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“Hyunjin’s looking for you,” Jisung says, a string of words that always strikes a bit of—something into Chan’s heart. Jisung hadn’t even said hello; Hyunjin must really have been chewing his ear off. Notably, though, Hyunjin is nowhere to be seen, he hasn’t messaged Chan, and it’s curious that he’s chosen Jisung as his messenger. Now, Jisung laughs a little at Chan’s troubled expression and adds, “I think it’s nothing serious. Probably just a song thing.”
“Probably,” Chan agrees. He’s taking off his shoes, still blinking against the warm dorm lights, such a contrast to the dim, cave-like way he likes to keep his studio. “Is he home?”
“Yeah, in his room. He was just all, like—” Jisung tilts back his head and puts on his very uncharitable Hyunjin impersonation voice, a nasally, lisping thing stuck in the middle of his throat: “I need Channie-hyung and I need him now!”
“Hey,” Chan says, laughing despite himself. “We’ve talked about this. He doesn’t sound like that.”
Jisung rolls his eyes and goes back to idly poking at the pot of boiling water on the stove. “Anyway, go see what he needs before he explodes.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Chan agrees softly, and, shoes off, bag hung up, heads through to Hyunjin’s room.
From outside the door, he can’t really hear anything, and it looks as though the lights are off. Chan raises a hand, but before he can knock, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks: it’s from Hyunjin. i really need your help with something it’s urgent asap when are you coming home ???
“Right now,” Chan says. “I’m here.”
A frantic rustle from within and Hyunjin, eyes wild, wrenches open the door. “Oh, good, finally,” he says, then grabs Chan by the shirt and yanks him inside, and then slams (and locks) the door behind him. “Help.”
Chan does his basic check: no limbs missing, no facial deformities, no open wounds, no drastic self-inflicted haircuts. Infinitesimally, he relaxes. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up?“
A bright light brandished in his face, and it takes Chan a further few seconds to squint until his eyes adjust. Instagram; messages; a private channel with @troyesivan. One message in grey text, in English. hi hyunjin, remember me?
“What do I do,” Hyunjin whines, sounding unfortunately and uncannily like Jisung’s imitation of him.
Chan smothers a smile and pushes the phone out of his face. “Did this just happen?”
“Yes,” Hyunjin says. He’s hyperventilating and collapses onto his bed, phone tossed aside, long-fingered hands smothering his own face as he groans. “He followed me earlier tonight, and I said to Jisung, like, I need Channie-hyung’s help with this, I need to talk to him. But then he DM’d me first! A minute ago! What do I do?!”
“First of all, breathe,” Chan suggests, sitting down on the foot of the bed. He waits until he hears Hyunjin suck a deep, petulant inhale. Honestly, Chan doesn’t know why Hyunjin is surprised; since the creation of their own personal Instagram accounts, surely it was only a matter of time before Troye followed him, given the strength and consistency of his public interest in Hyunjin. Still, to expect something and to experience it can often be different. Chan puts a hand on Hyunjin’s bared, bony ankle, and sympathises. “Second, just… reply to him. I know you’re a fan so you’re nervous, but remember, you’ve already spoken. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Hyung,” Hyunjin scolds, hands flying down from his face. “Are we really just going to ignore the elephant in the room? I can’t just reply to him.”
“Ah.” Chan fidgets. “Because of the fans?”
“Because I can’t speak English,” Hyunjin explains, acidly patient. “It’s embarrassing. He’ll lose interest in me in, like…” He snaps his fingers, then goes back to smothering himself and whining loudly, sounding utterly broken-hearted.
Chan takes three breaths, his thumb gently rubbing against the bone in Hyunjin’s ankle, which Hyunjin is keeping still for him. Be a good leader, Chris. Lead. “You can speak English,” Chan tries, quiet, but that just makes Hyunjin groan even louder. Chan switches to squeezing, hoping the pressure will be grounding, the way it sometimes is for him. “Are you—do you want to talk to him? Do you…” He searches for the right word, one that won’t make Hyunjin cringe and kick him away. “Do you like him?”
“Of course,” Hyunjin replies immediately. “I’ve been obsessed with him for years and I can’t believe he finally noticed me and I’m so, so scared I’ll fuck this up.”
“You won’t,” Chan says, and blinks at Hyunjin’s upset, prone form for another moment before patting his ankle. “C’mon. Let’s not leave him waiting.”
Hyunjin sits up immediately and Chan watches his dizziness as the blood floods back through his body; his hand, though, is already grabbing for his phone. “Really? Will you help me, pleasepleaseplease? I just don’t want to sound like a fucking idiot, I’m sorry for asking, I just—”
“It’s okay,” Chan says, soothing. He holds his hand out. This is a normal thing to do for one of his members. It’s not an overstep; it’s a lifestyle coaching kind of thing. He knows Hyunjin knows how to be careful. After the scandal/outcry when Troye first hit on Hyunjin publicly, he knows Troye knows how to be careful, too. He trusts them both. And he hates to see Hyunjin so upset, doubting himself so much. All he needs to do is boost Hyunjin’s confidence enough to where Hyunjin can talk to Troye himself, and Hyunjin’s confidence grows quickly—if you know how to care for it. Which Chan, after all these years, more or less does. He starts to type. Hyunjin, now breathing heavily, sits closer, chin hooking over Chan’s shoulder so he can see the screen. Hello, Troye! Of course I remember you, I’m such a big fan. How are you doing?
“Yes,” Hyunjin whispers, “that’s good.”
“That’s basically what you’d want to say, right?”
“Yeah, exactly, it’s perfect. Thank you, hyung. Lemme—” He squirms out a hand and taps his thumb on the ‘send’ button, and together, they watch as the username on the top of the screen is enhanced with a tiny green dot, and as the little blue bubble of text goes from ‘sent’ to ‘seen.’ And then a new bubble appears as Troye starts to type.
Hyunjin yelps, and even Chan jolts a bit in surprise. Shit, he thinks, he must be really into him. Troye’s message arrives only a couple of seconds later: youre so cute omfg. can i call you? would be easier than messaging x
“Call,” Hyunjin reads in English, then his eyes go wide. “Call? Like, he wants to call me? Right now? I don’t look good—I’m not ready—I wasn’t expecting—”
“You can say no—”
“Say yes, are you crazy,” Hyunjin says, fumbling to grab the phone from Chan so he can type y-e-s and send it, right away.
“What—but—”
Hyunjin flops back against the bed, frantically turning on the lamp by the side of it and checking his appearance in his front camera. Chan sits back and watches him do this, completely bemused. How could Hyunjin be so anxious about a text-based conversation, one that would allow him to use a translator app and take his time perfecting his choice of response, but then dive headfirst into a live, unvarnished, uneditable call? Chan doesn’t get it, but as he watches Hyunjin pursing his lips for the selfie cam and tousling his hair, an answer starts to make itself clear; after all, when Hyunjin had charmed Troye the first time, back in Cannes, they probably hadn’t had much opportunity to talk. Hyunjin’s face had done all the talking for him.
Chan exhales and starts to stand, but Hyunjin makes a plaintive, urgent noise and grabs for him as his phone chirps with an incoming Instagram video call. “Please,” Hyunjin says, big brown eyes enormous. Chan can never tell when he’s wearing makeup because sometimes he just looks like that; he definitely can’t tell right now. “Hyung, please,” Hyunjin says again. “Stay. Just—until I know I can talk enough to him.”
He’s looking up at Chan so beseechingly that Chan would literally feel like the world’s vilest monster to leave him now. Heavily, he sits back down on the bed, and Hyunjin cheers quietly, then calms in a flash, settling back into cool, glamorous confidence. A couple of deep breaths, and then he taps the screen to accept the call.
The change that comes over Hyunjin as, presumably, Troye’s face appears onscreen is palpable. His posture is loose and feline; his eyes acquire a flirtatious sparkle instead of an unhinged, nervous gleam. Over the line, Troye’s voice crackles, “Hello, gorgeous. Wow, look at you. Long time no see, huh?”
Hyunjin giggles—all nerves gone. Chan marvels at him. “Hello,” Hyunjin says, polite, shy. “Nice to see you.” His eyes dart over to Chan. “Bang Chan is here.”
Fuck, Chan thinks, and groans internally but smiles externally as he scoots just enough to be able to see the screen of Hyunjin’s phone. The pixelated image of Troye Sivan is, of course, shirtless. “Heyo,” Chan says awkwardly, raising a hand for a quick wave. “Sorry, surprise. So good to meet you, mate.”
“You, too, it’s all good,” says Troye, and Chan can’t get a read on him at all, whether he’s chill or annoyed that he doesn’t have Hyunjin all to himself. “You’re the one from Sydney, right? Hyunjin”—which he pronounces perfectly, he’s clearly been practicing—“told me all about you way back when.”
“What’s he saying,” Hyunjin breathes without moving his lips.
Chan infinitesimally shakes his head. “Yeah, me and Felix are both from Sydney, yeah.”
Troye nods, takes a sip of something tropical-looking through a straw. “Yeah. He said you help him out a lot. You gonna help him out tonight, then?”
Before Chan can splutter about this, Hyunjin wriggles and cuts right in. “Sorry,” he says, smiling that rare, young smile, the one that sends an elusive dimple into his cheek. Chan scoots back. “I’m not so good at English. But I wanted, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Aww,” Troye coos. “I wanted to talk to you, too. Congrats on making the new Instagram! Can’t wait to see all the cute pics you’re gonna post.”
Hyunjin, below the view of the camera, claws for Chan with his free hand, and Chan, somehow dazed, takes a second to understand what Hyunjin even wants. When it hits him, he coughs himself to alertness and obediently translates, “Um, he said—congratulations on your personal Instagram, and he’s looking forward to your cute pictures.”
Relieved, Hyunjin giggles. “Thank you,” he says. He’s glowing. “My picture—” He stops, and looks off-camera to Chan. “Can you tell him I like taking pictures, but I like drawing, too?”
Chan is pretty sure Troye knows. It sounds like Troye’s done his research. Still, he translates, cringing as he speaks. It’s not a question of if he should apologise to Troye for intruding on this moment; it’s when, and how much. But, actually, Troye is very chill here, too. He just says he’d love to see Hyunjin’s art sometime, and has Hyunjin ever heard that the art resembles the artist? In that case, Hyunjin’s art must be beautiful.
“Translate,” Hyunjin implores in a whisper.
Chan translates. His mouth is oddly dry. Hyunjin is listening to Chan as Chan relays Troye’s message, but his eyes are fixed on his phone. When Chan clumsily delivers the final compliment, Hyunjin sighs, love-lorn and flattered and giddy. “Tell him I’m so lucky to be hearing this, as his fan.”
Chan tells him. Troye says, “I’m just so lucky to have a fan like you, babe.”
This continues for several minutes in the same exact vein, although getting worse seemingly by the instant. Hyunjin understands more than he lets on, so sometimes, when Chan isn’t even done translating, he’ll cut in with his answer, which throws Chan off. So far, it’s all just small talk, warm but a little awkward thanks to the delay; not too dissimilar from a fancall, albeit with an obviously charged undercurrent. Even Chan can tell how hard Troye is flirting, but Hyunjin—if Chan had to call it anything—is playing it a bit coy. That is, until Hyunjin tilts back his head so he’s resting against his silk pillowcase and says in English, “So what do you like about me—the most?”
“Hyunjin-ah,” Chan says, lowering his voice to talk just to him, “how do you mean?”
“Shh,” Hyunjin hisses.
Troye has been considering the question, and Chan hears his thoughtful hum. “I mean, you’re stunning, obviously. Like an angel. Do you get that a lot? You do, don’t you?” (“He—he says you’re like an angel—” “I know, hyung, shh.”) “I guess what really first jumped out at me when I saw you was your lips. I liked how you kind of have this, like, natural pout when you’re talking? It’s very sexy.”
“Sexy,” Hyunjin repeats, and as Chan is stammering his way through a rough translation, he starts to pout, for Troye. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that, yeah. So pretty.”
“Pretty or sexy?”
Troye laughs, and Hyunjin does, too, a throaty little thing that makes him toss his head so his hair will cascade over to his shoulder. Troye says, “Both. You’re so pretty that it’s sexy. I watched your videos, you know. Your body’s sexy, too.”
“Okay,” Chan says, face burning, and stands. “Okay, you’ve got it from here. Have fun, be safe—”
“Sorry, one minute,” Hyunjin says to Troye, then quickly puts the phone face-down in his sheets. His demeanor has changed on a dime, and that glitzy confidence is completely gone, leaving him as wide-eyed and unsteady as he’d been when Chan first got home. “Hyung, please don’t go. Please. I really, really need your help. I’m so nervous, look.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking uncontrollably. “You’re helping me so much already, I’m much calmer since you’re here, and if you leave I won’t be able to do it by myself. I need you. Please don’t go?”
Chan is frozen, so uncomfortable he could die. Hyunjin has reached up, is gripping the hem of Chan’s shirt like a classical painting of an orphan child begging for crumbs on the street. This is not what Hyunjin said he needed Chan to stay for; it’s clear that Hyunjin is perfectly capable of talking to Troye on his own. Then again, it’s also always been clear that Jisung can record guides on his own, that Minho can keep the kids in line during dance practice on his own, that Jeongin can do the grocery shopping on his own. Chan stays with them for that, anyway. Not because they really need him, but because they used to, and part of that feeling still lingers—that Chan might make it better. If that’s how Hyunjin feels, then—who is Chan to leave him now?
He finds himself sitting back down. Nodding for Hyunjin to pick the phone back up. “Just a few more minutes,” he hears himself say.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin whispers, and as he grabs the phone, he’s all smiles again, blushing, giggling. “Sorry. Hello. You’re so handsome!”
“Show me that pout again,” Troye says. “God, they look soft. Are they soft?”
“Soft?” Hyunjin presses his fingertips against his own mouth, kisses them, pushes against the plushest part of his bottom lip so Troye can see it’s pliant. Chan does not know how, exactly, he’s helping Hyunjin with this, but he’s afraid of Hyunjin’s reaction if he tries to leave for a third time. “Yes, very soft. I wish you… feel?” His eyes flick to Chan. “Hyung, tell him I wish he could feel how soft they are.”
God. Fuck Chan’s life. When was the last time he said anything like this out loud? Has he ever said anything like this out loud? He turns his brain off and translates. Troye makes a low, appreciative noise. He says, “Yeah, me, too. I’ve been thinking about them. I mean, your everything is pretty, but, like.”
“Really?” Hyunjin giggles. “But pretty or sexy?”
Great, now they have an inside joke. Troye also laughs. “Definitely both. And I was watching videos of you dancing. Got me kinda hot, if I’m honest. I didn’t know you could move like that.”
Chan’s numb. He says, quietly, translating as fast as he can so the ‘few minutes’ he’d promised Hyunjin can end sooner, “Both. I watched your dance videos and they made me feel hot. I didn’t know you could move like that.”
“Oh, yes, I can move like that,” Hyunjin laugh-sighs. Chan shudders. It’s uncanny—for a moment, it had almost sounded like Hyunjin was responding to him, and he belatedly realizes he’d started translating from the first person, as opposed to just reporting what Troye had said. For Troye, flustered, Chan translates, “He can move like that.”
“I’d love to see it up close and personal sometime,” Troye says.
“I want to see it in real life,” Chan translates. “From up close.”
“We can get you front-row seats,” Hyunjin offers.
He sounds a little breathy, or possibly breathless. Chan never knows how to tell the difference. “We could get you front-row seats to our show,” he translates for Troye.
Troye makes another sound, a throaty, amused hum. “I meant a little more up close than that. Private show, maybe. Just for me. So I could touch the masterpiece, if you will, hah.”
“I meant in private,” Chan says. “Just for me. So I could touch you, even though you’re not supposed to touch works of art.”
Hyunjin sighs. He nods, nibbling on his lower lip as he gazes into the camera, at Troye on his screen. “I want to show you. I think you’d like what you saw.”
Chan translates, and Troye says, “I already do,” and Chan says, “I already do.”
“And you can touch,” Hyunjin adds, so, so softly. “If you want.” He translates for himself: “You can touch me.”
It’s not totally clear where Troye currently is, whether in LA or Australia, but either way, it seems like the time difference is against them; there’s some rustling, and a notification sound, and Troye says, “Shit, Hyunjin, I’ve got to go, I’m so sorry. It was so nice talking to you. Can I call you again tomorrow, same time? Maybe you can show me a little more.”
“Oh! Okay!” Hyunjin says, eager, airy. “Yes. Tomorrow, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Bye.”
“Bye, Bang Chan,” Troye adds casually, and the calls ends before Chan, mortified, can even think to offer for him to call Chan ‘Chris.’
In the silence the call leaves behind, Hyunjin stretches, phone dropping to the pillow next to his head. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, hyungnim. That was amazing.”
Chan’s face has never been redder. He stands and his joints click as if he hasn’t moved in hours. He looks back down at Hyunjin, and he notices, he can’t help but notice, it’s so obvious when he arches like that, that Hyunjin, in his worn-soft pyjama pants, is hard. Hyunjin lets out another soft sigh, rolling half onto his front as he picks up his phone. His shirt rides up. His legs are spread. He looks—comfortable. Touchable.
Chan says, “Any time,” in a horrible, artificially cheery voice he’s never used with Hyunjin before, and all but runs out of his room.
No, not any time. Never again.
***
But Troye calls tomorrow when they’re all cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. Hyunjin goes from laughing with Changbin about something or other to deadly serious, leaping up and grabbing Chan around the wrist. “We have to go,” he says, pulling Chan’s arm insistently. “Now, Channie-hyung.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Chan says, stumbling, but it’s only when they’re safely in Hyunjin’s room—having all but run there, making it in record time—that it hits him what the two of them had to go for. His stomach flips and his heart beats out of rhythm. Hyunjin isn’t stronger than him; when Hyunjin pulls, landing on the bed first and then yanking Chan down to lie by his side, he could resist. Stay standing. Stay away. But he doesn’t. They’re both visible in frame when Hyunjin slides his finger across the screen to answer Troye’s call, and Chan stares at his own digital depiction: the haunted, harried eyes, the unhappy, self-conscious twist to his expression. Then Troye comes into focus, and Chan’s attention has to turn elsewhere.
“Hey, you two,” Troye says, all smiles. “Is now a good time? Are you busy?”
“Not busy,” Hyunjin says. Also beaming. He leans his head sweetly against Chan’s. “I have Bang Chan again.”
Chan, dying inside and outside, tries for a brief grin. “Hey, how ya going.”
“So good,” Troye says. He’s in the sun somewhere. “I watched that music video of yours, where it’s just the two of you in the hotel. Pretty kinky stuff, mate. Hot.”
“What’s he saying?” Hyunjin whispers. “What is ‘kinky’?”
Chan coughs. “Thanks,” he says to Troye, “I think.”
Troye smiles. His teeth are very white. “The pleasure was all mine.” And just like that, he’s done talking to Chan—his attention snaps exclusively to Hyunjin. “You look great today, babe. I mean, you look great every day.”
“Thank you,” Hyunjin giggles, and adjusts his grip on the phone so he’s the only one fully visible, and Chan settles in for a long, excruciating call.
When Chan was a little younger, he accompanied some friends on a date. Third-wheeling. Classic, chaste. That was like this in the same way a housecat is like a lion. He’s the cameraman on a porn set, invited voyeur. Oh, it’s all softcore for now, just Hyunjin blowing Troye kisses while Troye pretends to catch them, Troye pulling his camera back so Hyunjin can see his lean torso, and a quick pan-around the pool he’s lounging by to show that he’s alone, but Chan doubts it will be PG-13 for much longer. Yesterday, after he left, what had Hyunjin done? Chan can almost certainly guess. He’s been trying not to think about it, not to picture it, not to wish he’d stayed. He’s making himself sick. He’s telling Hyunjin, “I want to see you take it off,” and he’s holding the phone to give Troye the full picture as Hyunjin strips himself, slowly. He’s looking away but not closing his eyes while Hyunjin sucks on two fingers, trails them down his own chest to tease at one of his pink nipples—how does he know how to do all of this? Is he just doing what Troye-via-Chan says, or did he know already? Chan can’t decide which would be better. Worse.
Hyunjin is hard again. Chan is—he doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t even know how he got here. Hyunjin and Troye aren’t talking very much anymore, anyway, they don’t need him here for this part. Some things can easily be communicated without words. But Chan can’t leave. He feels chained. The fact that it’s not even the first time he’s been in bed chained up with Hyunjin isn’t lost on him, and last time, it wasn’t even metaphorical; he blushes to think that Troye has watched that music video, has seen both of them like this already. Like this, but not like this, because that was make-believe (although Chan doesn’t know what Hyunjin did when shooting wrapped up for the day, either) and this is real. But it doesn’t feel real. Hyunjin doesn’t look real, gasping in a quiet breath, squirming where he lies, looking at the phone camera through his eyelashes. “I need more,” Hyunjin says, and Chan hoarsely translates, and Troye says—
“Give him more, then, Bang Chan.”
“What?” Chan says, then in English, “Sorry—what?”
Quiet laughter from Troye. Hyunjin’s waiting, on his back, one hand petting over his lower stomach, right above where his waistband’s beginning to strain. His chest is heaving with his breaths and his eyes move from the phone screen to Chan, behind it. He mouths ‘what?’ as Troye says, “You’re there with him. Only fair that you should touch him, since I can’t.”
“Oh,” Chan says. Not moving. Just looking down over Hyunjin, who’s lying so still, waiting so patiently, but that patience is visibly wearing thinner. “Me?”
“C’mon, he’s waiting. You two do this all the time, don’t you?”
They really don’t. Maybe Troye shares that common Western misconception that fanservice is real. Or did Hyunjin say something? Hyunjin squirms again. “Hyung,” he murmurs, looking up at Chan so trusting, “what’s going on?”
“Touch him,” Troye says. “He doesn’t bite. Do you, Hyunjin?”
“Hyung, what is he saying,” Hyunjin says, smiling sweetly, but his eyes are stressed and tense, confused, and—and Chan never wants any of the kids to look at him like that and not find what they need—and he thinks Hyunjin wouldn’t push him away, even though he’s no Troye Sivan—and he reaches for him with the hand not holding the phone, making contact with his thigh, and sliding up.
“There you go,” Troye croons, while Hyunjin’s eyes are wider, his mouth is falling open, but no, he’s not pushing Chan away. Uncertainly, he glances at the screen, at Troye for further instruction. “Keep going, Bang Chan, don’t be shy.”
“You can—just Chan is fine,” Chan manages, watching his own hand move up Hyunjin’s leg, while Hyunjin, wordless and breathless, obligingly inclines his hips to get him where he wants him faster. “Or Chris. Whatever.”
“Well, then, keep going, Chris.”
Keep going, Chris, indeed. Can he really do it? Does he dare? This boundary can’t be un-crossed, but Chan has already crossed a million boundaries just by being here. He wouldn’t do this for anyone else; he doesn’t know what that says about him. He knew, he thinks, what Hyunjin was doing, when he begged for Chan’s help with Troye in the first place. Maybe this was always inevitable. Maybe Chan was born doomed.
He shouldn’t keep Troye waiting—he shouldn’t keep Hyunjin waiting. Chan asks a question with his eyes, hand lingering just beside where Hyunjin strains—and Hyunjin, gone so still as if a grassland deer evading a pouncing predator, flutters out a breath, and nods. Chan’s hand moves. He doesn’t think. He touches Hyunjin.
“Oh,” Hyunjin says—more of a whimper than anything, really, a noise Chan has never heard him make before in all these years. Under Chan’s palm, through the layers of fabric he’s wearing, his dick is heavy and aching, and responsive like the rest of him, giving a thick twitch as Chan pets upward. It’s like it only just now hit him what’s happening; his next breath is a moan, and his hips roll in that smooth dancer-like way of his, grinding himself against the pressure of Chan’s grip.
“Give Hyunjin the phone.”
“Here,” Chan mutters, passing it to him, and Hyunjin grabs for it, helpless, looking between the screen and Chan’s face. Chan, fascinated by how he reacts, rolls his palm over his cock, and Hyunjin sighs out in a shivery rush, head turning to nestle his cheek into his pillowcase. Such a sweet gesture—almost at odds with what’s actually happening, the way Chan is so hot under the collar that he’s finding it hard to breathe.
He can’t overthink it. He can’t think at all, actually, or he’ll stop, he’ll run away, he’ll quit the band, he’ll change his name and leave the country and never come back. So he doesn’t think; he just touches. Troye murmurs something too quiet for Chan to catch, and then at a more normal volume says, “You’re even prettier like this, babe. Does that feel good?”
There’s no way Hyunjin didn’t understand that. It’s easy words. Things Chan knows he knows. Still. “You look even prettier,” Chan says, stroking him off slow and languid over his housepants. “Does it feel good?”
“Yes,” Hyunjin breathes.
“God, that looks like fun,” Troye groans—he’s so cool, how Chan envies his easy confidence, he’s probably the one that does shit like this all the time. “Let’s get you wet, sweetheart. You should feel this good all the time.”
“Let’s get you wet,” Chan says. Lowering himself. With Hyunjin holding the phone, Chan’s hands are free, they’re free to be Troye’s hands. “You should feel this good all the time, sweetheart.”
“You make me feel good,” Hyunjin whispers.
He’s not looking at Chan at all: he’s staring into the screen and not looking away. Chan, conversely, can’t look at Troye, but he can talk to him—he has to. “He says you’re making him feel good. What—what should I—”
“Just do what I’d do,” Troye says, very nearly dismissive. Like Chan may as well not be there. Like he may as well be anyone. Chan can’t blame him, not with Hyunjin panting softly two inches away from his digital face. “God, fuck, give the boy a kiss. Shouldn’t waste lips like that.”
Hyunjin knows the word kiss, and he’s turning back before Chan can react. Immediate, urgent suction, his free hand coming up to grip onto the side of Chan’s neck and drag him close. And—God—Troye is really fucking missing out, because Hyunjin’s lips are impossibly, impractically soft, so slick and thick between Chan’s own that Chan is halfway drunk on him already. It gives Chan an idea, too, a kind of gross one, but—shit, it seems like something Troye might do. He pulls back. He lifts his palm from Hyunjin, cups it, spits. Let’s get you wet.
It’s easier, to be this close. When Chan can’t really see either Hyunjin’s face or the screen of Hyunjin’s phone. His head is dipped into Hyunjin’s neck as he runs that hand down, as he goes underneath the housepants, wraps his barewet fingers around his cock, strokes to slicken him. Hyunjin shudders, legs opening, hips pushing up to fuck himself through Chan’s grip. He’s sensitive. He’s eager. Like Chan really knew he’d be. He’s overheated, too; there’s a glisten on his skin, and he sticks a bit to Chan’s shirt each time he moves, each time he presses closer to Chan as if there’s not enough room for both of them in this bed. But he’s still looking at the screen. Or maybe his eyes are closed. Chan can’t see from here.
“Anyone ever fucked you in a bath, babe? This place has an amazing tub—I was thinking about you in it.”
“I want to fuck you in the bath,” Chan says. Hyunjin makes that whimpering noise again, and his cock is wetter in Chan’s grip, harder. It might be strange for him—it might be weird. Taking baths is kind of their thing, isn’t it? Chan’s always felt silly for finding it notable that they’re the only two in the group who enjoy it, but it doesn’t feel silly now. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“I want that so much,” Hyunjin says. His hips buck. He’s restless, like he can’t stop himself from moving. Heat is radiating off of him in waves. Chan is overwhelmed by sympathy, by the need to keep helping him—that’s, ostensibly, such a simple sentence for him to say in English, but Hyunjin’s not able to think clearly at the moment. Hence the need for Chan to keep translating. “What else—what else do you want?”
Absurdly, humiliatingly, Chan almost opens his mouth to answer. Instead, he translates, while staunchly trying (and mostly failing) to ignore the way Hyunjin’s gyrations as Chan strokes him are resulting in a hot, rolling surface grinding against Chan’s dick. This isn’t about him—Hyunjin’s not here for him—he’s a proxy, a vessel, a conduit for Troye Sivan’s appetites. One of those remote-controlled vibrators, with Troye’s thumb on the dial. Chan draws his hips back and tries not to shudder.
Troye must be touching himself, too; his replies are a little delayed, slightly strained. “Want to kiss your neck.”
“I want to kiss your neck,” Chan says, and kisses Hyunjin’s neck, where he tastes like sweat and summer.
“Want to eat you out.”
“Fuck,” Chan says. What’s ‘rimming’ in Korean? While he’d been searching for the words, Hyunjin had gotten closer again, and now his flank’s dragging on Chan’s cock, perfect blunt friction. It’s hard to find the proper thing to say. “I w-want to get my mouth on you, everywhere.”
“Isn’t that—my neck, too?”
“Here,” Chan says, fingers slipping down and past, just for a second, before he goes back up to keep stroking him off. Hyunjin jolts as if electrified. In Chan’s shorts, his dick gives a heavy pulse. All of a sudden, as if in response, there’s a newer pressure—well under the purview of the camera, no way would Troye be able to see: fingers, Hyunjin’s fingers, sliding under the waistband of Chan’s shorts to grip him where he needs it, too.
Chan buries an involuntary groan in Hyunjin’s neck. Can’t Troye say something like want you to kiss me while you jerk me off? Why would he, though? He can actually have everything he wants. He’d probably dream a little bigger. Chan’s struggling even to breathe as he and Hyunjin start to jack in synch. Hyunjin’s face is turned away; he’s only looking at his phone. He must be panting up a storm against his pillowcase. The fabric must be wet. His chest and stomach shudder each time he breathes. “I want to taste you,” Hyunjin murmurs.
“He says he wants to taste you, too,” Chan grits out.
“Next time, okay? Fuck,” Troye says. Wet, languid sounds. “Next time, you can come to my room, and you can get on your knees for me, then I’ll bend you over how you deserve, really give it to you—you won’t be able to walk, so sorry about your dancing thing. Gonna make those legs shake, baby.”
Chan squeezes his eyes shut. He grinds his hips forward. He translates, for Hyunjin. “I really just—I really want you. I don’t know for how long. I want to touch you every time I see you. You’re so gorgeous and all I want is to make you feel good, always. Want to give you everything you want. And I want you to only want me.”
Hyunjin starts to come. It’s sudden and still it builds, from a shocked, high-pitched gasp to the way he shakes, and then he gets all twitchy, and he’s moaning louder, spilling over Chan’s fist, over his own stomach, smearing on the waistband of his pants. Chan has to pull back just enough to look at him—there’s that private show Troye was talking about. Pink cheeks, tortured brows, expression full of ecstasy and agony, like an avenging angel, as he grinds it out, body rolls, slow. It’s almost enough to send Chan reeling, too—he’s never seen anything like it. Chan’s always known Hyunjin straddles the Madonna-whore complex and rides it like a mechanical bull, but his actual O-face is the peak of human achievement. His powers have just reached a new height. He’s so beautiful. He’s so gorgeous. All Chan wants is to make him feel good, always, and give him everything he wants.
“Yeah, there you fucking go, yeah—fuck—” And there’s Troye gone, too, which Chan truly cannot listen to or notice, ears burning, cheeks burning, dick throbbing urgently and desperately with each pound of his heart.
Hyunjin’s not even cooling. Chan has his palm splayed over his lower stomach, and although Hyunjin’s breath isn’t quite so ragged anymore, he’s still warm. Chan’s so hard that if Hyunjin were to stroke him one more time, he’d bust in a second. Hyunjin is starting to giggle, giddy, and on the other end of the line, Troye kind of is, too. “That was fun,” Hyunjin murmurs.
Chan needs to get the fuck out of there, now. He pushes-pulls Hyunjin’s hand out of his pants. Wincing, wobbling, he stands. Hyunjin, surprised, bitten-pink mouth pursed, turns to look up at Chan, a question forming, but Chan can’t look at him. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him, either. It’s over; everything is over. He told Hyunjin everything and now it’s over. It’s one thing to play favourites, and everybody knows he’s guilty of that. But this is so far beyond. Hyunjin had asked his leader for help; is this help? No. All this is is so fucked up.
“Hyung,” Hyunjin says, “please don’t go—”
But that won’t work on Chan a third time. He adjusts himself in his pants, grimacing. He’s dodging Hyunjin’s gaze; he has a sleek smear of Hyunjin’s cum on his hand. Everything is upside down, and he needs to go take an ice-cold shower, because it’s not like before, he could take a bath without thinking of Hyunjin, but now he’ll really never be able to dissociate the two. Hyunjin doesn’t go after him.
“Next time,” he hears Troye saying to Hyunjin, right before Chan slams the door.
No, no next time. Never again.
***
Yeah, right.