Beomgyu's fingers are legato on the sheets, finding nothing to grab. Stupid fucking hotel sheets, tucked in so tight that his nails only scrabble for purchase. He gasps and reaches up to grab the edges of his pillow instead, back arching, a line of goosebumps rising along the trail that Yeonjun's lips leave.

The dumb pattern on this ceiling—he's pretty sure— is going to be forever seared into his memory. The edges feel blurred and he forces himself to breathe; is cut off shallow when Yeonjun mouths slow along his hipbone. It's slow and torturous—the gentle motion of his lips working the flushed skin of Beomgyu's thighs, the softest slide of a finger along the underside of his cock, the press of hot palms against his hips holding him down.

Beomgyu buries his face half into his pillow, squirming and trembling; feels the soft rumble of Yeonjun's laughter as he crawls up his body to kiss his mouth. Now these kisses are salt-tinged with sweat, and it only makes Beomgyu want to drag him in closer, one hand rising to wrap around the back of Yeonjun's neck as their hips move together.

"Want to go again?" Yeonjun asks, his breath hot against the shell of Beomgyu's ear. "So soon?"

It is too soon.

The first time was almost too fast, both of them way too worked up for anything more than quick, graceless fucking. Beomgyu had thought, coming down from his orgasm high, that that would be that: the Tokyo equivalent of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But Yeonjun seems to have other ideas.

Beomgyu's breath stutters in his chest as Yeonjun works two fingers into him, thrusting shallow, nowhere near enough pressure considering he'd been fucked open once already tonight. It's torment, is what it is, and he thinks Yeonjun knows it from the way he chuckles, but it's still just right enough that he feels himself hardening again. Beomgyu cants his hips up, weakly seeking for more, and Yeonjun bites down on his smile, sucking the gasp out of Beomgyu's mouth as he toys gently with the head of Beomgyu's cock.

"You haven't said a word," Yeonjun murmurs, his voice teasing. "I didn't take you for the quiet type, Beomgyu-ah."

Beomgyu shakes his head into the pillow. He's digging his teeth a little into his lip, mind a little hazy with the over-stimulation, and he's sure there's pleasure in this somewhere, but it feels frustratingly out of reach.

"You have to tell me," Yeonjun says, his expression completely unshuttered and fond. "Beommie. You have to tell me what you want."

What he wants. He licks his lips, looking up at Yeonjun, and shrugs. What does he want? He's always just gone along with whatever his partner liked. It's worked out well enough for him.

"Whatever you want, hyung."

"That's not an answer," Yeonjun sighs, and nuzzles idly at his collarbone. Beomgyu remains quiet, only uttering a stifled gasp as Yeonjun's wandering fingers tighten around his dick, an electric coil of black pleasure coursing through his body. "Okay. How about this? Tell me one thing. Just one."

"I really don't know," Beomgyu whispers, trying to jerk away because now Yeonjun's stopped playing, his fingers unerringly circling Beomgyu's prostate, pressing hard. The intensity is awful, wonderful, every movement of his fingers adding to an arousal so heavy it hurts.

At Beomgyu's non-answer, though, Yeonjun sits up, one eyebrow raising as he ceases all movement. Beomgyu grits his teeth. "Hyung."

"What? Since you don't know, we're going to chill a bit. Think about this."

"No, no, I have no chill. Stop teasing, hyung. Please don't put me on sexual timeout."

Yeonjun snickers and presses down again, fingers crooked just right enough to send desperate pleasure singing through Beomgyu's blood. Beomgyu closes his eyes, shaking, head spinning as his body tightens in anticipation.

And then Yeonjun stills again.

"You keep doing that and I'm going to cry."

Yeonjun keeps his gaze steady and focused, sharp like an arrow. "Is that what you like?"

"No! I mean. I don't know. I could try it, maybe," he squints open one eye and feels vaguely undone by the way Yeonjun's looking at him. "Can you stop looking at me?"

"No. This is really surprising. Why are you hiding?"

"I don't—" Beomgyu starts, and then splutters breathlessly as Yeonjun's hand slides wetly back onto his dick. "N-not hiding."

"No?" Yeonjun asks. "Is it too much?"

It is too much, but not in the way of sex itself. He's pretty sure that much is obvious, with the way he's gasping and fucking up into Yeonjun's hand. It's just that his mind keeps rolling back to that singular, dizzying what if, over and over, and he can't stand the way it feels like his skin is searing wherever Yeonjun's gaze lands.

He feels raw, scraped hollow, every nerve-ending lit on fire and his soul laid bare.

"Beommie?"

And now Yeonjun sounds genuinely concerned.

Beomgyu shakes his head and surges up to kiss him, hard. "Just—ah—just this feels good. What you're doing. I'm good, 's long as someone fucks me. Please just fuck me. Or—or, I don't know, I could—I could ride you?"

It comes out weirdly shy and Beomgyu wants to go duck his head under sand again. Maybe, he thinks, it'll give some semblance of control over whatever the hell is happening in his brain. He hears Yeonjun's breath catch at that, though, and the next kiss he presses to his lips is hungrier.

"Okay," is all he says, and his voice is dizzying. Beomgyu sort of just wants to die from how turned on and turned around he feels. "If that's what you want."

It's what he wants.

The stretch has him gasping, moving his hips in small, tight circles, a steady push and pull as he sinks down. Yeonjun's hands are smooth on his hips, steadying him, and the warmth makes him forget about his feelings for a while. Right now he feels wanted, with the way Yeonjun thrusts up into him, palms flattening on Beomgyu's back as he pulls him down closer for a kiss. Right now he feels loved, grinding his hips down in a way that has Yeonjun arching beneath him, the pale column of his throat shining with sweat and his jaw clenching around a moan. It's hot and sticky and so very good, rough in all the right ways, gasps breaking in his chest and heat pooling rapidly in his gut.

He grins, looping his arms around Yeonjun's neck, a shudder of pleasure circuiting through him as the movement drives Yeonjun in deeper. He keeps his pace steady, rolling down hard, and Yeonjun's hands fall to press hard against Beomgyu's thighs, fingertips leaving soft half-moon bruises where he grips too tight. At this angle, every little movement squeezes Beomgyu's gut tight with pleasure, and Yeonjun is not helping, thrusting up into him just as desperately.

Beomgyu thinks he looks staggeringly beautiful. His hair trails into his eyes, flattened with perspiration. His breath comes ragged, gaze dazed and dark as pitch when he meets Beomgyu's. He looks gorgeous and sweet and deadly, all at the same time, and Beomgyu presses his lips to Yeonjun's collarbone, afraid of letting himself speak, his vision slightly teary.

Then he hisses as Yeonjun flips them over, sudden and without warning, the breath punched out of his chest as Yeonjun pounds in harder, grabbing Beomgyu's wrists to hold him down. It's good, the fullness making him writhe, thighs burning, spine arching straight off the bed when Yeonjun adds his hand to the mix, stroking a wet hand up the length of Beomgyu's cock.

He sobs, biting at his lip until he tastes copper because he's close, so goddamn close, and now everything was just bordering on a welcome sort of pain, and please—

"Sshh," Yeonjun says, breathlessly, longer, harder strokes making Beomgyu's hips jump, "I've got you. You're so beautiful, Beommie, holy shit—"

Beomgyu cries out when it hits him, the wave of pleasure and sensitivity so intense for a few seconds that it completely whites out everything else. Yeonjun tries haphazardly to pull out, seemingly to spare Beomgyu the oversensitivity, but Beomgyu frees his arm to grab for him and hold on, seeking for a kiss even as Yeonjun jerks and stills, his lips grazing Beomgyu's jaw as he rides out his orgasm. Through the aching, breathless aftershocks of it, he just presses their foreheads together, carefully still, then more careful still as he pulls out.

Beomgyu grunts and curls up with his face in his pillow, abruptly unable to look. Yeonjun brushes his hair off his forehead to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Are you okay? Hold on. I'll get some water and tissues."

Beomgyu feels the weight of him disappear off the mattress. It's cold, all of a sudden, his skin sticky with cooling sweat and the chill of the room getting to him. He shivers and thinks of love again—slowly, and all at once.

Like a landslide, or an avalanche, or a heart-attack that never stops.

Beomgyu loves and believes in old things. Wine, whiskey, vintage clothing: there's patience in these things, resistance to weathering, an imperviousness to the passage of time. Why aren't feelings like that? Why must he want for everything now, now?

Is he just stupid? He's just stupid. He's being too much again—too attached, too clingy, too wanting to be in love.

He's so stupid.

He sips on water and then melts against the sheets while Yeonjun helps him clean up. He looks at Yeonjun questioningly until Yeonjun looks away, suddenly thoughtful as well. He keeps a tight grip on Yeonjun's wrist.

"Don't leave me," he says, head heavy and spinning, sleep gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. "Not right now, hyung. Please."

There's something frayed and awful in Yeonjun's gaze. Like a switch being flicked on within him. He nods, laying close and pulling the blanket around them. Beomgyu keeps his gaze on Yeonjun until he can't keep his eyes open.

Yeonjun doesn't try to kiss him again.

***

In the morning, Beomgyu wakes up alone, still curled under the blankets. The other side of the bed is long gone cold, no sign of anyone having been here at all, most of the room pristine except for where his own suitcase sits, spilling clothes.

He's not even a little surprised.