previous contestants are seated to one side of the catwalk. Jaejoong, Kyuhyun, and Madame Oh look slightly more animated than usual.

Because the designers are also modelling this challenge, there’s a bit of confusion as they try to tidy their looks last minute. Milhye says that a button has fallen off Changmin’s suit jacket. Changmin is walking last, so he takes off the jacket and hands it to Yunho to fix while Milhye takes to the runway to open the show.

Then Amber walks. Changmin thinks she looks great. He’s studying his and Ryeowook’s work with a critical eye when Yunho slides the jacket onto him. “Good to go, baby,” Yunho says in his ear, and Changmin struts out along the runway.

He’s halfway down the catwalk when he realises there’s something spoiling the line of the jacket. When he passes the judges and does the stop-pose-turn for the cameras at the end of the runway, he lifts a hand and pats himself down. Yes, there’s definitely something stuffed into the jacket pocket. Probably the small pair of scissors he’d seen Yunho wielding earlier when he’d sewn the button back on. Regardless, it does make the jacket sit oddly. It’s unfortunate. Milhye will lose points for that.

All three designers return to the runway with their assistants in tow, and the judges make their comments.

“This print,” Kyuhyun says of Amber’s design, “it’s so weird. I love it—but is it fashion-forward?”

“I have seen this before,” Jaejoong adds. “It looks very House of Holland to me.”

“Told you so,” Ryeowook mutters to no one in particular.

“I like this look,” Madame Oh says, gesturing with her scorecard at the outfit Changmin designed. “It’s chic and modern. I know this girl, what she’s doing, where she’s going. It’s very editorial. I like it a lot.”

“And what about Milhye’s look?” Jaejoong chirrups. “Changmin, do you like the suit Milhye and Yunho made for you?”

“It’s beautiful,” Changmin says honestly, “but I’m not sure it showed to best advantage, because there’s something in here,” he pats the jacket pocket, “that spoils the line.”

Exchanging a look with Yunho, Milhye says, “Why don’t you take it out and see what it is?”

“Um, okay.” Puzzled and slightly anxious because of the way the judges all lean forward, their gazes intent upon him, Changmin slips a hand into the pocket and brings out a tiny box. Not a square box, but narrow, almost flat, just big enough to contain...

“Oh God,” he says, a hideous, joyful suspicion sharpening. His hands are shaking as he pops the lid and reveals a simple, unadorned platinum ring.

The other contestants draw in their collective breaths. The judges look smug.

Yunho drops down onto one knee. “Changminnie,” he begins, looking nervous, “I know we can’t get married here but if we go to Spain or Iceland or somewhere like that, we can get married and it’ll be legal and everything, and—and—Changmin, I’d be really honoured if... I mean, would you, could you... Oh, I really want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

Changmin flails.

“If he says no, I’m right here waiting!” Spoon calls out.

“No,” Changmin snaps, and then as Yunho’s hopeful expression dies a horrible death, Changmin waves his hands and shouts, “Yes. Yes! I was saying no to Spoon, no Spoon can’t have you because you’re mine, even though you’re an idiot and you should have asked me properly and not on a stupid TV show, and you’d better take me to Spain because I’ve always wanted to go there and we can wear sunflowers and lie on the beach and you can collect seashells for me and oh God, I love you but you are such an idiot.”

Yunho bounces up, his smile utterly dazzling. “Yes? You said yes?”

“Why do you sound so surprised, you stupid Gwangju skank! Ugh, oh my God, this is so embarrassing.” Changmin hides his face against Yunho’s neck.

“Oh, Changminnie. You said yes.” Yunho hugs him, tucks his head in close and whispers, “I love you, I love you.”

“Shut up,” Changmin snuffles. “I never wanted to cry on the runway. Oh, fashion.”

Zhou Mi meanders out onto the catwalk. “Designer Shim, Designer Jung, may I be amongst the first to congratulate you? And now let’s see the VTR of the moment Designer Jung asked Designer Shim’s father for permission to marry his son...”

Everyone turns to face the screen projected onto the Stitched Up backdrop.

“What?” Changmin jerks his head up but doesn’t step out of Yunho’s embrace. “Oh no. You didn’t. Yun, you didn’t.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Yunho says calmly. “Watch.”

The video starts. A camera follows Yunho along a corridor to a door marked Shim Dongsik, CEO, East Coast/West Coast Hotels. Yunho knocks, looking excited and hopeful. He goes inside. The cameraman lingers in the hallway. A muffled conversation is audible from within, and then comes a roar of fury. The door is yanked open and Yunho runs out. A heavy paperweight arcs through the air after him and bounces off the wall. Yunho flees down the corridor.

Changmin stares at the screen in horror. “My father really did that?”

Yunho nuzzles against Changmin. “Don’t worry, I managed to convince him.”

On the VTR, Yunho comes back into shot. This time the cameraman follows him into the office. Yunho prostrates himself, begging for Changmin’s hand. Changmin’s father looks very stern, and then he starts to crack up until he’s laughing too hard to continue the charade. He helps Yunho to his feet and gives him a manly slap on the back, and then they both face the camera and grin and do stupid thumbs up and victory signs.

Changmin can’t believe what he’s seeing. “This is,” he says, completely without the words to describe it, “this is...”

“All massively contrived?” Kyuhyun suggests with a grin. “Of course it is. Shim Changmin, you’ve been stitched up!”

Fic: For Fashion’s Sake [TVXQ RPS | AU | 1/2]

glitterburn — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 19:12:08 GMT

Title: For Fashion’s Sake
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: R
Summary: Designer Shim is back on TV for All Stars Stitched Up. Changmin sees the competition as the chance for a bit of peace and quiet away from Yunho, but nothing ever works out as planned.
Notes: AU. For the prompt ‘reunion’ in diagon’s Twelve Months of HoMin challenge. Six related ficlets, and a sequel of sorts to Perfect Fit. Ridiculous fluffy crack to cheer myself up whilst recovering from glandular fever.

For Fashion’s Sake
i. The Invitation

The invitation arrives the old-fashioned way, by letter in an envelope emblazoned with the Stitched Up logo.

As is their habit, Yunho brings the post to Changmin in bed before he potters off, the dogs trailing after him, to prepare Changmin’s morning coffee.

Ever since he started working for Versace, Changmin has been very particular about his coffee. Even though he’d mostly worked from the home he and Yunho share in Seoul, he’d often had to travel to Milan to consult with colleagues, to source materials, to attend fashion weeks and generally to mingle and show his face as and when the house required.

His extended time in Italy had developed his taste for proper Italian coffee, served at the correct hour of the day—no cappuccino after breakfast time, please—and he’d spent an obscene amount of money on a proper Italian coffee machine and an even more ridiculous sum shipping it back to Korea and having it installed. After a few weeks of training and a couple of accidents and new plaster on the ceiling, Yunho got the hang of making coffee the exact way Changmin likes it.

With the delicious scent of roasted beans drifting through their sunny apartment, and with the gentle sputter of the machine a counterpoint to Yunho’s foolish babbling at their dogs Lagerfeld and Pucci, Changmin relaxes back against the heaped pillows and opens the letter.

Dear Designer Shim, it says. We would just love for you to join us as part of the all new All Stars Stitched Up! This will be the first in an occasional series whereby previous contestants from the top five (or lower, if they were particularly contentious, aggressive, or bitchy) will be gathered together to take part in an intensive ten-week challenge that’ll be filmed over the course of three weeks. The top three finalists will battle it out for a prize so fabulous we haven’t decided what it’ll be yet, but it’ll be so fabulous Zhou Mi won’t have the vocabulary to describe it, but here’s what we’ve got on offer for now...

Changmin reads the rest of the letter then touches it to his lips, considering the invitation. The timing is ideal. It’s still a few months before he can start working for Chanel, who bought out his contract with Versace. Technically he can’t sell any of his designs until the original term of contract ends, and he’s been bumming around offering constructive criticism on Yunho’s pieces for the Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy lines. Although Yunho seems very happy to receive this valuable input, Changmin has yet to see any of his advice applied to the garments. In fact, since Changmin has had to stop working, Yunho’s production has significantly tailed off as they spend a good part of the day in bed without any attention to clothes and with only a minor interest in lengths of leather and silk.

Quite aside from that, the ban on freelancing means that technically he can’t win All Stars Stitched Up, since part of the prize is to sell a concise collection through gangnamstyle.com, and Changmin doesn’t like the idea that he won’t be a winner.

The rattle of bone china heralds Yunho’s triumphant procession with the cup of coffee. Lagerfeld trots along in his wake, little pink tongue lolling out in comical mimicry of his master. Changmin sits up in bed and hands Yunho the invitation in exchange for the coffee. “Tell me, what’s the point in doing this?”

Yunho skims the letter. “Fun?”

“Oh, that.” Changmin rolls his eyes and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s strong and sweet and has just a hint of cardamom, which isn’t very Italian but it tastes good all the same. “Right. Because I enjoyed it so much last time.”

“You did.” Yunho places the letter on the nightstand then sits on the side of the bed, picks up Lagerfeld, and cuddles the pug until it’s a dribbling, squirming ball of canine adoration. “You had a great time. Especially after Sabine was kicked out and I was reinstated. You loved it then.”

Changmin puts down his coffee and folds his arms. “That was different. It had nothing to do with fashion.”

“It did.” Yunho drops a kiss onto Lagerfeld’s head and shoots Changmin a mock-offended look. “Have you forgotten the night I had you on that PVC? You said it was a fabric only slappers and hookers would ever use, and I totally managed to change your mind.”

“Not really.” Changmin sniffs. He picks dog hair from the duvet. “I still think it’s for slappers and hookers. I also happen to think that role play is an essential part of a loving relationship.”

Yunho laughs and sprawls back on the bed, holding Lagerfeld up in the air. The pug yips and scrabbles excitedly, little paws kicking open Yunho’s towelling bathrobe and scratching his bare chest.

“Put that disgusting cur down,” Changmin snaps. No one is allowed to scratch Yunho’s chest like that. It’s a pleasure Changmin reserves entirely for himself. Maybe it’s a bit sad to be jealous of his own pet, but some things are off-limits, and Yunho’s chest is all for him.

“Aww Feldie, Changminnie didn’t mean it, Changminnie loves puppies really,” Yunho baby-talks to the pug, cuddling the animal closer. Lagerfeld yaps and licks Yunho’s face.

Changmin tries not to melt at how adorable they both look. “I wonder why they asked me and not you.”

“Maybe they liked your design aesthetic more.” Sitting up again, Yunho sets Lagerfeld on the polished wooden floorboards. The pug turns in a circle, scratches at his hindquarters, then wanders off into the living room.

The thought pleases Changmin. “Yes, that must be it.”

Yunho leans back and adjusts his gaping bathrobe. “Milhye is going to be on the show. Did they tell you that in the letter? And I had an email from Spoon just yesterday. He’ll be there, too.”

“Oh?” Changmin narrows his eyes as he evaluates this news. It won’t be a problem. He’s beaten both of them before and he can do it again. “I wonder who else has signed up for it.”

“You’re the fan of the show, not me. There’s probably a forum or something online that’s taking odds on it.” Yunho stops fiddling with the belt of his bathrobe as Pucci comes nosing into the bedroom. “Pucci, Pucci, come to daddy!”

Changmin wrinkles his nose as Yunho makes a fuss of the gigantic golden-brown Leonberger. “Must you encourage him? I don’t like it when the animals climb all over the bed. Especially Pucci. He’s huge and he moults. Look, his hair is everywhere after only thirty seconds. It’s gross. Lagerfeld is just as bad, he comes in here with his dirty paws and deliberately treads all over my favourite bed linen, and every time I scold them, they give me this woebegone look and I know it’s because you’re too soft with them.”

Yunho gazes at him, eyes all wide and sad. “You’re so mean to the puppies.”

“Jung, they are not puppies. Pucci is four years old.”

“Don’t listen to him, Pucci-pup! Changminnie is ageist.”

Suddenly the opportunity to take part in All Stars Stitched Up seems like a really good idea. It seems like an even better idea when Pucci gives Yunho a sloppy doggy kiss and leaps up onto the bed, shifting it sideways by a good five centimetres. He wags his huge, fluffy tail, knocking over Changmin’s coffee at the same time. The coffee splashes across Changmin’s favourite cream and blue silk Persian rug. The cup shatters. Startled by the noise, Pucci jumps and starts barking.

Lagerfeld comes tearing in from the living room, yapping, and skids on the spilt coffee. He goes rolling across the floor, yelping piteously, and clunks into the full-length bevelled mirror. Though the mirror wobbles, it stays upright—but a succession of Changmin’s scarves tumble from their carefully draped perch on the frame and fall on top of Lagerfeld, who whines and fights off the attack until the swathes of delicate fabrics are rendered into rags and the more robust knits are covered in dog drool.

Yunho falls off the bed laughing.

Changmin clutches his head. “Oh, for fu—”

“For fashion’s sake, Changminnie!” Yunho scrambles up and kisses his nose.

“For fashion’s sake,” Changmin repeats slowly. That sounds like a catchphrase. A good catchphrase—no, a great one. Much better than the one he’d devised for season five, the one that Cho Kyuhyun has used ever since.

“For fashion’s sake!” Changmin bounces out of bed, filled with buoyant enthusiasm. “I’ll do it. I’ll go on All Stars Stitched Up and I’ll win it!”

“Except for the bit where you can’t win it because of your contract battle,” Yunho reminds him, picking up the broken pieces of the cup. “But you can come second!”

“I hate coming second,” Changmin grumbles.

“I know,” Yunho says with a sigh. “But sometimes I just can’t control myself.”

Changmin stares at his weird boyfriend and decides that the separation imposed by the TV show can only be a good thing.

* * *
ii. Bedding Down

This time when Changmin turns up at the apartment-hotel, he doesn’t care whether he’s the first or the last designer to arrive. He’s full of confidence, most of which comes from the memory of Yunho fucking him last night and gasping, “You’re a winner, you’re a winner, Shim Changmin!” which was all kinds of idiotic, and Changmin had been put off his stroke at one point because he was laughing so hard. Nevertheless, Yunho’s brand of motivational thinking seems to have worked, because Changmin strides into the boys’ apartment with a big smile on his face and a bag of pineapple lumps in his hand.

By late evening, the pineapple lumps have been eaten and all the designers are lounging around the boys’ kitchen/living area. Changmin sits on the sofa, Spoon on one side and Milhye on the other, and sizes up the rest of the competition under the guise of friendly conversation and a few glasses of champagne. There’s Han Geng from season four, a quiet Chinese who looks permanently haunted and occasionally blurts out disjointed Korean sentences; an American guy, Chip, of the ChipSkip&Hank urban collective from season three, who grins a lot and says ‘y’all’ every time he opens his mouth, and—to Changmin’s great displeasure—Siwon from season seven.

Changmin had missed a number of episodes from season seven due to work commitments in Milan, and although Yunho had recorded the shows for him, somehow Changmin had managed to delete them and hadn’t had time to catch up with the episodes illegally online. The fact that Siwon—or Chiffonie Wonnie, as he’d become known—made it through to the final four is something that Changmin finds inconceivable. Top male models know nothing about fashion. They wear clothes, they don’t design them; and yet Siwon has managed to start a new career making crappy sportswear.

Alongside Milhye, the girls are: Go Ara from season one, who’s still making ugly LBDs from felt and jersey; Victoria from season six, a specialist in menswear who takes all measurements by groping her clients rather than using a tape measure; Amber from season seven, who looks like a tomboy but makes beautiful, ultra-feminine gowns; and finally, Heechul from season two, who now goes by the name of Lady HeeHee and declares that art transcends gender and for the duration of the show he’s going to be a woman, so respect it, bitches.

Changmin knows he can out-design and out-sew everyone in the room. With his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of Stitched Up, he tries to work out who would come second to him—in other words, who’s going to win just because he can’t. He refuses to countenance the idea that Chiffonie Wonnie might do well, so he decides that either Spoon or Milhye would make acceptable replacement winners.

The evening ends when the champagne runs out, and the girls return to their apartment and the guys meander around getting ready for bed. Changmin shares a room with Spoon and Han Geng. Spoon keeps Changmin awake half the night asking for graphic details of his love life and squealing with indignation when Changmin refuses to say anything, especially regarding the size of Yunho’s dick.

They’re woken at four o’clock in the morning by Zhou Mi, who instructs them not to get changed out of their nightwear and also to bring a sheet from their bed with them to the workroom. He has to deliver this instruction several times to Siwon, who must be very tired because Zhou Mi also needs to stand really close and help him with the bed sheet. They leave the apartment-hotel and traipse through downtown Seoul just as dawn is breaking. There’s a chill in the air, the suggestion of a spring breeze, and Changmin breathes in the cool, complex scent of the city and feels glad that he agreed to this contest.

Entering the workroom is like greeting an old acquaintance, one that you can’t quite remember if you liked or not. The designers find their allotted benches and investigate the sewing room, exchanging stories about their experiences on the main show. The cameraman trails after them. Changmin notices a couple of CCTV-type cameras mounted in the workroom. He’s glad that season five was filmed so cheaply, otherwise the after-hours activities he and Yunho engaged in would have been if not impossible then at the very least exhibitionist.

“Designers,” Zhou Mi drawls, placing his hands in a reverse steeple and looking around the room, “it’s your first challenge—are you excited? I’m excited. Just see how excited I am, I can barely contain myself. Your first challenge is to create a look from your bed sheet and your nightwear. Dyes and notions are provided, and over here we have a charming selection of discarded items from Jaejoong’s wardrobe for you to wear in place of your sleeping garments. You have until two o’clock this afternoon, and then we’ll be going directly to the runway. So just a suggestion—”

Changmin interrupts. “Do we have to use all of our nightwear?”

Zhou Mi scans him up and down. “A significant part of your nightwear should form part of the look. It’s entirely up to you what you choose. Just a suggestion—use the t-shirt. It has more potential than your boxer-briefs. Just a suggestion, take it or leave it!”

“Right. Thanks.” Now Changmin wishes he’d packed the gorgeous midnight blue silk-satin pyjamas Yunho had given him especially to wear on the show. He’d thought they were too nice to wear in public, as it were, so he’s wearing a Gwangju Skank t-shirt custom-made for him—on the front in graffiti-style writing it says Gwangju Skank loves his Posh Boy—and his boxer-briefs are actually Yunho’s, taken deliberately and not by accident.

He is not giving up Yunho’s underwear in the name of fashion. He’ll have to rely on the bed sheet and the Gwangju Skank t-shirt.

Go Ara and Victoria fight over Jaejoong’s cast-off silver lamé jumpsuit. Spoon has to rip the seams of a number of Jaejoong’s paisley shirts and pin them into a kind of toga, muttering all the while about skinny TV show hosts and how unhealthy it is to be a size two. Siwon announces that he’s just going to wear his tiny jockey shorts because God gave him his amazing body with its ripped abs and sexy chest and it would be a sin to cover it up. Milhye offers Chip several thousand won to swap workbenches so she can stare at Siwon.

Changmin sneers at Siwon’s pathetic posing and roots through the box of Jaejoong’s unwanted clothing, finally pulling out a purple PVC jacket. It’s the only thing that’s remotely suitable for him to wear, but still he hesitates, because it’s PVC, and as he told Yunho only the other day, PVC is a fabric for slappers and hookers. Changmin puts on the jacket, a blush climbing to his face as he thinks about the last time he pretended to be a hooker for Yunho.

“Hey girlfriend, you look like you escaped from a boyband!” Spoon shrieks across the room.

Changmin hunches down in the jacket, which squeaks and creaks, reminding him of how Yunho had coaxed him into wearing a short, tight PVC skirt that laced up the back and a pair of thigh-high boots and the silk charmeuse vest from season five. “Structure and flow,” Yunho had said, sliding greedy hands all over Changmin’s chest and down over his thighs. “You’re so architectural, baby. How much do you charge? I want your mouth, I want your ass, I want your everything.”

Ignoring the other designers and trying to stifle unwanted arousal, Changmin picks up his sketchbook and gets to work. He studies the note giving his model’s measurements, makes a few calculations, then cuts the bed sheet into two unequal pieces. He dyes the Gwangju Skank t-shirt and one piece of the sheet black, and the other piece he dyes a deep, intense violet.

Once the fabric is dry, he cuts the neck of the t-shirt right down into a wide, deep vee. The black cotton of the bed sheet he tailors into a pair of cigarette pants, and from the violet cloth he makes a short jacket with splits along the side and back seams to create movement.

Zhou Mi’s critique and the model fitting both go well. Changmin glances at the clock on the wall of the workroom. He still has a lot to do, and he barely registers any of the other designers or their looks. He keeps on working, then when the finished pieces are draped on the form, he steps back to edit.

It looks too severe; not playful enough. Changmin wonders what Yunho would do. Not that Yunho would make something as elegant and sophisticated as this, but still. Colour, Changmin thinks; Yunho would make it pop with a splash of contrast colour. He finds some bright yellow fabric paint, dials it down with a dab of orange to push it more towards gold, and spatters it over the cuffs of the jacket.

The door opens and Zhou Mi comes back in. “Designers,” he says, “you have forty minutes to send your models to hair and makeup. Use the Gangnam Style accessory wall thoughtfully. So let’s go! I’m sending in your models!”

Everyone runs around grabbing shoes and bags and jewellery. Changmin decides that less is more and settles on a pair of gold high heels for his girl and a chunky necklace to accentuate the dramatic cut of the vest and jacket.

Finally they all hustle downstairs to the runway. It’s been a long day and they’re all drooping with tiredness, except Siwon, who claims that God has given him the gift of wakefulness, and Amber, who says Red Bull gave her a similar gift.

Jaejoong waddles onto the runway, wearing a purple leopard print jumpsuit with pink zebra print boots and clutching his artificial baby bump.

Over the last couple of seasons of Stitched Up, Jaejoong has landed himself a glowering, hunky pop star with bulging muscles, a penchant for leather, and interesting facial scars that people have variously interpreted as ritual scarification, tribal markings, or just bad acne. Last seen in the charts in the early 1990s, Porpoise keeps on attempting comebacks but no one seems to care. Nevertheless, Jaejoong and Porpoise have been in a serious relationship for nineteen months, according to the gossip columns, and as a symbol of their love they’re in the process of adopting a baby from Malawi.

“Welcome to the runway!” Jaejoong chirrups. “This is the first ever All Stars Stitched Up, and I’m excited to see what free gifts I can blag from our advertisers. Your challenge today was to create a look out of your nightwear and a bed sheet. I hope none of you did anything disgusting in your beds last night, otherwise I pity your poor models. Now let’s meet the judges! First, top Korean fashion designer Cho Kyuhyun...”

Kyuhyun grins. “Hi guys.”

Changmin scowls. He still hasn’t forgiven Kyuhyun for ripping off the banana jumper he’d made for his final runway collection in season five. It wasn’t his fault that Versace had poached him before he could return Kyuhyun’s phone calls. It certainly wasn’t very professional of Kyuhyun to put out a spring/summer collection of separates entirely designed around exotic fruit.

“Fashion director for ClothesLine magazine, Madame Oh...”

“Hellooooo.” Madame Oh has ditched Vivienne Westwood in favour of Betsey Johnson, and is wearing a t-shirt with a skeleton screenprint over a bright yellow calf-length dress with tyre tracks up the middle of the skirt. Some things never change, though, and there’s still the heavy sickly-sweet stink of Oscar de la Renta wafting across the runway.

“And our guest judge this week is some actress who needs the exposure because her next TV show is sure to be a flop,” Jaejoong says, adding, “I’ve forgotten her name already so don’t bother listening to her critique. Let’s start the show!”

Even though Changmin knows he’s a winner, the old nerves return full force and he sits on his chair, arms crossed and one foot jigging up and down as he waits for his model to walk. He studies the other looks, disregarding most of them but turning to smile and praise Milhye, Han Geng, Spoon, Amber, and Lady HeeHee. Siwon’s look is also very cohesive and shows a definite point of view, but Changmin ignores him out of principle.

Changmin, Milhye, and Lady HeeHee are in the top three. Go Ara, Siwon, and Victoria are in the bottom three.

“I think this would look much nicer in chiffon,” Jaejoong says of Siwon’s look. “But since you only had cotton to work with, we’ll let you off this time. Also, we all appreciate the fact that you’re standing there in a really small pair of jockeys. I think we’ll use that image as part of our pre-season advertising campaign.”

Madame Oh leans forward, holding her scorecard up to shield her eyes from the glare of the runway lights. “Designer Shim, is that a Gwangju Skank t-shirt?”

“Yes,” Changmin says. “A one-of-a-kind garment, too.”

“Then I wonder that you dyed it and cut it up like that, regardless of the rules of this show. You could have used your underwear.”

Changmin blushes. “The underwear belongs to Yunho.”

Madame Oh nods in understanding and turns to the forgettable guest judge. “They’re so sweet together. Such a shame we couldn’t get Designer Jung back on the show, too. Top ratings would’ve been guaranteed, but instead we just had to settle for whoever we could get.”

“Let’s move onto Designer Go!” Jaejoong says loudly. “What is this repulsive outfit? It looks like a sack. I would not wear such a hideous garment.”

Kyuhyun grins. “It’s ugly, ugly, ugly!”

The decision is unanimous. Changmin wins, and Go Ara is sent home after Jaejoong sways over and gives her the air kisses, declaring, “Go Ara—go away.”

* * *
iii. Tap This

It’s challenge three, and they’re on their way to Bias Designer Fabrics when Spoon grabs at Changmin’s arm. “Girlfriend! Are my eyes deceiving me or is that your ass plastered all over a forty-foot billboard?”

Changmin jolts out of thoughts of circle skirts versus princess-cut dresses and stops on the street, allowing Spoon to swing him around in the correct direction.

The other designers are staring and pointing. Then they turn en masse and stare at Changmin’s bum before returning their gazes to the huge advertising hoarding on the other side of the road. Then they look back at him, as if they don’t quite believe that it’s his ass on display in those tight, tight jeans.

Changmin stares. His mouth drops open. Shock runs through him, hot then cold, and he gets a fuzzy feeling in his head and a tingling in his feet and he wants to kill Yunho, wants to kill him right now, that stupid bastard, because just look what he’s done.

The advert shows Changmin wearing a plain white dress shirt half tucked into a pair of faded blue jeans. Yunho had made those jeans for him. They’re cut snug and sexy, the denim pliant and comfortable. They’re the best pair of jeans Changmin has ever worn, and over the last few months he’s almost lived in them.

In the picture, Changmin is lying across their rumpled bed reading the Sunday newspaper supplements, one leg kicking in the air in a relaxed, flirtatious manner. His face isn’t fully visible; it’s just the back of his head, his hair tousled and sexy, and the side of his face, just enough that it’s obvious he’s smiling at the man seated in the leather armchair on the far side of the room. The man is out of focus, deliberately blurred to become suggestions of shape and colour, but Changmin—and everyone else who sees the advert—knows it’s Yunho.

Changmin draws in a breath. He remembers that day, the sunlight across the bed and the crumbs from the croissants they’d eaten for breakfast spilled over the sheets. He’d been engrossed in an article about the historic windmills of Mykonos when Yunho said let me take photos of you, baby, you look so sexy, and Changmin—stupid, stupid—had agreed, and he’d rolled and stretched and posed for his—moronic, deserves to be dumped—boyfriend.

Later, Yunho had put the camera on the dresser and programmed it to take pictures of them sprawled across the duvet together, just looking at one another and smiling. Changmin knows there was a photograph of them kissing, because he really likes it and it’s tucked into the inside pocket of his suitcase for when he’s feeling lonely, but this... This picture must’ve been taken right after without him even knowing, because he remembers Yunho picking up the main part of the newspaper and sitting in that chair, and Changmin remembers how he’d smiled at Yunho, happy and content and wanting him to come back to bed so they could make love.

Never mind that those jeans are really hot and his ass looks fantastic in them. Never mind that a filter has been applied across most of the image, sharpening over Changmin’s legs and bum and slightly fading everywhere else in order to focus the viewer’s attention on the jeans. Forget all that. The worst part, the absolute worst part, is the tag line.

Tap This, it says in huge bold letters—and oh God, now Changmin understands why Yunho was so delighted when he sourced those cute little stainless steel rivets in the shape of old-fashioned taps.

Tap This.

This is not happening. Except it is. In public. And the Stitched Up cameraman is right there capturing his look of horror, and this will be edited every which way to get the full hilarious effect for broadcast on national television.

Jung Yunho is a dead man.

Spoon is dragging on his sleeve in a froth of excitement. “Oh my gawd, girlfriend, your honeypie sure loves you!”

Changmin is still trying to process the sight of the advert without the added complication of working out that ‘honeypie’ somehow equals ‘Yunho’.

“He’s not my honeypie,” Changmin snarls. “He’s—he’s a devious, underhand skank and I’m going to kill him.”

Instead of being impressed by Changmin’s flash of temper, Spoon giggles. “Darlin’, if I had an ass as cute as yours I’d get everyone to photograph it!”

This is unbearable. Changmin starts across the road with some half-baked notion of tearing down the billboard poster, although he has no idea how he’d actually manage to do such a thing. The situation is not improved by his fellow designers hooting and calling out supportive phrases such as “Mmm, yeah, work it, Designer Shim! Can’t bear to see you leave but I love watching you go!”

Changmin reaches the traffic island in the middle of the road just as a bus goes past with another Tap This advert emblazoned along its side. This picture shows him bending over to fuss Pucci. Not that either the dog or Changmin is identifiable—like the photo on the billboard, the angles are so careful and discreet as to be anonymous, except for the fact that it’s immediately fucking obvious that it’s him.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Changmin turns around. The traffic lights have changed, and a taxi slows to a halt beside him. Of course it has a Tap This advertising banner on its roof, a picture of Changmin leaning against the door of their balcony at sunset. Yunho is standing outside, his hair and part of his face visible in the shot. His head is tilted towards Changmin and his eyes shine with happiness, and he’s got one hand tucked into the back pocket of Changmin’s jeans.

It’s an intimate and loving picture, one that brings a lump to Changmin’s throat. He recalls that evening with perfect clarity. He’d just flown in from a five-week job in Milan. He was jetlagged before he’d even got off the plane. Chanel and Versace had just started their legal squabble over his services, and he was sick to death of the fashion world and just wanted to be held.

Of all the images to use, this one hurts the most. He also knows beyond any doubt that this is the image that will sell truckloads of those jeans.

“Oh,” he says, beyond flustered. “Oh, for fu—uh, fashion’s sake!”

The taxi moves on, and Changmin sprints back across the road to rejoin his fellow designers. They cluster around him, swooning and cooing. For some reason they all see the adverts as some kind of hugely romantic gesture of love and devotion rather than the gross invasion of privacy it so obviously is.

“Stop it,” Changmin snaps, his emotions too rattled for him to think straight. “Don’t talk about it anymore. This isn’t funny. This is—this is...”

“Flattering?” suggests Milhye.

Changmin scrunches a hand into the back of his hair. “He did this on purpose.”

“Duh, yeah.” Siwon taps the side of his head. “Can you blame him? The whole country knows you’re on this show. The producers told me they expect the ratings to be higher than the usual Stitched Up. Any businessman with sense is going to cash in on the opportunity.”

“You can’t blame a market trader for exploiting his best assets,” Amber says.

“Yeah, especially when his own assets in that department are kinda lacking,” Spoon adds.

Changmin is incoherent.

Zhou Mi has finally noticed that no one followed him to the fabric shop. Wandering back, he asks, “Designers, why are you all dawdling randomly on the pavement?” Then he notices the billboard. He stands there, puts one arm across his chest, rests his other elbow on his wrist and crooks his index finger against his lips as he studies the gigantic advert. “Oh, my. Is that you, Designer Shim? What a well-made pair of jeans. They fit so lovingly over your posterior. Did Yunho make those?”

Grinding his teeth, Changmin answers, “Yes.”

“Well, that’s marvellous. They’re just so adorable.” Zhou Mi tilts his head and looks down at Changmin’s ass. “Even if we don’t have cute bubble butts like you, the cut of those jeans would flatter any man’s behind. When you next talk to Yunho, tell him I’d like to order fourteen, and ask him if he can make a pair in red.”

Changmin stares at him.

“One thing, though.” Zhou Mi gestures at the billboard and grimaces a little. “The logo on the back pocket. A tap for Tap This. It’s too much. Tell him from me, it’s just too literal. Just a suggestion, take it or leave it.”

* * *

Part 2 >>

Fic: Perfect Fit [TVXQ RPS | AU | 1/4]

glitterburn — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 07:23:35 GMT

Title: Perfect Fit
Fandom: TVXQ RPS
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 32,400 words
Summary: Changmin studied fashion at St Martin’s and interned at Chanel. Yunho is a Gwangju market trader who makes illegal knock-offs. They’re two of the contestants on top reality TV show Stitched Up. Tempers fray, things come apart at the seams, but somehow they Make It Work.
Notes: For haeym, who wanted a Project Runway-style AU. Hullun sanat.

Perfect Fit
Changmin steps out of the taxi and pauses for a moment on the pavement. He tosses back his hair and flicks at his scarf, then takes a firm grip on his suitcase and struts down the street. He hopes he looks sexy and confident. He hopes the cameraman tracking his every move has got his best side. He needs to look sure of himself without appearing arrogant. He needs to look like a winner.

The cameraman follows him for another few yards and then gives the thumbs up. “That’s great! Now get yourself inside. There’s a camera in the apartment for reaction shots when you meet your fellow contestants.”

“Thank you.” Changmin is glad the camera is turned off now, because he’s certain his smile is nervous rather than polite. He can’t show nervousness. Anxiety over whether or not he’ll be able to finish a design challenge in time for the runway show, yes; concern over the fate of other contestants who are having a meltdown, also permissible; but showing actual nervousness? No. Winners have nerves of steel and balls of iron, or maybe it’s the other way around.

Whatever, Changmin is not here to flap and flutter and bitch his way through the next ten weeks like the majority of contestants on Stitched Up. He’s here to win, and woe betide anyone who stands in his way. The prize money, the magazine spread, the endorsements, the new car—they’re all his for the taking.

But first he has to meet the other contestants.

Changmin has seen every episode of Stitched Up, watched every season of Project Runway, has even suffered through the really shit British version with Kelly Osbourne. He’s also made careful study of other, non-fashion reality TV shows, and reached the conclusion that, in order to succeed, he needs to:

(a) Look poised at all times, but not too poised, otherwise the viewers won’t feel a connection with him. Therefore, when he wears a suit, he’ll make sure his hair is a little windswept, or he’ll neglect to shave, or he’ll leave off his tie and unfasten the top few buttons on his shirt. The viewers will think he’s elegant but approachable;

(b) Only bitch about fellow contestants when they’ve bitched about him first;

(c) Appear helpful and friendly without actually being helpful or friendly, because the helpful and friendly contestants are always taken advantage of and then hurled aside and trampled upon;

(d) Have a catchphrase.

The latter point is the one that’s given him sleepless nights ever since he learned he’d been selected for the show eight weeks ago. Catchphrases need to sound natural. Changmin doesn’t think he sounds natural even when he places his morning coffee order, and he’s been doing that at the same outlet for sixteen months. Nevertheless, he’d finally picked a catchphrase and rehearsed it over and over, and now perhaps it sounds a little bit unforced.

“Ugly,” he mutters as he pushes into the revolving door of the trendy apartment block where he’ll be living for the next few months. “Ugly, ugly, ugly.”

To be fair, there is a really nasty flower arrangement on the concierge’s desk, and the walls are painted a hideous matt green colour, so Changmin feels justified in breaking out his catchphrase again: “Ugly, ugly, ugly!”

This time he feels almost confident. Even though there’s no camera here, he keeps his head high and his expression gracious as the concierge hands him a swipe card and a key and points towards the lifts. The female contestants are living on the fifth floor; the boys’ apartment is on the sixth floor.

The lift takes forever to make its way upwards. Changmin’s cheeks hurt from polite-smiling for so long. He lets his mouth relax into its usual serious line and studies his reflection in the brushed steel doors. He looks miserable, pale and tense. Almost three months of being forced into close proximity with five other men is not his idea of a fun time. He’d thought he’d left those days behind him when he’d graduated, but here he is, about to put himself through it all over again.

“Think of the best outcome,” he tells his reflection. “They might all be eliminated by week five.” This cheers him slightly, and he moves on to imagine himself at Paris Fashion Week surrounded by models and actresses and singers all dressed in his fabulous, elegant designs and clamouring to be put on the super-exclusive VIP waiting list for his autumn/winter collection.

It’s his favourite daydream, and Changmin likes to embellish it a little more on each occasion. He’s not one for fussy detailing and over-accessorising in his designs, so his imagination is the only place where he gives himself free rein to indulge his whimsies. Just as Kylie is introducing herself and gushing that she’s been a fan ever since he won Stitched Up, the lift comes to a juddering halt and reality intrudes.

The doors slide open. Changmin takes a deep breath. He hopes he’s not the first person to arrive. He doesn’t want to be the last, either. Second or third would do.

A short, solid guy with a buzz-cut looms out of the dimly-lit reception area. He looks like he drives trucks for a living. Changmin straightens up to his full height and steps out of the lift, offering a small smile for the sake of the lurking camera.

“I’m Kangin,” the buzz-cut says in a loud, hearty voice, holding out his hand. “I’m straight.”

“O-kay.” Changmin touches his fingertips to Kangin’s sweaty paw and resists the urge to wipe his hand on his jacket. “Shim Changmin. Pleased to meet you.”

Kangin’s fake smile isn’t fooling anyone. “So! Changmin! Are you straight, too?”

“Er.” Changmin moves to one side, swinging his suitcase around as a barrier. “The apartment is...?”

“This way.” Kangin indicates an open door. “I’m only asking because the producers have allocated two guys to a room, and though I don’t mind sharing a room with another guy—I’ve just come out of the army, I shared a room with fifteen other guys so I really don’t have a problem with it—I’d rather not share my room with someone who’s not straight. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night worrying about my ass, if you know what I mean.”

Changmin blinks. Wonders if this Neanderthal is for real. “Has anyone else arrived?”

Kangin nods. “Yeah. Some bloke from Gwangju. I think he’s gay. He’s your roommate, so let me know if you want to swap and share with me instead.”

“Very well.” Turning away, Changmin silently mouths Oh my God, then realises that the camera is pointed right at him. He brushes past the cameraman and wheels his suitcase into the apartment. It smells of air freshener, but beneath it Changmin can detect the odour of desperation. He hurries along the hallway, past the shared bathroom, and stops outside the bedroom at the very end. On the door there’s a small whiteboard with a black pen attached for messages. Changmin frowns at it. His roommate has written:

Yunho
&
Changmin

Flowers and hearts have been drawn around their names, as if they’re kindergarten BFFs or something. Changmin thinks he should be relieved by the childlike quality of the drawing, which is surely representative of Yunho’s design style, which means he’ll be eliminated in the first week, but Changmin can’t get past the fact that his name is on the bottom. This Yunho person is obviously trying to gain the psychological advantage.

Changmin wipes off their names with his fingers and writes:

Changmin

Yunho
Much better.

Pleased with this small victory, Changmin opens the door without knocking—it is his room, after all—and strides in as if he owns it. Which he does, sort of, for the next three months.

There’s a guy sitting on the floor between the two beds. Changmin skips his gaze over his roommate because he’s still annoyed about the whiteboard thing, and looks around the room instead.

It’s small, with barely space between the beds. A chest of drawers is crammed between the door and the foot of the bed closest to the wall. Changmin realises that the bed underneath the window is longer. There’s a built-in wardrobe and a tiny desk and a wooden stool on a lambskin rug. Apart from the beds, every available surface is cluttered with crap—clothes, shoes, an iPod, a couple of new paperback novels, toiletries, and bags of sugary pineapple lumps. The latter is a particular worry. Changmin imagines sticky fingers rootling through his immaculate tailored suits, and shudders.

“Hi!” his roommate chirps. “I’m Yunho! You must be Changmin!”

The southern accent is just about noticeable. Changmin wonders if a comedy dialect will win more audience approval than a catchphrase.

Yunho unfolds himself from the floor. He’s almost as tall as Changmin, but broader in the shoulder. He’s wearing two t-shirts, charcoal grey over yellow with the hem left hanging and the sleeves folded back for effect, and Changmin itches with the urge to tuck him in and straighten him out. Yunho’s hair is dark and soft, styled forward at the front and ruffly everywhere else. His lower lip is full and pouty and his jaw line is almost delicate, which is so at odds with the sheer masculinity of the rest of him that Changmin finds himself staring a moment too long.

Yunho’s blinding smile curls up a little at the edges. He tilts his head. “Um, hi? Changmin?”

“Yes. Hello. Sorry. I was just...” Changmin swallows. He hadn’t expected his roommate to be so tall. So smiley. So insanely hot.

“I know what you mean. It’s a bit crazy, isn’t it?” Yunho smiles again and bounces on his feet. “I’m really excited about this, are you? Where are you from? Do you have your own clothing line? Are you a model? ‘Cos you look like one, you’re so tall and you have those legs and those cheekbones and— Did you meet Kangin? He’s straight, apparently. I told him I was gay.”

“And are you? Gay, I mean.” Changmin has no idea why he’s asking.

Yunho laughs. “Why, Changminnie, are you interested?” and he winks.

What an arrogant twat. Changmin sniffs and lifts his suitcase onto the bed by the window. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A small silence descends. It sounds wrong after the last few minutes of Yunho’s frenetic chatter, but Changmin refuses to feel bad about that.

“Sorry.” Yunho looks dismayed. “I was joking. Just trying to break the ice.”

“Don’t bother. We’re here as competitors.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” Yunho takes a step towards him, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry I offended you, Changmin. I can get over-enthusiastic sometimes.”

At least he can admit his faults. Changmin nods. “I think we should keep things respectful. We’re colleagues as well as competitors. We need to work together.” He clicks open the locks on his suitcase and then pauses. Looks up innocently. “You didn’t want this bed, did you?”

“Oh, no.” Still smiling, Yunho sits on the shorter bed shoved into the corner of the room. “I was waiting until you arrived to see which one you preferred.”

“Thanks. That’s really kind of you.” Changmin keeps the note of triumph from his voice. He gets the bigger bed and thus gains the psychological advantage. Plus he’s by the window, so he gets the inspiring cityscape view and he gets the light for when he needs to sketch. Yunho must be stupid to have given all that up. Or maybe he’s genuinely kind and thoughtful.

Surely not. No one is that nice.

Changmin takes off his redingote and scarf and hangs them in the wardrobe. He loosens his tie just a fraction, then returns to his suitcase, careful not to step on the jumble of clothes on the floor. Flicking his hair forward to veil his expression, Changmin watches his new roommate.

Yunho has picked up some of the stuff littering the room and is making his space look homely. There’s the world’s smallest nightstand between their beds, and Yunho piles his books and iPod and three different bottles of cologne onto his side of the table. Then he coos at something on the floor, picks it up and cuddles it, and Changmin wrinkles his nose at the sight of the soft toy held in Yunho’s arms.

Possibly it was once a deer. It’s hard to tell, the toy is so old and raggedy. It has one eye and a button where its nose used to be, plus it seems to have been eviscerated at one point and sewn back up with huge, awful stitches. Changmin hopes Yunho sewed that last week, because then he’s definitely going to be eliminated very soon.

Yunho pets the plushie and leans across the bed to settle it beside his pillow. Changmin is about to remark on the soft toy when he’s distracted by the delicious sight of Yunho’s thighs in those tight, tight jeans.

Changmin drops the carefully rolled selection of ties he was holding and imagines how Yunho would look minus those jeans. He imagines running his hands over naked flesh and feeling the muscled strength beneath his palms, his lips, and he imagines rubbing himself against those thighs, and then—

He realises he’s dropped his ties and bends to retrieve them. He does it too fast and the blood rushes to his face and he feels hot and flustered. Taking a deep breath, Changmin reminds himself he’s here to win, not to ogle strange men. With this in mind, when he straightens up, Changmin resumes his study of what Yunho is wearing rather than what the clothing conceals. His gaze skitters over the disappointingly tiny ass and instead he looks at the design on the pocket. Yunho is wearing Evisu jeans. No, he’s wearing knock-off Evisu jeans. Changmin can’t believe his eyes. “Are those...”

Yunho straightens and beams over his shoulder. “I made them myself.”

“They have an Evisu logo,” Changmin points out.

Yunho slaps a hand over the back pocket and goes slightly pink. “Uh, I forgot to, er, to... um.”

Changmin sighs. Wonderful. His roommate is an incoherent idiot. He reminds himself that this is a good thing. Yunho will soon be eliminated from the competition.

“That’s a lovely suit,” Yunho says after an awkward silence.

“It is, isn’t it.” Changmin swishes a little, then stands up straight to display the suit to best effect. “Gieves & Hawkes.”

“Oh.”

The tone in which it’s said suggests that Yunho has no idea what Gieves & Hawkes is. Changmin turns to him in polite disbelief. “Savile Row.”

Yunho smiles. He looks bewildered.

“The bespoke London tailors?” Changmin says, his voice getting louder. “Arguably the most famous gentleman’s outfitters in the world? Over two hundred years of tailoring?”

“I see,” Yunho says, still looking baffled. “Are all your suits from Savile Row?”

“No. Some are from Jermyn Street.” Changmin shoots him a glance, holds up a severely elegant three-piece. “And this is Armani.”

“Wow. You’re expensive.”

“Elegant,” Changmin corrects. “I like to look elegant and poised and sophisticated and in control.”

“Like a winner,” Yunho suggests, smile back up to full wattage.

“Yes.” That’s exactly the image Changmin wants to project. “Like a winner.”

Yunho’s laughter fills the room. “So what do I look like?”

A bit of rough that could make me dirty if I allowed it. “Uh,” Changmin says, sweeping Yunho with his gaze, “I think you look very...” Common. Cheap. Sexy. “Urban. Yes, you’re very street.” He hates himself for saying that. What kind of high-end designer appends the word ‘street’ to clothing? Ugh, wash his mouth out with soap.

But Yunho brightens, almost glowing at this appellation. “Thank you! I love urban clothing. It’s so comfortable and practical.”

Neither word seems to apply to Yunho himself. Changmin tries not to smirk. He hopes that every other contestant is as useless as his roommate.

From the hallway comes the shrilling sound of the telephone. For the first time, Changmin is aware of the chatter of voices outside and realises the other three contestants must have arrived. The voices get louder, and then there’s a knock on the door and Kangin peers in. “Guys, we have to head out now for our first challenge.”

“Great!” Yunho bounds across the floor. “I’m so excited.”

“Me, too,” Kangin says. “My roommate is even gayer than you. He likes pink. I hope he’s eliminated so I don’t have to share with him for long.”

“Pink is a nice colour,” Yunho says.

“It’s nice on girls.” Kangin frowns as if he’s thinking. “Mind you, my roommate kind of looks like a girl. Oh, ew, did that sound gay? Because I’m straight.”

Yunho skips out of the room. “Introduce me to your roomie.”

Changmin watches him leave and scowls. The sophisticate and the cheap trashy urban boy. This is going to be a disaster.

*
They gather in a car park at the back of a supermarket megastore. A cold wind blows, bringing with it the whiff of wet cardboard and rotting food. The contestants cluster together, ringed by the camera crew, and wait for their glamorous host Jaejoong and his acerbic fashionista sidekick, Zhou Mi.

Changmin glances at his competitors. He hasn’t had much chance to speak to everyone yet beyond a few basic introductions. Kangin’s roommate is Sungmin, who is indeed pretty and has a fascination for pink; then there’s Spoon, a large, slow-moving man in an anorak and cords, and a fey little Estonian who mumbles things no one can understand and is wearing an ill-fitting suit with unpolished shoes. Milhye is an angular beauty dressed in simple, classic pieces. She looks immaculate, and Changmin thinks she’s like the female version of him but twenty years older. Beside her is Seongyoon, who wears a batik smock and is barefoot. Kyunghee, her eyes red-rimmed, is showing them both a sheaf of photographs of her children. Myunghyun, looking bored, takes a surreptitious swig from a hip flask. The youngest contestant, Jiheun, is picking at her black nail polish and scowling.

And then there’s Sabine. The spoilt only child of a French-Algerian mother and Korean father, Changmin thought he’d seen the last of her three years ago. Sabine gives him a cool little wave, silver bracelets jangling, and he forces a smile, glad that he doesn’t have to talk to her just yet.

A smattering of applause breaks out as Jaejoong and Zhou Mi finally appear. They stand on a dais and smile down at the contestants. Changmin thinks how much smaller Jaejoong looks in real life. The repulsive beige jumpsuit he’s wearing doesn’t help, either, but Changmin supposes no one will care. Jaejoong is a seriously hot commodity right now.

Following a massive scandal a few years ago, Jaejoong had turned his career around. He’d been in a relationship with Fabio Benedetti, a sleazy Milanese millionaire who headed up a famous Italian clothing brand and was the managing director of a successful Formula One team. Jaejoong and Fabio had adopted a baby together, but then Fabio had ditched them both and gone off with a Brazilian underwear model. Turning disaster into triumph, Jaejoong reinvented himself as a doting single father and won major endorsements from manufacturers of prams, baby food, and nappies. Now the baby was a toddler, and not a particularly attractive one at that, Jaejoong had handed the kid over to a nanny and returned to work as the host of Stitched Up, the most-watched reality TV show on Korean television.

“Designers!” Jaejoong trills. “Welcome to season five of Stitched Up!”

The contestants show muted enthusiasm, except for Yunho, who jumps up and down and shouts “Yeah!”

Zhou Mi looks pained.

“As you know,” Jaejoong continues, “in fashion, as in life, one day you’re relaxing on a beach in the south of France and the next day you’re bundled on board an Air Korea flight in cattle class with a screaming baby on your lap. This week’s challenge is a test of your ingenuity as well as your eye for design. On the other side of the car park is a dumpster full of rubbish. It’s all been steam-cleaned so it’s perfectly safe to handle. You have two days to create a look out of rubbish that best represents your design aesthetic. On the count of three, you may begin. One, two—”

By the time Jaejoong counts three, Yunho is sprinting across the car park. Kangin is in hot pursuit, no doubt not wanting to call his army training into question. Jiheun laughs and runs after them, but the rest of the women seem less keen and talk amongst themselves as to how clean the rubbish really is.

Yunho reaches the dumpster and vaults inside. Changmin watches him vanish into the pile of crap and hopes to God that he picked the right dumpster, otherwise he is not sharing a room with this lunatic. A moment later, Yunho surfaces with his hands full of tinfoil and shredded paper and plastic cartons, and he shouts, “Spoon, shall I save something for you?”

Spoon is puffing and wheezing his way across the car park. He leans against a bollard to take a rest and calls out whenever Yunho holds up something he wants. Once Spoon is satisfied, Yunho helps Jiheun into the dumpster and they root through the rubbish together, tossing stuff out as if they’re kids playing on a bouncy castle.

Idiot, Changmin thinks as he searches through the crap that Yunho has hurled onto the ground. He helps himself to a clutch of torn bin bags and some black plastic ready meal trays. Sungmin shoves past him and collects up all the bright pink fabric softener containers plus some newspapers. The rest of the women, obviously satisfied that the rubbish doesn’t stink, are getting into the swing of it now, picking through the trash and giggling at how ridiculous it is. Only Sabine is holding back, occasionally snatching up the odd item and then discarding it with a look of disgust.

Yunho clambers out of the dumpster with two bin bags. He dumps one on the ground and carries the other over to Spoon, who’s effusive in his thanks. Changmin is busy sorting through bottle tops when he hears the rustle of a bin bag and glances through his fringe to see Sabine taking a couple of lengths of flexible piping from Yunho’s stash. She doesn’t see him looking, and she hurries away immediately afterwards to pick up a third piece of pipe that Jiheun flings from the dumpster.

Changmin doesn’t know whether he should say something or keep quiet. When Yunho comes back to collect his rubbish, he doesn’t appear to notice that anything’s missing. Indeed, he even opens his bin bag and offers to swap some of his trash for some of Myunghyun’s items.

Because of this apparent lack of attention, Changmin decides not to mention it. But still, it makes him feel like he’s party to a crime.

*
The designers carry their haul of rubbish to the workroom. It’s a light, airy space with long, wide benches. Adjacent is a smaller room with sewing machines, and they’ve each been allocated a machine and a chair, both labelled with their names. The benches in the main workroom are free for anyone to choose, and Changmin spreads out his collection of trash on a table halfway back.

Jiheun and the Estonian guy pick the tables furthest away, while Sabine takes the bench directly in front of the door. Kangin claims the table closest to the accessories wall, and then stares at the shoes and bags and jewellery as if he has no idea what they’re for.

Yunho selects a bench and sets a bag of pineapple lumps on it. “Everyone please help yourselves!” he says, gesturing to the sweets, and then he rolls out a large, wide mat on the floor as if he’s planning on going camping and sits on it cross-legged. Seongyoon looks approving and tells everyone that tables are bad for cutting out and they should all follow Yunho’s example by working on the floor.

Zhou Mi drifts in, welcomes everyone, and reminds them of the general rules of the show. He announces that they have until ten o’clock tonight to work on their designs and promises to come back a little later to see how they’re getting on.

Changmin studies the rubbish in front of him and starts sketching. His aesthetic is clean, simple, and elegant. He’s sure he can achieve this look even with steam-cleaned garbage. He visualises Anna Wintour rhapsodising over his finished garment and leans a little closer to his sketchpad, lines flying across the page.

He’s just finished, pleased with the look he’s developed, when Sabine sidles over. Changmin closes his sketchpad and stands up, forcing his mouth into a smile of greeting.

She has to tip back her head to look at him. “Changmin, darling!”

“Hello, Sabine.” They exchange air kisses. She’s still wearing Poison, that heavy, cloying fragrance that’s never suited her and yet seems all too appropriate. He moves away before any of the perfume rubs off on his jacket.

“Darling, how fabulous. Look at you.” Her laughter is crystalline as she eyes him up and down. “It must be three years! How time flies. What have you been doing?”

“I’ve—” Changmin starts, but she talks over him, playing to their captive audience.

“Changmin and I interned together at Chanel. Paris in summertime, what could be more perfect! Back then he was just the cute little student photocopying the daily itineraries and I... Well, Mama made sure that Karl gave me a proper job—”

“Fetching the coffee,” Changmin says, smiling sweetly. “And running out for the lunch orders. You excelled at that.”

Sabine gives him a stabbing look but giggles for the benefit of everyone else. “Darling, I can’t get over how edible you look now. And to think you were such a geeky little thing not so long ago. And your hair. There’s so much of it. But that was always a problem before, wasn’t it? Not on your head, though, darling.” She trills with laughter again, her gaze sly and measuring. “I must tell Mama that you’re my competition. What a riot, she’ll be so amused!”

Changmin’s rictus softens slightly. “My regards to your beautiful mother when you speak to her.”

“Mama always thought you were such a doll.” Sabine addresses the room at large again. “Mama is Isabelle de la Tour.”

Everyone looks impressed, except for Yunho, who says, “Who?”

“Isabelle de la Tour!” Kangin says, his expression awestruck. He clasps his hands together and looks heavenwards. “The famous French supermodel! Sixty-three covers of Vogue! Consistently in the top ten of FHM’s Sexiest Women Alive! I had a poster of her taped to my bunk when I was in the army. She helped me through the lonely nights.”

Sungmin shudders. “Too much information.”

“So,” Milhye says, “your mother is Isabelle de la Tour.”

“I prefer to use my father’s surname,” Sabine says airily. “I don’t like trading on Mama’s reputation.”

Yunho looks genuinely confused. “But you just did.”

Sabine gives him a dirty look. “No, I...”

“You did,” Yunho says. “You were showing off. That’s just silly.”

Changmin bites the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing, but it won’t be suppressed. Sabine’s expression is priceless, and he hopes this makes the final edit of the show because he wants a screenshot of this moment so he can hang it over his fireplace. His giggles force their way upwards and emerge as a snort. He ducks his head, covers his mouth with his hand and bites his thumb hard.

Jiheun is less restrained. She laughs out loud and then pretends it wasn’t her.

“Let’s just get on with our work,” Kyunghee suggests.

“Yes,” Sabine agrees, still shooting daggers at Yunho, “let’s create our garments. They’ll speak for us, and then we’ll see if a sense of style bred in the bone and coupled with experience at one of the world’s top fashion houses can outshine an outfit made by someone who studied at... Where did you study, Designer Jung?”

Yunho smiles, utterly unconcerned. “I didn’t.”

Milhye raises her eyebrows. “You’re self-taught?”

“I guess you could call it that.” Yunho starts gluing shredded paper and strips of tinfoil onto a construction of bent coat hangers. “I’m a market trader. Me and my mate run a stall in Gwangju, and one time Donghae got this gear that had fallen off the back of a lorry and we had to get shot of it really fast, so we priced it nice and cheap and it sold out, and people came back wanting more, so I thought I could probably run up something that looked similar, so I took the pieces I’d kept for myself and I unpicked them and copied them and...”

“This will be edited out, right?” Changmin says loudly, looking at the cameras.

Yunho glances up, an expression of dawning horror on his face. “Shit.”

Kangin shakes his head. “Illegal copying of branded items is a widespread problem. If only you’d been in the army, like me, you wouldn’t have felt the need to break the law.”

“I did my military service ages ago,” Yunho says.

“Obviously your CO was too lenient with you.”

Yunho looks at Kangin, absolutely straight-faced. “As long as I sucked his dick a few times, he let me do whatever I wanted.”

Changmin sniggers.

“There are no gay men in the army!” Kangin blusters, apparently oblivious to the muffled laughter all around him. “The army turns out manly men! Manly men like me! I’m straight! And I can sew a straight seam, too, because the army is progressive and sewing is a manly activity!”

“If you say so, girlfriend,” Spoon drawls, and everyone cracks up.

For the next few hours, Changmin focuses on shaping his garment to the form. He flattens the plastic ready meal trays, cuts out ovals, and stitches them together to create a fish-scale bodice. He finds the work absorbing, and glances up only occasionally to see what everyone else is doing.

Yunho has moved off the floor and is fastening a cape made of the shredded paper and tinfoil around his form. In between alterations, he dips his fingers into the bag of pineapple lumps. He doesn’t suck on the sweets like a normal person; instead he crunches them. Changmin frowns in disapproval.

The workroom door swings open and Zhou Mi sweeps in. “Good afternoon, designers. How are you getting along?”

No one’s about to admit that they’re not doing brilliantly. Sabine’s eager expression dulls when Zhou Mi and the cameraman meander past her to talk to the Estonian guy. As he goes past Yunho’s table, Zhou Mi helps himself to some of the pineapple lumps.

Changmin tries not to listen in on the critiques as Zhou Mi goes around dispensing his wisdom. He’s not concerned with anyone else’s looks. His outfit is the only thing that matters, and although he’s happy with it, he still feels a flutter of anxiety as Zhou Mi heads his way.

“Designer Shim.” Zhou Mi waves his hands in the air. “May I say, your personal style is impeccable. Gieves & Hawkes, surely? And your cufflinks—just divine.”

“Asprey’s,” Changmin says casually, all oh, this old thing.

“British fashion is so on trend. Richard Nicoll, Hussein Chalayan, Sarah Burton—I can see them reflected in this piece. It’s delicious, really.” Zhou Mi stands back and studies Changmin’s garment. “Oh, it’s fabulous. So sophisticated even though it’s made out of rubbish. Just a suggestion: the skirt. Make it asymmetrical.”

Changmin nods and smiles politely. “Thank you.”

“Just a suggestion! Take it or leave it!” Zhou Mi utters his famous catchphrase and wanders off to the next contestant.

Aware that the camera is still on him, Changmin surveys the skirt on his outfit, tilts a hand as if imagining a fresh line, and says, “Asymmetrical? I think not. Ugly, ugly, ugly.”

* * *
Changmin is awake all night because of a draught from the window. When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of needles stabbing through cloth, which gives him a brief, satisfying rush, only for the pleasure to fade when he looks back and sees that the thread is unravelling faster than he can sew.

He wakes exhausted and gritty-eyed to find Yunho dressed in very brief underwear performing some kind of weird yoga moves on the floor.

It looks borderline pornographic. Changmin can’t tear his gaze away. His morning erection gives an enthusiastic leap, and he gluts himself on the sight of all that sexy, muscled flesh on display just for him. Yunho might not be cut like a male model but he has fantastically defined biceps and triceps and his chest is sort of deep and pillowy, and he has nice abs and a flat stomach and he’s all lean and lithe, and he has those thighs, oh those thighs, and—

“Morning!” Yunho looks at him upside down and beams. “You made a noise, so I knew you were awake. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Changmin lies, because Yunho is so disturbing it’s not even funny.

Yunho flows out of a painful-looking pose and straightens up, smiling down at Changmin. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Changmin says before he can think better of it. “There’s a draught.”

“Oh dear.” Yunho looks sad on Changmin’s behalf.

Changmin wonders if Yunho knew about the draught all along and had manipulated him into taking the bigger bed. Bastard! Changmin hates him. Every mostly naked, insanely sexy inch of him. Including all those inches stuffed into his underwear. Not that Changmin is looking at Yunho’s crotch or wondering what that monster would look like fully erect or anything, because that would be pathetic.

Sitting up, Changmin pulls his dressing gown towards him. He unravels himself from the duvet and gets into his robe, shielding his hard-on the whole time, then struts out to the bathroom with his head held high.

The bathroom is occupied. Changmin loiters in the hallway until Sungmin emerges in a cloud of strawberry-scented steam, and then he performs his morning ablutions and successfully manages not to think of Yunho and his distracting barely-there underwear for at least forty seconds.

Shaved, styled, wearing a royal blue suit with an orange satin shirt and a dark blue tie and a discreet amount of the indiscreet L’Égoïste, Changmin strolls into the kitchen to find Yunho holding court with the rest of the male contestants. He’s in the middle of a story, his eyes shining and his hair all sticking up, and he’s spilled ketchup down his t-shirt and slopped coffee onto the counter.

“And then the cop said, ‘I’ll see you boys next Tuesday’,” Yunho says, his voice trembling with repressed humour, “and we were all ‘Yes, officer, of course, sir’, and off he went, and then me and Donghae were pissing ourselves because the market is once a month on Wednesdays.”

Everyone roars with laughter. Feeling left out, Changmin laughs, too.

Yunho turns to him and beams. “Oh, Changminnie, there’s fresh coffee in the jug if you want it.”

“It’s really good,” Spoon says, holding up a mug and taking an appreciative sip. “Yunho brought this fantastic Guatemalan slow roast to share with us.”

“Did that fall off the back of a lorry in Gwangju, too?”

Silence. Everyone looks embarrassed.

Yunho’s smile fades. “Don’t feel obliged to drink it.”

“I won’t.” Changmin takes down a glass. “I prefer water, anyway.”

Conversation is awkward after that. Kangin and Spoon talk about the army. The Estonian guy stares out of the window. Sungmin announces that he’s going to head off to the workroom. Yunho says he’ll go with him, and then Spoon says he’ll come, too, and Kangin agrees, and the Estonian guy follows them, and Changmin is left alone with his breakfast.

He makes sure everyone has left the apartment before he helps himself to a cup of Yunho’s Guatemalan slow roast coffee. It’s exquisite.

*
Yunho finishes his outfit forty-three minutes before the models are due to arrive for the final dressing. He fluffs at his hair and dances around the form, admiring the garment from all sides, then starts singing to it, “Gonna dress you up in my love! All over your body!”

Milhye laughs. Yunho bounces over to her and sings the lines again—obviously the only part of the song he can remember—and she lets him spin her around and they dance across the floor, part waltz, part samba, until Milhye can barely stand up from laughing. At that point, Yunho dips her back into an exaggerated pose, and then they unbalance and fall down and roll about, giggling hysterically.

Changmin gets a tight, angry feeling in his chest. He turns away, mutters, “Ugly, ugly, ugly,” under his breath at a belt of black bottle tops he’s just finished making, and yanks it off the form even though there’s nothing wrong with it. He looks up to find Jiheun munching on some pineapple lumps and watching him. “What?” he snaps.

She stares at him. “Nothing.”

Zhou Mi wafts in with the models, and everyone flies into a state of chaos as they choose accessories and direct the hairdressers and makeup artists and finally dress the girls in their looks ready for the catwalk.

The designers sit on one side of the runway. Jaejoong sashays out from behind the illuminated screen with the show’s name printed on it. He’s wearing tartan. Changmin can’t decide if this is an improvement on yesterday’s beige jumpsuit. He’s so busy wondering if tartan is a good look on anyone who isn’t Scottish or a Harakuja Lolita that he almost misses the introductions to the other judges. Not that it matters, because Changmin has watched Stitched Up so many times he could recite Jaejoong’s spiel word for word.

The first judge is Cho Kyuhyun. Jaejoong introduces him as a ‘top Korean designer’, which in Changmin’s opinion is a grossly inaccurate description. Kyuhyun inherited a fashion house that churns out t-shirts printed with misspelled English words, which nevertheless sell in the hundreds of thousands for exorbitant prices. The ability to choose words out of a dictionary and then spell them phonetically has nothing to do with real, actual high-end design work, but Changmin grits his teeth and smiles when Kyuhyun greets the contestants.

Next is Madame Oh, the fashion director for ClothesLine magazine. She’s dressed head to toe in Vivienne Westwood and is overloaded with jewellery. The fruity scent of Oscar de la Renta curdles across the runway. Madame Oh has orange streaks in her hair and, according to gossip sites, is unable to smile due to an infection after she tried one of those DIY botox treatments.

The guest judge is the head of the municipal waste disposal services, here to give his expert opinion on the use of the recycled materials, but no one cares about him.

“Ready?” Jaejoong chirps. “Let’s start the show!”

Changmin is sitting on the back row. He can see how nervous Yunho is as music pounds out and the models start emerging. Everyone’s nervous, of course, but Yunho is really obvious about it, squirming in his seat and grabbing at Milhye and Spoon as their models strut down the runway. He makes excited noises and applauds everyone’s outfits, even the really shit ones. He must be stupid to show that much emotion for the camera.

By contrast, Changmin keeps calm, controlling the panic swirling inside him. He focuses on the garments as they come down the catwalk, pretending that he’s a judge and looking at each piece with a critical eye.

He has to admit, Yunho’s outfit is inspired. The model struts down the runway, slinging off her rustling shredded paper cape to reveal a short, tight dress made of woven strips of plastic trays—black across the bust and for the skirt, transparent over the shoulders and around the midriff—and embellished with tinfoil. It’s very Baroque, very Dolce & Gabbana, and despite himself, Changmin is impressed.

When his own model strides along the catwalk, Changmin sighs in satisfaction. The strapless black bodice gleams under the lights, the fish-scale effect emphasising the movement of the body, and the crumpled bin bag skirt is the perfect length. If he tilts his head and squints a bit, the whole ensemble looks a little like wet-look leather, which is distinctly on-trend.

Then comes the boring part where the judges tally up their scores and confer and where the contestants wait to hear their fate. The filming of this takes up the better part of an hour, and the atmosphere backstage becomes fraught. No one wants to be the first to go home. Yunho passes around a bag of pineapple lumps. Changmin takes one, then catches himself crunching the sweet and remembers to suck on it instead.

Finally the designers are called back to the runway. The taste of the pineapple lump lingering on his tongue, Changmin breathes deeply and rehearses what he’ll say to the judges when they ask about his aesthetic. He almost misses his name when Jaejoong calls it out, and he hurries to step forward to join Yunho, Milhye, Kangin, Myunghyun, and Kyunghee.

He’s in the top three. Or the bottom three. Oh God. He starts to sweat, barely able to concentrate as Kangin describes his design aesthetic as ‘military, with a twist’. Then Jaejoong is inviting him to describe his look to the judges, and Changmin babbles on about elegant symmetry and timeless sophistication. The judges nod as if what he’s saying makes perfect sense, and Changmin knows he can do this. He’s a designer.

After another brief conference, Jaejoong delivers the verdict. Milhye wins the challenge, with Yunho and Changmin making up the top three. Kangin and Myunghyun just scrape through, but it’s Kyunghee who’s going home. She seems relieved and kisses Jaejoong back when he brushes her cheek and says ‘Auf wiedersehen’ in a bad German accent.

* * *
The weeks pass in a frenzy of activity. Jaejoong bids ‘Sayonara’ to Myunghyun, ‘Adios’ to Kangin, who was revealed to have been planted by the Ministry of Defence in an attempt to promote a softer, gentler side of the Army, and ‘Yeia sou’ to Seongyoon. Sabine wins week two. Changmin wins week three. Yunho wins week four.

The contestants settle into a routine. As their numbers shrink, the men and women start breakfasting in each other’s apartments and hanging out together on their days off.

Changmin gets to enjoy a moment of almost universal acclamation when Milhye comes in one day wearing a Chanel scarf.

“Is that a 2009 print?” Changmin asks. His question coincides with a lull in the general conversation, so not only is his voice incredibly loud, it also sounds accusatory as well as interrogative.

Milhye looks startled. “Yes.”

“It’s just...” Changmin puts down the tea towel—he’s trying to use psychology to trick the others into washing up by doing the dishes when they don’t actually need to be done, in the hope that when they do need to be done, the other guys will step up without him having to remind them—and hurries around the kitchen counter.

“2009 is so three years ago,” Sabine says with a sniff. “Mama sent me the very latest Chanel scarf. There’s a waiting list and it’s not even been released to valued customers yet, but Karl loves Mama, she’s his Muse, and...”

“No one cares,” Yunho tells her, budging up on the sofa so Milhye can sit next to him and Spoon. He smiles at Changmin. “What were you saying?”

“Oh.” Changmin blushes and waves his hands awkwardly. “It’s nothing. Just... when I interned at Chanel—”

“When we interned,” Sabine says, her voice loud.

“Anyway,” Changmin continues, “I got talking to the designer of this scarf and you see here...” he reaches across, glances at Milhye for permission, then fans out the ends of the silk to show the print, “the horses prancing? I thought they looked rather flat, so I said, why don’t you put a bit of shadow underneath the hooves, just to emphasise the movement, and the designer let me draw the shadow, and, well... That’s my contribution to that scarf.”

Sabine snorts. “The cheapest scarf in the whole autumn collection.”

Milhye peers at the horses. “I’m trying to imagine them without the shadow, and you’re right, it would have looked lifeless. I wouldn’t have bought the scarf if the horses looked flat.”

Changmin dips his head, feeling shy and pleased as everyone except Sabine oohs and ahhs over the scarf.

“That’s so awesome!” Yunho enthuses, leaning all over Milhye to study the print. “Changminnie, you’re so clever! Please let me learn from you!”

“It’s just a bit of shadow.” Changmin sits down on the arm of the sofa then stands up again, flustered. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll, er, I’ll...”

“Finish the dishes that didn’t need doing?” Sungmin suggests with a smirk.

“Me and Jiheun can do that,” Yunho says, jumping up. “You sit here.”

Changmin finds himself seated next to Milhye, who asks him about his internship at Chanel. Sabine tries to gatecrash the conversation, but Milhye is unfailingly polite and keeps the attention firmly on Changmin, and Sabine soon gets bored. Jiheun, Yunho, the Estonian guy and Spoon congregate in the kitchen area and wash and dry and stack the dishes, chatting and laughing the whole time.

Although he’s interested in what Milhye is saying, Changmin’s attention keeps wandering. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until Milhye waves a hand in front of his face, and then he’s embarrassed and hunches his shoulders and says, “I’m sorry, I’m... tired. Yes. Because there’s a draught from the bedroom window and it keeps me awake.”

Milhye gives him a knowing smile. “Of course,” she says, then slides her glance sideways to look at Yunho. “Fresh air can do that.”

Changmin pretends he has no idea what she means and steers their conversation around to a discussion of Stella McCartney.

Almost everyone loves Yunho. He’s genuinely nice and he goes out of his way to help the other contestants when they have a problem. He meanders around the workroom waving a bag of pineapple lumps and offering honest criticism in a voice that’s clearly made for shouting things like Awright darlin’ git yerself some nice togs orl arf price t’day or however Gwangju market traders communicate.

Other than the accent, which isn’t all that noticeable now Changmin comes to think about it, Yunho has this laugh. At first it’s really irritating, mainly because when Changmin hears Yunho laughing, his mouth twitches into an answering smile. High-end fashion designers simply do not go around smiling like idiots for no good reason—look at Jeremy Scott—so he tries to ignore the joyous noise. In order to prepare himself mentally, Changmin starts listening out for Yunho’s laughter at all times, and somewhere along the way he finds himself kind of... addicted to the sound.

The other contestants adore him, although no one ever accepts his help for hand-sewing because he can barely stitch a straight line. Despite this shortcoming, Jiheun and Milhye have a crush on him, as does Spoon. Fluffy pink outfits aside, Sungmin turns out to be a fairly hardcore martial artist, and he and Yunho stage impromptu fights on the sofa, at the kitchen table, in the hallway, and once, to Changmin’s embarrassment, on the pavement outside the apartment block when they all went out to buy groceries.

The Estonian guy, who doesn’t talk to anyone else mainly because no one can understand him, quite happily talks to Yunho for hours at a time.

“You speak Estonian?” Changmin asks, impressed.

“No.” Yunho beams. “But it kind of sounds a bit like the Gwangju dialect so I think I know what he’s saying.”

Sabine doesn’t love Yunho. She’s not forgiven him for saying that she was a silly show-off. She smiles and accepts his help in the workroom, but every word she says to him is acid coated in sugar, and Changmin knows she’s just biding her time.

Changmin thinks he likes Yunho. Sort of. It’s hard to dislike someone who’s so relentlessly upbeat and enthusiastic about even the crappiest design challenge, but it’s also hard for Changmin to believe that anyone can be so happy and excitable all the time. He keeps hoping that one day he’ll find Yunho crying into his plushie or beating up a pillow or something, anything, to prove that he’s just a little bit human.

The mess Yunho leaves behind doesn’t count, because Spoon, Sungmin, and the Estonian guy are just as untidy. Changmin gets sick of clearing away after them and starts pinning up notices reminding them to take out the rubbish, wipe down the counter, and to always store foodstuffs in the appropriate places. He draws up a rota for doing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom and sticks it on the front of the fridge so everyone can see it. Next day he finds it crumpled up in the bin.

Undeterred, Changmin smoothes it out, makes several copies, and sticks them on every door in the apartment. He follows this up with a long monologue on the importance of hygiene in the home, standing in front of the TV while the others are trying to watch a football match.

“Bitchy boy, please shut up and get out of the way,” Spoon says, leaning to one side in an attempt to see past Changmin.

“No.” Changmin makes himself as wide as possible, planting his feet further apart and stretching out his arms like an incredibly stubborn and misguided goalkeeper. “You will listen to me, and you will follow the rota.”

The Estonian guy says something that sounds rude.

“There’s no need to be like that,” Changmin huffs. “This place isn’t fit for human habitation. It’s not even fit for animal habitation. The bathroom is simply squalid. No one clears their hair out of the plughole in the shower. It’s disgusting. Whoever used the shower last this morning let it overflow because there was so much build-up of hair and soap and—and...”

“Probably wasn’t soap,” Sungmin says, and he and Spoon laugh.

“Oh my God.” Changmin’s skin crawls as he realises that amongst that repulsive, soggy clump of hair all matted together with soap scum, there was probably a good amount of jizz, too. He wants to cry. He wants to put his hands in disinfectant for a week. “You’re all pigs. You’re depraved and filthy and—”

“Girlfriend, we just missed a goal because of your lecture,” Spoon says with a sigh. “Will you at least move so we can see the replay?”

“Promise that you’ll do the dishes.”

Yunho gets up from the sofa and comes towards him, smiling.

Changmin grounds himself. “Promise me that you’ll at least look at the rota.”

“We promise,” Yunho says, and tackles him.

Changmin squirms. “Get off. Don’t do that. You’re undermining my authority.”

“No, I’m not.” Yunho grabs him around the waist and hoists Changmin up as if he weighs almost nothing at all. He folds Changmin over his shoulder and carries him out of the room. Their exit is accompanied by catcalls and laughter.

Shrilling in mingled terror and excitement, Changmin claws at Yunho’s t-shirt. “Put me down. Put me down, you stupid bastard.” He doesn’t dare kick in case Yunho drops him. Each step jolts through him, and his position is making him breathless. All Changmin can do is bunch his hands and thump ineffectually at Yunho’s back.

“Put me down right now,” Changmin shouts. “The blood’s rushing to my head. It’s giving me a migraine. I can’t breathe. Jung Yunho! Put me down, I’m going to faint!”

“No, you’re not.” Yunho opens the door to their bedroom, carries him inside and gently unrolls Changmin onto the bed by the window.

Changmin flops onto the duvet, lust beating a wanton tattoo inside him. He curls up to hide his hard-on and hopes to God that Yunho didn’t notice. “Fuck off, you—you Gwangju skank.”

Yunho smiles at him, not at all bothered by the lame insult. “Don’t be so grumpy, Changminnie. We’ll follow the rota,” he says, and leaves the room.

Struggling up into a sitting position, conscious of the ache of desire and the proud thrust of his entirely inappropriate erection, Changmin yells after him, “Not grumpy! I’m not—”

The door shuts at the far end of the hall, muting the sound of the television. Changmin moans and lies back, rolling onto his side. Closing his eyes, he summons a fantasy of what he’d wanted—Yunho throwing him across the bed and then climbing on top, holding him down and fucking into him, fast and strong and demanding.

A helpless groan tumbles from his lips. Changmin unbuttons his trousers, shoves a hand inside his underwear, and jerks off. His climax is swift and unsatisfactory, like every other orgasm he’s given himself in the last four weeks and six days.

Racked with humiliation and desire, his pride dented and confusion reigning supreme, Changmin cleans himself up and fastens his clothes back into place. He stays in the bedroom for a while longer, then shuffles down the hall and stands outside the kitchen/living room. The football is still on. He opens the door a little, trying to rouse his confidence so he can go in there as if nothing untoward just happened.

“Wonder if Changmin’s still sulking,” he overhears Spoon say, and Changmin freezes, hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t be mean,” Yunho says, his tone mild.

Sungmin laughs. “Bro, you might think he’s hot, but he is so uptight.”

“Yeah,” Spoon adds, giggling, “just think, darlin’—if you ever got your dick inside him it’d turn into a diamond.”

The Estonian guy laughs.

Changmin is horrified, but also weirdly pleased that Yunho thinks he’s hot.

“Aw no, stop it.” Now Yunho sounds embarrassed and sort of... protective. “He’s really nice. You just don’t know him.”

“He’s a nag,” Spoon says. “And when he’s not going on about cleaning shit up, he’s being pretentious and wafting around all condescending and muttering his stupid catchphrase as if that’s going to win him any votes.”

“Don’t,” Yunho says again, and this time he sounds annoyed. “Changmin is a sweet guy, okay? He’s just shy and uncertain, and that can look like arrogance at times. Give him a break, yeah? He’s had a rough time of it.”

Silence, then the Estonian guy says something indistinct; a question, obviously, because Yunho replies, “Actually, his father is a real tool.”

Changmin backs away, his heart pounding. He’s sure they’ll be able to hear it, thudding against his ribs so hard it hurts. On tiptoe, he creeps back to his room and presses the door closed, then lies down on his bed again and stares at the wall until Sungmin comes knocking a couple of hours later and tells him that dinner’s ready.

He follows Sungmin into the kitchen. The dishes have been done, the surfaces have been wiped down, and the food is served at the table for once. It smells good, chilli and garlic scenting the air, and Changmin sits between the Estonian guy and Yunho, who smiles at him and says, “Changminnie, did you take a nap?”

“Yeah.” Changmin drops his gaze. “Thanks for washing up, guys.”

“Sungmin cleaned the bathroom, too,” Yunho says. “And we tidied everything away after we’d washed up. We’ll keep the place shipshape from now on.”

“Thank you.” He shouldn’t feel so overwhelmed just because these idiots have finally done the tasks that should have been done days ago, but all the same, emotion squeezes at Changmin and he darts a glance up at Yunho. “You must think I’m fussy.”

Yunho just gazes at him, a half smile curving his mouth. “No, Changminnie. I think you’re particular.”

Changmin doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

*
That night, after Yunho has finished reading a chapter of his book and turned out the bedside light, Changmin asks into the dark, “How did you know about my father?”

Yunho is quiet for a long time. “You talk in your sleep.”

Oh fuck, no. Changmin cringes. Embarrassment floods through him, hot and burning. “I... talk?”

“Sometimes you won’t shut up.” The duvet shirrs as Yunho turns onto his side. When he next speaks there’s a jocular note to his voice, as if he’s trying to make light of the subject. “You move around a lot, too. At first I thought it was because of the draught, but I guess you’re just a restless sleeper. In fact, you punched me the other night.”

Changmin is aghast. He never knew he was capable of somnolent violence. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“Well, no, you were asleep.” Now Yunho sounds awkward. “I woke up because you were making these noises, and—and I thought you were having a bad dream, so I came over because I wanted to help, but, uh, but... um, you weren’t having a bad dream and you punched me instead.”

“What night was this?” Changmin has the awful suspicion that he knows.

“Thursday.”

Changmin wants to die of shame. He’d woken up on Friday morning with his shorts damp and clinging and semen still slimy against his belly. The idea that Yunho had not just overheard him having a wet dream but had touched him, even innocently, makes Changmin want to crawl away and hibernate for the next ten years.

Trying to keep his voice level, he says, “So I talk about my father and I punch you. What else do I say when I’m asleep?”

Yunho is silent for much longer this time. “You say a lot,” he says, very softly.

“Such as?” Changmin grits his teeth, not wanting to hear the answer but desperate for it all the same. His stupid dreaming mind, babbling crap in the middle of the night, how dare it! Oh shit, what if he’d said something really embarrassing, like Yunho, Yunho, split me on your massive cock and make me ride you until I scream. God, he’ll never sleep again.

He waits in an agony of anticipation, but the silence gets longer and longer.

“Yunho?” Changmin says in a whisper. “Yunho!”

A tiny snuffling sound answers him. Yunho is asleep.

* * *

Part 2>>

Fic: Running Man [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 07:42:49 GMT

Title: Running Man
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: R
Summary: Changmin likes running. Particularly when he’s being chased.
Notes: For the kink_bingo square ‘consent play’.

Running Man
Changmin runs.

He hadn’t even been aware of this... this thing, whatever it is—kink, need, massive fucking turn-on—until earlier this evening when they were filming the Running Man episode as part of their comeback. Dressed in high-collared satin opera cloaks and sporting Phantom of the Opera masks, they’d wandered around the theatre in search of the little gold balls that would eliminate their hosts from the game. Yunho loved it, because he’s secretly five years old, but Changmin found it stupid and embarrassing.

Or at least he had, right up until the moment when he’d almost been caught, when he hid in the box office and panted and shivered at how close he’d come to being unmasked, and adrenalin had surged through him, giving him the kind of endorphin high he used to get from being on stage.

It got better, too. He’d gone out and circled around the foyer with the other masked guests, and he’d flirted with the danger of discovery, heart pounding, a jittery thrill churning his stomach and blocking his throat. When the Commander had suspected him, he’d kept a straight face, managed to stifle the heave of excitement, and then he ran. Oh, how he ran.

The Commander chased him up the stairs, along hallways, and Changmin had given him the slip, cut backstage where he thought he was safe, but then the Commander had flung himself from his hiding place and Changmin had run again, tried desperately to escape, but he was breathless and his limbs were weak and he was on the verge of hysteria even as arousal curled through him. As he tried to flee, he tangled his feet in his cloak and fell. The Commander tackled him, and Changmin yelped and struggled and rolled up into a ball, laughing and laughing until he felt sick with it, and he hoped his captor wouldn’t notice how stupidly turned on he was.

The Commander didn’t notice, but Yunho did. Of course he did. He always notices things like that—embarrassing things, things that make Changmin squirm—he notices and then he takes that knowledge and twists it and unleashes it upon Changmin when they’re alone.

Like now.

They get home, both of them tired after several hours of filming, and Yunho is all sweet and solicitous, helping Changmin with his coat and even lining up their shoes on the rack beside the front door. Then he asks if Changmin wants a drink to help him sleep and offers to make hot chocolate. This should ring warning bells—Yunho’s attempts at making bedtime drinks usually end with chocolate powder spilled over the counter and the stench of burned milk emanating from the microwave—but Changmin is exhausted and still flinchy-touchy after the chase, and he just wants to be cosseted.

“Sit down, Changminnie,” Yunho says, and goes into the kitchen.

Changmin sinks onto the sofa with relief. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to exorcise the memory of how it felt to be pursued, and then he hears a soft footfall behind him and he knows Yunho is standing there.

He wants to ask where his drink is, wants to make some sarcastic comment about Yunho being unable to boil water, but he can’t see him, because Yunho is standing right behind him. He can only hear, and then Yunho leans down and says, low and soft and directly into Changmin’s ear, “Do you like being chased?”

The strangest sensation goes through him. Cold, then hot. Changmin tries not to move, tries not to react in any way, and says, “No.”

Silence, and then Yunho breathes out one word: “Liar.”

“No,” Changmin says again, but there’s that squiggling bubble of hysteria building up again, and when Yunho clamps a hand on his shoulder, Changmin bolts from the couch and is across the other side of the room before he even knows what he’s doing. At bay, he turns and stares at Yunho, who’s wearing a dangerous, glittering smile.

“Changminnie, Changminnie,” Yunho sing-songs, “I’m going to chase you. I’m going to catch you.”

“No. No.” Legs trembling, his breathing fluttery and shallow, Changmin keeps on repeating himself as if that word will save him, even though everything in him is screaming Yes Yes Yes. He backs up against the wall, gaze darting, measuring distances, calculating clearance, and he wonders if he can make it to the other side of the lounge and the safety of his bedroom.

“Gonna catch you.” Yunho doesn’t bother going left or right around the sofa. He simply vaults over the top of it and runs at him.

Letting out an undignified squeal, Changmin feints one way then dashes in the opposite direction. Yunho corrects his own trajectory and grabs Changmin’s arm. The touch is brief but electrifying. Changmin yells, pulls free and almost falls over a heap of DVDs. He staggers around the far end of the couch, breaths gasping out of him, and runs for the bathroom.

“No,” Yunho snaps, and dives at him.

Changmin reverses direction and hustles back the way he’s come, using the sofa as a barrier. He has a brief mental image of the two of them running around it for the next hour until they collapse with exhaustion, and then he skitters behind an armchair and presses his back to the wall, shivering and sick with excitement.

“Gonna get you, baby,” Yunho sings, holding his arms out in front of him and wriggling his fingers. “Gonna get you, gonna tickle you.”

“Fuck off. Fuck off, you stupid bastard.” Changmin snatches up the cushion from the armchair and hurls it at Yunho. He hates being tickled, hates it like he hates being chased, and just the thought of it makes his legs all wobbly.

Yunho’s expression is bright with excitement. “Ooh Changminnie, I’m coming to get you!”

Under normal circumstances, Changmin would give him a blistering look and Yunho would shrivel up on the spot and then he’d very meekly go and tidy away that pile of DVDs. But these are not normal circumstances. Changmin’s rational mind has taken temporary leave of absence and with it has gone his vocabulary of harsh words and all his mean glares, and his frigid temperament has just sent a memo saying it won’t be back until tomorrow morning at the latest, and oh, oh fuck, he has to run, he has to run now—

Yunho rushes him. Changmin flees across the room again, grabs onto the sofa and swings himself around it. His feet slip, and he twists, catches himself on the back of the couch and rolls over it, bounces on the seat and lands on the floor. It winds him for a moment, and then panic shears through him and he picks himself up and dashes behind the second armchair. As a means of defence, he leans forward and grabs the cushion from this chair, too.

“Oh, baby, is that the best you can do?” Yunho is mocking him now, making it patently clear that he expects this stand-off to be resolved in his favour. He takes a threatening step closer, and Changmin yips. God, he hates himself for making that noise. It advertises his arousal more clearly than a message on a forty-foot billboard.

“Don’t,” he gasps. “Don’t chase me. I don’t like it.”

Yunho’s eyes gleam. “Then surrender. Say it right now—‘I can’t run as fast as you even though I have longer legs, so I deserve to be punished, I deserve to be caught and held down and tickled without mercy until—’”

“You dick, you moron, I am not saying that.” Changmin throws the cushion full force at Yunho and bolts forward, heading straight for him.

“Hey!” Yunho catches the cushion, unsighted for a moment, and Changmin barrels into him, gives him a hard shove that knocks him sideways. It buys Changmin enough time to run to the other side of the room. He throws a glance at the front door in pure speculation. He’s not going out there in bare feet, and if he started running for help to the other dorms he’s pretty sure this would end up as some sort of ridiculous free-for-all and that’s not what he wants.

No, he wants this to stay right here in the apartment, wants to keep it just between the two of them. A battle of wits.

Or something.

Yunho tosses the cushion aside and prowls closer. They both hunch down and circle the couch. Excitement pulses through Changmin. Heat blazes from him, and he licks his top lip, tastes sweat. His tiredness has been pushed aside, but it’s still there, still reaching for him, and it’s the knowledge that he could make a mistake and fail that makes this game so thrilling.

“What do you like most about this?” Yunho asks, low and breathless. “What is it, Changminnie—the pursuit or the capture?”

Changmin moans. Stops himself before he can sound too desperate. “Both. It makes me feel—”

Yunho doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. Instead he lunges at him, reaching out to grab, and Changmin utters a frantic, high-pitched cry and jerks backwards.

“It makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?” Yunho’s charge is halted by the sofa and he retreats, his smile fierce and predatory.

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Changmin plasters himself to the wall and drags in shaking breaths. That was close. Too close. “Reminds me of how it used to feel when we performed. Years ago. When we started. Maybe I’m jaded. Maybe—too serious. I just...”

Yunho’s expression softens. “I know, baby.”

Changmin stares at him. “Yun,” he says, “catch me.”

“Oh yeah,” Yunho says, his look hot and greedy now. “And when I catch you...”

“No tickling. Promise me no tickling.” Changmin slides sideways, lures Yunho one way and then breaks in the opposite direction. Yunho growls and they both halt, gazing at one another across the barrier of the sofa.

“Surrender. Admit you’re a weed and I won’t tickle you,” Yunho says.

“You’re so magnanimous.” Changmin flicks back his fringe. It’s damp, hanging in his eyes. “I reject your terms. Come and get me—if you can.”

“Oh, Changminnie. Never challenge me.” Yunho rocks back, then runs at him. Not left. Not right. Forward. Onto the sofa. He slams his leading foot down hard on the back of the couch, and the whole thing tips over, lands on the floor with an almighty crash, and Changmin is so startled he doesn’t think to run until it’s too late.

“No!” The denial is torn from his lips as Yunho catches him around the waist. Changmin fights. “No no no no no no—” He struggles free, lurches forward and hits the wall, panting and lightheaded, his limbs turning to water. Dizziness overwhelms him. He loses his balance as Yunho grabs at him again. Changmin hauls himself around, trying to shake him off, but Yunho hangs on, laughing and pulling him down.

Changmin makes a monumental effort and squirms free. He goes across the floor like some sort of extra-long caterpillar, and then Yunho is upon him again, pinning him down, and now he’s caught, now he has absolutely nowhere to go, and the knowledge burns through him, obliterating everything but the most basic of instincts.

“Oh God!” He still fights, scrabbles about on the floor as Yunho gets him in a rough arm-lock and mouths at him, bestowing hot, hot kisses to the back of his neck, to the side of his throat. He writhes and struggles, rubbing against Yunho, painfully aware of Yunho’s thick, hard cock pressed to the curve of his ass. “Oh God, oh Yunho, oh—I don’t want it, I don’t, oh make me make me make me.”

“Baby. Fuck. Oh yeah.” Yunho lifts up enough to turn him over. They grind together, still fighting. Yunho keeps on kissing him, aims for his mouth, but Changmin won’t let him.

“No.” He bares his teeth, tries to bite when Yunho gets too close, then stretches back his head, exposing the vulnerable long line of his throat, and Changmin shouts and snarls and thrusts up against the constriction of his clothes and Yunho’s weight over him and the awful, incredible pressure of Yunho’s thigh between his legs.

“Make me give in,” Changmin begs, demands, falling apart. “Oh, please.”

Yunho humps against him, hot and hard, and presses his forearm across Changmin’s chest and leans on him, trapping him further, forcing Changmin to an awareness of his rapid heartbeat and the high, panicked, ecstatic gasps of his breathing.

“Caught you, Changminnie,” Yunho says, voice harsh and brutal. “Chased you and caught you and now you’re mine.”

“No,” Changmin whispers, arching, straining, chasing after his orgasm, running and running towards it, and he bucks up, thrusts again and again, clutches at Yunho’s shoulders, at his back, his ass, holds his captor down on top of him and screams, broken and triumphant.

Yes.

*
They’re all sticky and messy, and the living room looks like a bomb hit it. Changmin knows he’ll be the one to restore order to the chaos, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

Yunho has his eyes closed. He nuzzles at Changmin’s neck, whispers lazy kisses over his damp skin. “Remind me again which you prefer—the pursuit or the capture?”

Changmin smiles, brushes a hand through Yunho’s hair, and makes no reply.

Fic: Passive Aggressive [TVXQ RPS]

glitterburn — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 07:33:32 GMT

Title: Passive Aggressive
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Changmin/Yunho
Rating: PG
Summary: Changmin just keeps on pushing.
Notes: For the kink_bingo square ‘rough body play’.

Passive Aggressive
Changmin shoves Yunho, puts more force into it than necessary. The choreography calls for it, but there are ways to fake the strength of the push, ways that Changmin ignores. He slams the flat of his hand hard against Yunho’s chest and forces him to give ground.

Sometimes he can make Yunho stumble, and he knows it’s real and not faked for the performance. Those are the times Changmin feels most alive, when he hits Yunho right over the breastbone and feels heat and the slick of sweat, feels Yunho fall back.

Changmin always keeps his gaze lowered when he lashes out. He doesn’t want Yunho to see how much he enjoys shoving him away. He doesn’t want Yunho to know that he’s doing this as provocation. And, if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want Yunho to see the anticipation in his eyes, the hope that one day he’ll push too hard and Yunho will retaliate.

*
Yunho is stronger than him. More muscle mass, and a knowledge of martial arts that’s stayed with him despite his claims that he only learned when he was in school. Some skills are never lost, but others require practice. Retaining the knowledge of how to ride a bike is not the same as retaining the knowledge of how to kill someone with your bare hands.

Maybe he’s exaggerating the killing part, but Changmin is aware that Yunho knows how to defend himself. Yunho knows all the blocks and locks and feints and how to throw a guy over his shoulder and onto the ground without breaking the guy’s spine. And that is simply not something you do just on muscle memory, especially when your name is Jung Yunho and your normal higher-functioning memory has all the retention capacity of a sieve.

Changmin knows that Yunho still fights. He denies it these days, but Changmin knows he’s lying.

In the past, whenever Yunho got a head of temper on, he’d go down to the Super Junior dorms and match himself against Siwon, who has always had more cause than anyone else in that group to be spoiling for a fight.

Sometimes Sungmin offered himself as sparring partner instead. The physical differences of that contest always added a certain piquant interest. Sungmin is small, beautiful; from a distance he looks breakable, but there is nothing soft or fragile about him.

Donghae actually ran a book on it the first time Yunho went up against Sungmin. That was when it was all five of them in the group, and Changmin had gone against the others and backed Sungmin. Jaejoong had looked really offended, as if Changmin had done something treasonous. Junsu had laughed through his nose, and Yoochun just shook his head and said, “Your money, Minnie.”

He’d done it not because he didn’t think Yunho would win, but because almost everyone else, including the majority of Super Junior, had put their money on Yunho. Changmin bet on Sungmin because he knew what it was like to be overlooked and underestimated. Hyukjae and Ryeowook bet on Sungmin because they thought he’d kick Yunho’s ass. Turned out all three of them were right. Sungmin wiped the floor with him.

Junsu, Yoochun, and Jaejoong ragged Yunho about his failure. Yunho shrugged it off, but took Changmin aside one day and asked, “How did you know I’d lose?”

Changmin had looked away, uncomfortable. “Because sometimes you have to. You can’t win all the time.”

Yunho had stared at him, then nodded. Smiled. “Oh, Changminnie,” he’d said, and hugged him, swift and fierce.

A rematch was held ten days later. Yunho decimated Sungmin.

*
In the days when there were five of them, occasionally, just sometimes, Yunho lost control when he fought. It excited Changmin then and it excites him now. He wants Yunho to lose control with him. He wants their pathetic choreographed pushing and shoving to become something more. He wants them to fight for real, and he wants their struggles to turn into hard, rough fucking, because then maybe Yunho will realise what’s in front of him.

Changmin hates it that Yunho won’t trust him with this. He’s not the baby of the group any more. They’ve grown up together, been through so much together, and yet still Yunho seems to think that Changmin needs to be protected. Even though it’s just the two of them now. Even though the managers and stylists and company execs listen to both of them. It’s unfair and it’s ridiculous, and then Yunho says in an interview that Changmin is like his wife, and Changmin wonders if that’s it—if Yunho truly thinks of him as some kind of untouchable delicate flower that needs to be looked after.

The next time they rehearse the song, Changmin punches him. Yunho looks startled and hurt. Changmin is glad. He’s not the weak link. He’s never been the weak link. Now he just needs to make Yunho acknowledge it.

*
When they shoot the cover and booklet art for Keep Your Head Down, they’re told that the concept is martial and aggressive. They stand around in suits and have talc emptied all over them and they wrestle for the cameras, bump and clash and hold on to one another.

Changmin fixes his gaze on the neck of Yunho’s t-shirt, or on a streak of talc daubed through his hair, or his ear, or the scar on his cheek. He looks anywhere but Yunho’s eyes, and is aware throughout the shoot of the way Yunho is staring at him. The challenge is an act, only there for the cameras. It’s what lies behind it that makes Changmin’s stomach flip. The curiosity, the gentle quizzical expression that asks Changminnie, what is it? What do you want?

“Stupid concept,” Changmin says during a break.

“It’s manly,” Yunho responds, fiddling with the seal on a bottle of water.

“The song is supposed to be about overcoming a break-up.” Changmin rolls his eyes at the predictability of it all. “I fail to see how punching each other in the gut is a suitable illustration of this fact. Shouldn’t we be showing manly solidarity instead?”

Yunho goes still; looks blank. “Real men don’t hug other men when they get dumped. They don’t go looking for comfort, they... They do something else.”

“They beat up their friends.” Changmin flicks a glance at him. “Do you really find that comforting?”

“You’re taking this too literally.” Yunho abandons the water without opening the cap. He won’t meet Changmin’s gaze. “You know it’s not about that. It’s about male pride, and that’s always aggressive.”

“Yes,” Changmin says. “United we stand and divided we fall. Pride was what got us here, wasn’t it?”

Yunho looks up then, and there’s such sadness in his eyes. It’s gone a moment later, and he laughs, all smiles again as usual. “Maybe I’m misreading it, too. Maybe they chose this concept because everyone knows we fight like cat and dog.”

“Yeah.” Changmin decides to let it go. “Maybe.”

*
Changmin keeps on pushing Yunho. On stage, he shoves so hard he leaves bruises. It’s not necessary for them to be so rough with one another, not during a live performance and certainly not during a rehearsal, and yet Yunho keeps getting in Changmin’s face, and Changmin can’t help his instinctive response. He grips and thumps, claws his hand against Yunho’s chest. He wishes he was brave enough to leave scratches, but bruises are just as good.

He likes it when the stylists put Yunho in a jacket with no shirt, or in a waistcoat with no shirt, or anything in fact that involves a deep cut of bare flesh. That’s his canvas, and he pushes and shoves and something inside him tells him to stop, but he can’t. Not even when brutal red marks flower all over Yunho’s skin, not even when news sites publish photographs and write articles about it. The stylists remark upon it, too, as do their friends within the company, but it doesn’t matter. Yunho doesn’t say anything, and until he does, Changmin isn’t going to stop.

One of them will break first. It’s not going to be him.

Fic: Eau Rouge at 200mph [F1 RPS]

glitterburn — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 20:11:50 GMT

Title: Eau Rouge at 200mph
Fandom: F1
Pairing: Mika Hakkinen/Michael Schumacher
Rating: R
Summary: Love. Victory. Fame. None of these things really matter.
Notes: Written for the Kimi bingo card as part of the f1slash Summer Slash challenge. Top line bingo using the prompts: tattoos/tattooing, crimson, drugs/aphrodisiacs, Spa, and rough body play. Set across the 2000 season. I think Michael’s henna tattoo made an appearance in 2001, but neither diagon nor I could remember exactly and Google was no help at all, so excuse the anachronism. Also, a very literal rendering of ‘drugs’, but if it’s good enough for Bryan Ferry...

Eau Rouge at 200mph
They fuck because they have no reason not to. It’s expected of them, and they have a history of it, a history that goes back two years, and everyone knows it. One must always give the audience what it wants, even if the performance is behind closed doors, even if the only ones who know for sure are the two participants themselves, because then they become an audience for one another, and that pushes them further, and further, because sex, like racing, is a competition.

They measure their love in terms of breakages, physical and mental.

Michael takes the first chequered flag of the season. Australia, the race that sets the tone for the rest of the year but which also still feels like a holiday. Everyone arrives in Melbourne smiling. The smiles may slip as sidelong glances are cast at competitors’ cars, as top speeds are measured and pole challenges dissected, but as with the last race of the season, there’s a party spirit to Australia, and team principals, crews, and drivers can all pretend to be one big, happy family united in motorsport.

Mika goes to Michael’s hotel room. He already tendered his congratulations at the track. This isn’t about that. It has nothing to do with presenting the victor with his spoils, although he doesn’t mind if Michael believes otherwise.

Michael opens the door and stands aside to let him in. They don’t talk. Speech is a luxury neither of them wants in this moment.

They fuck, hard and brutal and unrelenting. No tenderness. No gentle touches or sweet caresses or whispered affections. They train for endurance and stamina, they train to withstand the violent pull of g-force, they train to blot out the thought of failure. With their bodies thus prepared, what is the point in gentleness, sweetness, tenderness? These are things that make no mark and leave no trace.

They’re rough with one another. Physical. They bite and bruise and scratch and slap and choke, and in it there’s a wild pleasure second only to driving on the limit. They push at boundaries, sometimes cross them, and it’s like losing control at two hundred miles an hour, like feeling the back end step out as the grip goes, the front sliding, sliding, and the freefall sensation in the stomach and the split-second blankness of the mind as the car spins, goes sideways, and slams into the wall.

“We should stop this,” Michael says, his breaths panting, body glazed with sweat.

“Yes,” says Mika. “We really should.”

*
Red becomes him. Ferrari is scarlet, the colour of passion, the colour of fire, the colour of sex. To Mika, it is also the colour of irony. Michael is not Latin-passionate, not Ferrari-passionate, and the tifosi resent him and laud him with equal fervour. Mika doesn’t envy him. The weight of expectation is a terrible thing, but in the right environment it can bolster a man. Mika knows this from experience.

Adelaide. The crash, massive and deadly, shockwaves of destruction and the kind of steel-grey certainty that this was it. Except when he thinks about it now, he’s not sure what to make of that certainty. Did he expect to die—this is it—or did he expect to black out—this is it—and wake up with his reality rearranged? There is a difference, after all, but whenever he thinks about it, he can’t ever find a satisfactory answer.

He remembers the crash. Remembers everything. When people ask—and they still do, from time to time, despite how short memories can be in F1—when people ask, he lies. Gives that lop-sided smile and says, “I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

A season is a long time in F1. A race is a long time. Five years is an eternity.

But he remembers the crimson wash of blood and the frantic bang-bang-bang of his heart, so like the stutter-snap of an engine under braking, and he wanted to stop his heart because with every beat he was losing blood, he was losing consciousness, and survival depends on staying awake, staying lucid, but if he stopped his heart he’d die. The dichotomy puzzled him, went round and round until he drifted away from the world. Even then it still puzzled him, right up until the moment he snapped back into wakefulness and there was nothing to puzzle over any more, there was only pain, brutal and honest.

He’ll never tell anyone that he remembers. Not Ron, not Erja, not anyone.

Ron saved him just as surely as Sid Watkins did. Not Ron himself, but his expectations. Erja’s expectations were different, of course; she just wanted him to live and be whole again. Ron wanted more than that. Not so much a return on investment as a return on hope. Then there were those who said he’d never race again, and, well, sometimes it’s nothing to do with sisu and everything to do with stubbornness.

After Michael broke his leg at Silverstone, Mika visited him in hospital. Corinna was there, pale and shaken and almost beautiful with relief. They sat for a while, he and she, and they spoke of commonplace things, discussed breaks and fractures and recovery times and plans for rehabilitation as if Michael wasn’t present, and when these subjects had been exhausted, Corinna stood and shook off her weariness as she straightened her clothes, and she smiled at her husband and said she was popping out to get a drink of coffee. Then she paused, corrected herself: tea, she said, a drink of tea. This is England, and she’d laughed then, even though it wasn’t funny, and Mika recognised in her laughter a distant echo of Erja’s panic.

She left, and Mika sat there, studying Michael’s narrow features, eyes dulled with opiates, skin the colour of old parchment written over and erased time and again.

“Do you remember any of it?” Mika asked.

Michael looked at him, a spark in those eyes, a long, long silence. “No.”

Mika nodded.

“Do you remember Adelaide?” Michael asked then for the first time.

Mika held his gaze. “No.”

Michael glanced down. Smoothed a hand over the bed sheets. It seemed for a moment as if he wanted to say something else, but the words never came, and they sat in a silence slow and intimate and almost companionable until Corinna returned and Mika made his goodbyes and left.

He’d lied to Michael, and Michael had lied to him. It was better than talking about the choking slide of blood and the terror and the knowledge that no matter how much rehabilitation, how many races contested and won, no matter how often you tell yourself that you’ve faced the fear and emerged triumphant, there’s always going to be a moment—in dreams, perhaps, or else in idleness—when the memories smash through the facade of indifference and forgetfulness, and those memories are always painted crimson.

Mika remembers all this now as Michael buckles under the weight of scarlet expectation. It’s San Marino, and Michael has won. His third victory in a row, and though the season is still in its infancy, the pundits are already discussing the potential inevitability of both WDCs going to Ferrari this year. The tifosi swarm around the circuit, rippling flags aloft and air horns blatting. Jean and Luca smile and smile. The church bells are ringing at Maranello.

In his motorhome, Michael lies naked and face down on the floor. Mika is still wearing his coveralls, McLaren silver-white.

“Please,” Michael says.

Mika puts his foot in the small of Michael’s back. His race shoes are red.

*
“I love you,” Michael says one day. Just like that, the words dropped through the air, casual and almost careless. As if it’s that simple.

Mika considers this statement. They’re in a park in Barcelona, high up on a hill with the city indolent before them in the swimming heat. It’s just past two in the afternoon and the sun is at its fiercest. They sit in the shadow of a tree that’s been trained to creep along the ground like a vine, or perhaps it really is a vine, though its trunk is thick and gnarled like an olive and its leaves are wide and glossy, like something tropical. The leaves are dusty. There’s no wind to flutter them, but at least they provide shade, and with it, the suggestion of intimacy.

“Why?” he asks at last. It’s not a challenge or a demand. It’s just a question.

Michael turns. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses and a cap—not a team cap but something plain and unremarkable—and though his eyes are hidden, the shape of his mouth speaks for him before he ever replies. “Why does there need to be a reason?”

“There doesn’t.” Mika looks away, gazing through the smoked tint of his own sunglasses at the serpentine concrete-and-mosaic bench that wriggles around the contours of the hill to provide a frame for the view of the city. “But I would still like to know.”

“Because,” Michael says, and he pauses, the silence filled with the shrill of insects and the achingly slow trickle of sweat.

“Because,” Mika echoes, not to mock or hurry but because it seems like an answer in itself.

Michael exhales. Leans back a little on the bench, shoulders tight, voice tighter. “Because of all of them, you’re the only one that can understand. You’re the only man I consider my rival. ‘Keep your enemies close’, isn’t that what they say?”

“Are we enemies?” Mika’s tone is mild.

“No. But...” Michael falls silent. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then wipes his palm on his beige shorts. The sweat leaves a mark, quickly absorbed. “If racing is a drug, then so is my need for you. So I will dress it up and call it love.”

“Drugs are bad,” Mika says.

“But sometimes necessary,” Michael argues.

“True.”

They sit in silence and feel the heat intensify around them.

“I love you, too,” Mika says at last.

The words drop through the air. They leave nothing in their wake.

*
There’s a trend amongst the drivers at the moment, a silly little rebellion against the unwritten rules that sportsmen should look like gentlemen even if they aren’t. F1 is perhaps the last bastion of gentlemanly presentation, even though no one really behaves like Graham Hill these days. No one behaves like James Hunt, either, and although there are plenty of cads in the paddock, they’re more likely to be corporate sponsors than drivers. It’s these same sponsors that like their sponsored trophies to appear neat and clean, if not clean-shaven, and they expect them to wear suits or expensive casual wear, and most of all, they expect all visible flesh to be free of tattoos.

Gentlemen do not go under the needle and scrawl their bodies with inked messages and symbols of love or gratitude or victory. Footballers may do that sort of thing, but then everyone knows footballers are low class and of below average intelligence. F1 drivers, by contrast, often come from wealth—inherited or accumulated; often have a pedigree—Hill, Villeneuve, Andretti; and though few of them are academically gifted, the melding of man with machine imparts the appearance of great intelligence, as does the fact that they risk their lives every time they step into a car. Calculated risks are taken as signs of acumen rather than idiocy or desperation.

F1 drivers are gentlemen. Gentlemen do not get tattoos. And yet along the pit and around the paddock there’s a trend, one that grows with each race, for drivers to flirt with the possibility of a tattoo. Only henna, of course, the type that fades after a few weeks, but even so, the media goes mad and sponsors fret and fans squeal or frown.

Michael gets a henna tattoo, a narrow band around his bicep that draws vast amounts of media interest.

Mika finds it funny. “You don’t have enough attention already?” he asks, stroking a finger over the tattoo. It doesn’t feel anything like a real one. The surface has a grain to it, but not the raised grain of scarred flesh. It’s opaque rather than holding the full gloss of fresh ink. It doesn’t bruise, doesn’t leave the skin around it tender and yielding.

“This isn’t about attention,” Michael says. “It’s about permanence. It’s a statement.”

The blatant ridiculousness of that remark only deepens Mika’s amusement. “And what are you trying to say?”

Michael flashes him an irritated look. “What do you think it means?”

“I think when you win the title, Luca will brand you with the mark of the Scuderia, and then you will regret this.” Mika digs his finger hard into Michael’s bicep, over the henna tattoo. “Nothing is permanent. Not even fame.”

*
They walk the circuit on the Thursday before the race. They go out early, just as dawn breaks, and the air is damp and the land smells green. Each track has its own particular scent. Spa smells of rain and wet earth, even when the day is dry.

They walk slowly, not quite together. They don’t keep pace or talk; they go their own way, making their own mental notes on the state of the track, on any changes in the tarmac, familiar bumps flattened or extended. They sniff the air and try to determine what the weather will do on Sunday, but they don’t share their thoughts.

At the bottom of Eau Rouge they pause and look up. It’s mighty, Eau Rouge: fast and demanding. It deserves the respect of the highest speeds a car can give.

They climb the hill.

“Here,” Mika says, sweeping his arms up ahead of him. “I’ll take you here.”

Michael smiles. “Try it,” he says. “Just you try it.”

“I will.” Mika returns the smile. “And I’ll win.”

He remembers that promise when he’s seated deep within the fragile shelter of the McLaren on Sunday. His car is set up for a dry race. A mistake, or so it seemed at first, especially when Michael took the lead. But nothing lasts forever, particularly at Spa, where the weather changes on a whim, and a dry line emerged from the wet track and made it all possible. A moment of madness, a calculated risk—the Ferrari and the pursuing McLaren coming up to Zonta’s BAR. They split around it, Michael going left, Mika going right, up, up, up, along the straight and into Les Combes, and that’s it. That’s it.

It’s not the victory. It’s not the sex. It’s not love or fame or anything else. This is the only thing that matters, and it’s the one thing he truly shares with Michael, that he shares with every other driver on the grid, past, present, future. Nothing else is important; nothing else matters. That moment when the track disappears, when the crest of the hill vanishes, when the gradient is sensed rather than seen, and the only thing visible through the tint of the helmet is the sky, blue-grey-blue, rainclouds rolling away to let in the sunlight, and anything is possible. Anything. Everything.

Eternity waits, going flat out up the hill. Eau Rouge at two hundred miles an hour.

Fic: Driving With The Brakes On [TVXQ RPS | AU] 16/16

glitterburn — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 14:44:27 GMT

Title: Driving With The Brakes On
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17 overall; this chapter NC17
Summary: The mechanic and the academic. Long-distance relationship. Sceptical friends. This really shouldn’t work, but Yunho is determined that it will. Now he just has to convince Changmin that they can have forever.

Driving With The Brakes On
Chapter 16
It snows again in the early morning. Yunho wakes on his own couch to a world shrunk tight on itself, the air as brittle as his mood. For the first time in his life he’s glad of a hangover. The pain is a hideous, swinging sway of stabbing knives and spinning nausea. He can’t bear the light, not even a little, and so he finds a pair of sunglasses and puts them on.

The thought of food makes him feel sick. He manages half a cup of strong black coffee before it comes back up, and he hangs over the kitchen sink with the cold tap open all the way as he retches. The purging makes him feel slightly better, and he cleans up and then sits on the floor staring into space for a while as his stomach lurches and flips and eventually settles, and the hangover flatlines into something more manageable.

But with the lessening of physical pain comes the reminder of what he’s lost, and depression sinks around him. Yunho hates feeling so useless. It’s unnatural and wrong and he hates himself for giving in to it, and the excuse of the hangover isn’t good enough. So he forces himself to his feet and goes out into the garage, where a black Mitsubishi Carisma is awaiting a new exhaust system.

Work will get him through this. It always has in the past. He might not be able to fix his relationships, but he can fix cars. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s good at.

But before he starts on the Mitsubishi, he takes off his sunglasses and rolls open the wide double doors onto the street. The glare of sunlight reflecting from the pristine white snow almost makes him throw up again, the pain drilling through his eyes and shrieking around his skull. Cold air sweeps in, bringing with it a delicate brush of snow. Yunho crouches and dabbles his hands through it, then touches them to his aching temples. The cold is a welcome relief, and he starts to feel more sober.

A couple of cars stand on the forecourt, a few inches of fresh snow blanketing them. From habit he puts out the battered tin sign advertising engine oil, and then he trudges over to his BMW and draws a smiley face in the snow on the front windscreen. There’s no one else around. The roads are blank and pure. It’s like he’s the only person left alive, and there’s a crack in the air, the cold wiping away everything.

Time to start work. He’s not even thinking when he puts on the CD player, and he winces away from the blaring noise and turns down the volume. He drags himself around the garage, collecting together the necessary tools and the trolley, and he drops into the same sort of safe, numbing headspace he’d reached yesterday with the alcohol. It’s like his mind has split into two; one side giving its attention to the task at hand, the other yammering at him to give in to his misery or to call Changmin or to go fetch that bottle of vodka from the freezer and drink himself back into oblivion.

Yunho focuses on the part of his mind concerned with replacing the Mitsubishi’s exhaust system and blocks out the part that’s a mewling, sobbing mess. Working on the car helps, as he knew it would, and after a while he starts to feel the cold. He rolls out from beneath the Carisma and turns on the radiant heaters. A waste of heat, really, since it’ll just flow on past him and out of the garage doors, but whatever. As long as it keeps him even the slightest bit warm, that’s all that matters.

His phone starts ringing. The sound shocks him at first, and then he grabs for it, wrenches it from his jeans pocket, and he’s so desperate to answer it that he drops it on the floor, and the call is cancelled. Yunho swears, retrieves the phone, and checks the display.

Donghae.

Disappointment clutches at his throat and tears all the way down. Yunho sits on the concrete floor and bites his lower lip very hard.

A few moments later, the phone rings a second time. Yunho lifts it without any expectation. It’s Donghae again. Yunho doesn’t want to talk to him, but he supposes he’d better. Otherwise Donghae will keep calling all day and he’ll probably come over, and Yunho doesn’t want company right now.

“How you doing?” Donghae asks, and he sounds rough as all fuck.

“I’m working,” Yunho says.

Donghae snorts. “Of course you are, you stupid bastard. It’s what you always do.” He pauses. The silence drags out. “Heard from Changmin?”

“No.” Yunho hates the way his voice wobbles.

“Mm.” Another long pause. “Well, it’s still early.”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Donghae says after another of those awkward silences, “are you gonna ring him? Tell him what you told me last night?”

Yunho prods at his foot with the end of a spanner. “I don’t know.”

“I think you should.” Donghae takes a breath, rushes on: “I was talking to Jess and she says the same thing. You should tell him.”

“You told Jess?” Yunho isn’t sure how he feels about that.

“Yeah.” Now Donghae sounds defensive. “She knows stuff, all right? She’s good with this sort of thing. She says—she says...” there’s yet another pause, but this time Yunho can hear fevered whispering in the background and realises that Jessica must be right there, “she says don’t be proud.”

That makes Yunho laugh, but it’s without humour. “I’m not the proud one.”

“You kind of are, actually,” Donghae says. “Maybe in a different way to him, but it’s still there. Stubborn wee fucker, that’s what you are. Told you all this last night.”

“You told me that I should stop managing people and let them come to me.”

“That, too.”

“You also told me that jam was evil and that lobsters should be free to form their own system of government.”

Donghae coughs. “Might have been a bit drunk when I said that.” Another pause. “Bro, what are you going to do?”

Yunho exhales. “I’m going to get back to work.”

“Okay,” Donghae says. “Call me later. Just... I hope it works out.”

“Yeah,” Yunho murmurs, and cuts the call. “Me, too.”

He puts his phone on the desk next to the logbook, then slides back under the Mitsubishi and continues with his task. This time it’s harder to block out the needy, pathetic part of his mind, and he wrestles with the impulse to crawl out and just make the damn call already. He lies there on the trolley and clings to a wrench and closes his eyes, so full of longing that it overwhelms even the hangover.

There’s a sound in the garage. The scuff of a foot on the concrete floor. A cough.

Yunho opens his eyes, tension singing through him.

“Hello,” says a voice, low and soft.

Yunho bolts out from under the Mitsubishi. Stops the trolley, gets to his feet. Stares at this incredible vision in front of him. Changmin, standing in the flood of winter sunlight. Changmin, in black skinny jeans and a long grey coat and that stupid raspberry-coloured scarf wrapped around his neck. Changmin, backlit like an angel.

An angel with his cheeks pink with cold, and though he looks tired and there’s dark smudges beneath his eyes and he hasn’t shaved, his gaze is very, very bright. There’s hope in his face, but it’s muted, as if he can’t let it out because it might be dangerous.

“You think I’m perfect,” he says. “I’m not.”

Yunho stares. “I don’t want perfection. I want you.” He pauses, wanting this to be absolutely clear: “I love you.”

Changmin closes his eyes. Sways. “Oh God.”

“Changmin.” Yunho goes to him, reaches out all tentative, fits his hands to Changmin’s shoulders and holds him up. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes. I don’t know.” Changmin looks everywhere but at Yunho. He does that thing with his mouth and then he blurts out, “All the way down here I’ve been rehearsing what I wanted to say. Somewhere around Cheonam I’d got it all sorted out. I was going to come in here and say—not what I said. It came out in the wrong order. I meant to start with something else, but seeing the garage like this with the doors open and the cars and the stupid tin sign outside and you... Seeing you, I...”

“Changminnie,” Yunho interrupts, unable to bear it a second longer, “what did you want to say?”

“Oh. Yes.” Changmin looks at him now, his big dark eyes huge in his pale face. “I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

Yunho is kind of glad that he’s hanging on to Changmin because his knees go and he might just have fallen down otherwise. Relief pours over him, as clean and bright as the snow. “Yes. Oh fuck, yes,” he breathes, and pulls Changmin against him, holds on tight and buries his face in the stupid raspberry scarf. It smells of the cold and it smells of Changmin, too, it smells familiar, and Yunho holds on and says, “Oh baby, I love you. I’ve loved you for months now. God, I’m so ridiculous I think I fell in love with you when you told me you couldn’t pay for the repairs on your Toyota.”

Pushing closer, Changmin utters a soft, wobbly laugh. “You love me because I gave you a blowjob.”

“No.” Yunho pulls back, looks at him. “I love you because...” and he wants to make a list, a really long list, but the truth is so much more complicated and so much more simple, and so he says, “I love you because you’re you, and you’re perfect for me.”

Changmin sort of flails at that, so Yunho carries on holding him just in case they both fall down. “I’m sorry I said those things,” Changmin says, and it’s as if he can’t stop talking. “Sorry I drove you away. Sorry I shut you out for so long. It wasn’t you I didn’t trust, it was me. I didn’t trust myself with how I felt about you.”

“For such a smart guy, you can be incredibly thick sometimes,” Yunho tells him.

“I know. I’m sorry about that, too.” Changmin offers him a smile. “And I’m sorry for being sorry. This is the last time I’m ever going to apologise to you, I hope you know that. From now on, I’m always going to be right and—and...”

“We’re going to talk to each other,” Yunho says, taking Changmin’s hands and tugging him back towards the desk. “Baby, your hands are frozen. Where’s Blue?”

“I parked her around the corner. Where my Toyota broke down.”

Yunho blinks, suddenly realising. “You drove all this way in the snow.”

Changmin laughs a little. “I have a good car. This mechanic I know made sure it was roadworthy. I trust his work.”

“And do you trust him?”

“More than anything.”

They perch on the desk, sitting close together, still holding hands. “I have some things I need to say,” Changmin begins, and when Yunho nods, he continues: “Just to put Friday night into context—what Professor Song said about being rough with me. I don’t want you to think he hurt me. Not physically. He tried something just the once—said that since I was so repressed maybe he should try tying me up and stuff, and... I hated it. But he didn’t hurt me, you need to know that.”

Yunho feels another rush of relief. If it had been anything else, if it had been even close to some of the things he’d been imagining, he’d have gone back up to Seoul and broken the professor’s hands.

“I reported him to Faculty last year after he split up with me. Kyu and Minho said I should just forget it and move on, but I couldn’t. It’s not a crime for a professor to have an affair with a student, but it does inhabit an ethically grey area, and sometimes, grey areas can bite you in the ass.” Changmin smiles.

“So I went to the Dean and lodged a complaint, and the Dean wasn’t at all surprised, which made me feel even more of an idiot than I already felt, because despite what my friends had told me, I still believed... but anyway, I made a formal complaint and absolutely nothing happened. Which was what I expected, because he’s tenured and far too eminent to discipline, but I wanted the complaint on file in case the same thing happened to another student.” A dark gleam shines through his eyes. “Besides, I knew the complaint would generate rumours, and rumour is far more insidious than any disciplinary action the university could take.”

Yunho squeezes Changmin’s hands. “You’re amazing.”

Changmin tosses his head, flicks the hair from his eyes. “Talking of amazing... campus gossip reports that Professor Song has gone on sabbatical. It’s almost the end of the semester so that’s not too unusual, but people are saying it’s because he got punched in the face by some hero.”

“A hero?”

A smile, deep and warm, curves Changmin’s mouth. “Campus gossip also reports that I have a really awesome boyfriend.”

Yunho isn’t sure he should accept this kind of praise. “Yeah, I’m so awesome that I got absolutely raving drunk last night. And I was drinking this rancid melon thing that was all green, and this guy hit on me. I totally didn’t realise it at the time because I am the lamest person on the planet and I was, like, practically crying into the rancid melon half the night because I missed you. So, uh, nothing happened. Donghae would have beaten the crap out of me if I’d done anything.”

“Donghae?” Changmin looks startled.

“Good friends will always point out when you’re being a fuckwit. And I was being a fuckwit last night because I was hurt and I wanted to make it even more painful.” Yunho nods. “Because that’s always a good idea.”

Changmin shakes his head, smiling again. “Your method of coping sounds slightly less lame than mine. Kyu called Minho and he came back, and we all got drunk and played that F1 game and I kept crashing. Even at Korea.”

Yunho laughs, a shaky sound. “It’s a shit circuit.”

They sit quietly for a moment, and then Changmin looks up. “The other thing I wanted to tell you at dinner on Friday night... I’ve been accepted at Chosun. And Cambridge.”

Everything freezes. Yunho doesn’t move.

Changmin takes a deep breath. “I’ve decided on Chosun.”

“Congratulations,” Yunho says, numb, and then it hits him—Changmin said Chosun, not Cambridge, and Chosun is—Chosun is... “Oh baby,” he croaks, reaching out. “Changminnie, come here.”

Changmin grabs at him. They kiss, a drowning, triumphant wave of joy, and they press closer and closer, try to twine around one another, and they almost unbalance, almost topple sideways across the desk. The corner of the logbook digs into Yunho’s thigh, reminding him that this is probably a really bad place to make love to Changmin and that maybe they should go somewhere more private.

“Bed,” Yunho says. “Now.”

“Wait,” Changmin says against his mouth, “you should lock up, you should—”

“There’s no one here, no one but us,” Yunho says, “and I’m not going to wait.”

They slide off the desk, paper scattering everywhere, and they hustle into the apartment out back. Changmin tries to pull Yunho down onto the couch, but only the bed will do this time; Yunho wants him spread out and gloriously naked, and so he drags Changmin with him, shoves at the door. Thank fuck he’d passed out on the sofa last night; his bedroom smells of sleep and musk and cologne and not horrific drunkenness.

Not that he thinks Changmin would care right now. Not when Changmin is out of his coat and scarf and the rest of his clothes so fast it’s like he’s going for the world speed record. Yunho tries to match him, but he’s distracted by how fucking gorgeous Changmin is, how beautiful with that milky-white skin and those big dark eyes, and he just sort of hurls his clothes at the floor and climbs onto the bed.

“I want you so bad,” Changmin says, his hair spilling around his face and arousal flushing all down his body. “Oh, Yunho, come here and give it to me.”

Yunho makes a deranged sort of noise and flings a dozen things off his bedside table before he finds the lube. Once upon a time he thought patience was a virtue, but fuck that. He almost loses it when Changmin spreads his legs and nudges up against him and says really filthy things like fill me up, I can’t wait, fuck me really hard, make me beg for more and more and more, and oh God, he has to get inside Changmin right now.

They line up, position themselves, all shuddery with want. Yunho pushes inside, one long, smooth, slippery glide, and Changmin arches up, head snapping to one side, and he’s quivering and his mouth is wide open and he’s gasping, and then, so breathy it’s almost inaudible, he says, “Yes. Yes. Yunho.”

Pleasure washes over him, and Yunho struggles to hold himself still, tries not to shove and rut, and God, the sensation almost kills him, the slick, tight heat of Changmin’s body hugging him with that silken grip.

“Oh, baby,” Yunho says, because just about every other word has emptied out of his head, and the only other word he can remember is Changmin’s name, so he says that a few times, too, and Changmin seems to like it, seems to like it a whole lot, because then Changmin says, “Fuck me,” and urges upwards.

Yunho can’t hold back. Need reaches out and catches at him, and he can see it reflected in Changmin’s face. Changmin is trembling, desire like a fury wrapped tight inside, just waiting for the moment to break, and it’s close, they’re both close. Oblivion calls, and Yunho surrenders to it, rolls his hips and rocks into Changmin, does it again and again, slides an arm beneath Changmin’s neck and holds onto him, fucks into him.

Changmin gets both arms around Yunho and holds just as tight, holding him with just about everything he’s got, and this isn’t fucking any more, this is something else, something Yunho doesn’t have the words for, but it’s amazing and awesome and it’s them. He drives into Changmin, and Changmin clings so hard he’s leaving bruises, starbursts of pleasure-pain, sweet as anything. Yunho breathes, his head full of Changmin, his taste, his scent, the feel of his skin, his heat, and then Changmin goes all tense around him, makes this incredible sound—“I love you,” over and over, “I love you, I love you”—and Yunho gasps against his throat, finds Changmin’s mouth, kisses him, and they go through it together, delicious and hot and so fucking right.

*
They lie together under the rumpled duvet, curled around one another. It’s snowing again, the wet flakes patting gently at the window, and Yunho knows he should get up and close the garage doors and switch off the heaters and lock up, and probably he should make Changmin fetch his car and park it a bit closer, but right now he doesn’t want to move. Everything can wait just a little while longer.

Changmin has his face pressed into the curve of Yunho’s shoulder. His eyelashes make fluttery, ticklish sweeps against Yunho’s skin, and his breaths are soft and warm.

“I’ve been thinking,” Yunho says into the hush.

“Always dangerous,” Changmin retorts, but he’s smiling.

“I’ve been thinking,” Yunho says again, jogging his shoulder to dislodge Changmin from his comfortable position. Not that it works. “I’m going to buy a place closer to the centre of town. Or maybe somewhere out near Chosun. Or maybe somewhere else. I just want a place where we can have a home, you and me and our family of straw animals.”

Changmin lifts his head. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Yeah. I think I am.” Yunho pauses, because maybe Changmin will think it’s too fast, and he says, “Next year. In February, when you start your PhD. Or maybe a bit before that. Whenever you want. When we find a really amazing apartment. Because I don’t think you’d agree to move in with me here.”

“Too right I wouldn’t.” Changmin nuzzles at Yunho’s jaw, licks a tiny wet stripe over his stubble. “Although maybe I would, if certain types of persuasive behaviour were employed to help me overcome my aversion to the dustball under your bed...”

“Hey! The dustball moved out ages ago. I evicted it just for you.” Yunho strokes a hand over Changmin’s arm then pulls the duvet further up. “I promise I won’t cultivate any more dustballs under any type of furniture in our home.”

“All these long-term plans,” Changmin says softly.

“It’s what I want,” Yunho says. “And I want it with you. I want a future we can build towards.”

Changmin lifts his head again, and he looks a little overwhelmed for a moment. “It’s what I want, too. But I still have to do my military service and...”

“Stop trying to put up barriers,” Yunho tells him, smiling. “We’ll cross all those bridges when we get to them. You and me, Changminnie—we can deal with anything.”

“We can,” Changmin agrees, and settles against him once more. “You do realise that the next thing you’ll have to deal with is meeting my parents? Now I finally have a ‘special friend’ to introduce to them...”

“Oh, Changminnie,” Yunho says, gleeful, “I can’t wait to see all your baby photos. Every single one of them.”

“You are not seeing any of them. I’ll burn them first,” Changmin says, but his shoulders are quivering and he snuffles with laughter.

“If you won’t let me see your baby photos, I won’t give you a really awesome Christmas present.” Yunho ruffles a hand through Changmin’s hair. “You want to spend Christmas with me, Changminnie?”

Changmin pretends to think about this. “As long as it’s somewhere warmer than the garage.”

Yunho tucks his free hand behind his head and says airily, “We can take over Donghae’s place. He and Jess are spending Christmas with her parents.”

“Seriously?” Changmin rolls onto his front and lifts up on one elbow.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to convince him.” Yunho grins. “He’s a lot less grouchy these days. He even said he liked you.”

“So...” Changmin opens his eyes wide, all innocent, and strokes a finger down Yunho’s chest, “can we invite Kyu and Minho for Christmas, too?”

Yunho pauses for a heartbeat, then sees the glow of amusement on Changmin’s face. “Sure. We can all go hiking. Six o’clock Christmas morning, we’ll all go up Mudeungsan and watch the sun rise.”

Changmin dips his head, quivering with laughter.

Yunho kisses him. “Or maybe it’ll be better with just the two of us.”

“Yes,” Changmin says with a sigh of contentment. “I think it will.”

♥♥♥

Thank you for reading! :D

<< Chapter 15

Fic: Driving With The Brakes On [TVXQ RPS | AU] 15/16

glitterburn — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 14:35:45 GMT

Title: Driving With The Brakes On
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin
Rating: NC17 overall; this chapter PG13
Summary: The mechanic and the academic. Long-distance relationship. Sceptical friends. This really shouldn’t work, but Yunho is determined that it will. Now he just has to convince Changmin that they can have forever.

Driving With The Brakes On
Chapter 15
To his credit, the first thing that Donghae says when Yunho turns up at his door is not “I told you so,” but “Let’s get drunk.”

It takes almost two hours before Yunho can talk about it. At the second place they go to, Donghae tries to get him to eat by ordering a plate of something-or-other that makes Yunho want to heave just looking at it. He shoves it away. “Not hungry.”

“Fine. Don’t come crying to me tomorrow when you have the mother of all hangovers.” Donghae eats the food instead. “Pacing myself, bro. You need to learn how to do that.”

Even though Yunho’s sure that Donghae wasn’t being metaphorical, the comment slices at him. Guilt and anger and self-pity overwhelm him. “I tried, bro, I really tried. I did everything for him. He wanted space and I gave him that, too. I’d give him the fucking moon if I could. I just want him. Want to protect him.” Yunho bangs his fist on the table then turns his hand and stares at his fingers. “He was hurt.”

Donghae carries on eating. “You’ve been hurt, too. And me. And just about everyone else in the fucking world. Doesn’t mean you need to fix it.”

“I do,” Yunho says. “I do.”

“Bro.” Donghae leans across the table, expression serious. “Yun. He isn’t you. He’s himself. It’s taken me years to get used to your weirdness and I’m just your mate. You can’t expect him to get you right away just because the two of you fuck every five minutes. You gotta stop trying to manage people. Let them come to you.”

Yunho nods, gaze unfocused as he stares at the bottles behind the bar. What Donghae said seems to make some sense, but it also scares the shit out of him. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then you move on,” Donghae says, finishing the food.

“Thought you’d say ‘then he’s a moron’.”

Donghae screws up the paper napkin and gives Yunho a steady look. “Changmin may be many things, but a moron is not one of them.”

The remark throws Yunho even more off-kilter. “Hae, do you like him?”

“Yeah. I thought he was good for you.” Donghae drops the napkin onto the plate and gets up. “Come on. Now we can start the serious drinking.”

By one-thirty in the morning they’re both very drunk and are running out of options on where to go next. Donghae says they should go dancing so they can sweat off most of the alcohol. This seems like the most awesome plan ever invented, and Yunho announces that they’ll go to a gay club because the music is always better there and it’s probably still Happy Hour.

Donghae has never been comfortable going to gay bars, too convinced that every man in the place will be panting after his body, but this time he follows Yunho without comment. Only the slight tensing of his shoulders reveals his uncertainty, but that soon fades when he discovers that yes indeed, Happy Hour is still on. His spirits lift further when he realises there are girls standing around and drinking and dancing and making out with each other.

“Oh yeah,” Donghae says as he stares at two girls kissing against a wall, one with her hand up inside the sparkly sequinned camisole the other girl is wearing. “Why didn’t I think of this before?”

“Need a drink,” Yunho says. His vision is tunnelling, helped along by the darkness and the strobes across the dance floor. Most of his effort goes into staying upright as he lurches towards the bar. A bunch of people call out greetings, and he remembers to smile and says stuff back even as the faces and their words all blur together beneath the pounding beat of the music.

Yunho props himself up at the bar, head swimming in that nice, relaxed way. He’s reached that state of mind where nothing can hurt him. He’s been here before and it’s safe. All he has to do is maintain the bubble surrounding him, and that’s easy enough to do. Just keep on drinking, keep all focus on staying afloat.

Donghae gets the first round in. At some point in the evening they’d decided to try a new drink with every round. They’ve exhausted all the varieties of beer on sale and have gone through six types of flavoured vodka and are now well into strange liqueur territory. There’s a bottle of something lurid and green, so Donghae orders two of those. It looks pretty in the glass, but it tastes of rancid melon. Yunho drinks it anyway.

“Look at those girls. I’m not even sure those outfits pass as underwear.” Donghae is more interested in the dance floor action than in the rancid melon drink, so Yunho steals his and swallows it down.

Donghae doesn’t even notice. “Bro, those girls are seriously hot. Wonder if they’d like to come back to mine and give me a show. I’m going to ask them.”

This sounds like a really bad idea. Yunho grabs at Donghae’s arm to stop him from making a total twat of himself. “Wait. What about Jess?”

“It’s not cheating if you’re just watching,” Donghae says. “Doubly not cheating if you’re watching lesbians.”

His logic seems sound. Yunho nods, amazed at how wise Donghae is tonight. “That’s okay then. But I still think Jess won’t like it. And I like her, so if you make her sad I might have to punch you, and that would make me sad, so...” Yunho frowns. “Just don’t think you should do it, dude.”

Donghae sighs. “Bro. Your wallowing is making me doubt my sexuality. I’m starting to think your hair looks nice like that. It’s freaking me out, mate. I need to talk to a girl in the next thirty seconds. Don’t go anywhere, all right?”

Signalling to the bartender for another of the rancid melon drinks, Yunho watches Donghae go over to the two girls. They seem happy to dance with him, and then he’s leaning close and probably making his stupid proposition. Oh man, Donghae is so going to get his face slapped or he’ll get a knee in the balls. But no, the girls don’t appear shocked. They start laughing instead. Donghae looks sheepish, but he’s grinning all the same, and when the music shifts upbeat, they all dance together without any hint of flirtation or suggestiveness.

Yunho snorts and turns back to the bar. The rancid melon drink is so green. It’s kind of hypnotic, how green it is. It’s like spring leaves or summer grass or something that’s just as green. Frogs. Cat’s eyes. Though sometimes they can be yellow or blue. Yunho tries to think of more green things. He tilts the glass and watches the liqueur sway from one side to the other. Green is such a weird colour. This seems to be a very profound realisation, though he doesn’t know why. He must ask Donghae about it.

A guy comes and sits on the bar stool next to him. “Hello.”

For a single, heart-stopping moment, Yunho thinks it’s Changmin. Everyone else he knows says hey or hi or yo or what’s up. Only Changmin says hello, so polite and with that low, posh voice. A bolt of desperate hope goes through him, and Yunho turns so fast he almost slides off the stool. Then he realises it’s not Changmin, it’s just some random guy, and it’s like his heart breaks all over again.

The guy smiles. “You look sad,” he says. “Maybe I can cheer you up.”

Yunho knows that no one will ever be able to cheer him up ever again, but this guy seems genuinely concerned for Yunho’s well-being, and that’s so nice and kind. He pushes his drink towards the guy. “Would you like some rancid melon? It’s green.”

“No, thanks.” The guy smiles again. “What happened to make someone like you so down?”

“I happened to myself,” Yunho says, because that pretty much covers it. The guy’s smile wavers. Obviously none of that made sense, so Yunho tries again. “I think my boyfriend dumped me. No. I dumped myself before he could do it. No. He told me to leave. No. Yes. Shit.”

“So you’re all alone?” the guy asks, moving closer.

Yunho glances out at the dance floor. “No, I...”

Donghae notices, says something to the girls, then leaves the dance floor and comes over to stand next to Yunho. “Making new friends?”

The guy leans away, looks Donghae up and down. “Well, hello there.”

“Forget it. I’m straight.” Turning his back to the guy, Donghae takes Yunho’s arm. “Bro, time to go.”

“We just got here,” Yunho protests.

“Over an hour ago.” There’s a strange expression on Donghae’s face. Concern, maybe, but it’s mixed with anger. “C’mon, dude, you know you turn into a pumpkin as soon as the clock strikes three.”

Yunho doesn’t know why Donghae is angry with him. “Just a bit longer,” he says. Maybe Donghae is bored. Yeah, that must be it. Yunho doesn’t want to make him bored. “You can go home. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, right. The last time I saw you this drunk, you stole a shopping trolley and tried to go drag racing in it.”

Yunho remembers that. He grins. “Good times.”

“You were in hospital for a week, you dozy twat.” Donghae tries to heave him up off the bar stool. “Christ, when did you gain weight?”

“The weight of my misery,” Yunho slurs, and starts laughing.

“Fucking idiot,” Donghae says, but there’s no heat in it.

“I can look after him if you need to leave,” the random guy says.

“Yeah. Bet you will.” Donghae gives him the kind of glare that would strip paint. “The last thing he needs is someone taking advantage of him.”

The guy narrows his eyes, then tosses his head. He leans forward again and pats Yunho’s thigh. “If you shake off your guard dog, I’ll be over there. Don’t wait too long.”

Yunho waves him goodbye. It seems like the polite thing to do. When he tries to put his elbow back on the bar, he misses and pitches sideways.

With a huff, Donghae catches him. “The things I do for you.”

“Hae.” Yunho rests his head against Donghae’s chest, breathing in sweat and cologne and familiarity. “You love me.”

“Yeah, you stupid bastard.” Donghae scruffs his knuckles through Yunho’s hair, then gently pushes him away. “Never doing that again, bro. Your gayness must be catching. Let’s go before I start dancing to Donna Summer and getting excited about soft furnishings.”

Yunho snorts and wobbles to his feet.

The night is very dark, with one of those velvet skies that look so touchable. The buildings seem to totter and loom, though maybe that’s just him. Cars drive past, their tyres making that streaming noise as they go through slush and puddles. Yunho’s breath puffs into the cold air. It’s not cold enough to sober him up, but it makes things snap into sharper focus. They’ve gone three blocks when Yunho stops and says, “That guy was hitting on me.”

Donghae turns. “Want me to give him a medal or something?”

“No. I...” Yunho blinks. The world seems to spin. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Mate, you really don’t want me to make a list.”

“No.” Moving slowly, carefully, Yunho sits down on the pavement. Donghae tells him to get back up because he’s sitting in the snow. That doesn’t matter. He likes snow. It’s white and soft and it reminds him of when he was a kid, when he and his dad would go outside and build things. Not snowmen, because everyone did that, but snow monsters, like dinosaurs with smiley faces, and they’d stay out until it got dark and his mum would call them inside and—

Yunho lies down in the snow and closes his eyes.

“Christ.” Donghae crouches beside him. “I am not carrying you.”

“S’nice down here.” Yunho gazes up, his vision swimming. “Look at the stars.”

“Those are streetlights.”

“Same thing.”

With a sigh, Donghae shuffles around and sits in the snow with him. They stare up at the sky.

“I’m drunk,” Yunho says after a while.

“Jung, your powers of observation are truly top-notch tonight.”

“That guy was hitting on me.”

Silence. Yunho wishes it would snow again. Snowflakes look so pretty dancing past the sodium glow of streetlights.

“It’d have been easy,” he says, almost to himself. “So fucking easy.”

“Since when have you taken the easy option in anything?” Donghae gets up, holds out a hand. “C’mon, bro. Let’s get you home.”

“Hae.” Yunho grabs hold and hoists himself up. “Why did this happen?”

Donghae gives him a very long look. “Because you’re in love with Changmin.”

Oh God, oh God. Yunho wants to cry. He’s made such a mess of everything. “Never told him. Never told him I loved him.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.” Donghae strokes snow out of Yunho’s hair, then gives his cheek a slap, hard enough for it to sting. “Tell him tomorrow when you’re sober. No drunk calling, okay? Wait until tomorrow. Everything will look better in the morning.”

Chapter 16 >>

<< Chapter 14