Chapter Text
It’s been a long few weeks—no, a long couple of months.
Another comeback season. Another argument with his mother. Another hate comment. Another “When are you going to stop this, ‘I’m a boy’ nonsense and come back home?”. Another insomnolent night that bleeds into an endless day. Another bloodied, sticky reminder of what he truly is. Another imperfect practice so close to a performance date.
Another…Another…Another…
Yuto stares at his phone screen, at a text message from his mother that was delivered six hours ago, when practice first began.
Mother: I still see my Yuki. No matter what, you’re still my precious little girl.
3:00 pm
Attached is an image of Yuto—or rather, Yuki—from when he was a young child, likely around 3 or 4 years old. Hair in pigtails and eyes pushed into thin crescents by pink, bulging cheeks, the little girl beams at the camera.
Yuto hates this photo; he hates the toddler in it. He hates his mother. He hates himself.
He stares and stares, re-reading the message over and over until the screen cuts to black, and all that is reflected is a sweaty, tired face. A bead of sweat slowly rolls down the bridge of his nose and lands in a perfect drop on his phone screen, waking it back up. His thumbs hover over the password keypad, tempted to revisit the text and torture himself for a moment more.
“Yu?” Seungjun is drenched, his baggy white t-shirt clinging to his chest and torso. He towers over him, hands on his hips and damp locks plastered to his forehead. Yuto wonders how long he’s been standing here, and wonders how he didn't notice the older’s presence when he can practically smell the salt reeking from his skin. “You good?”
Yuto places his phone on the vinyl floor screen-down and rises to his feet, nodding. He refuses to use his voice until the bulge in his throat dissolves.
Pushing past the blonde, he heads towards the center of the studio. “I’m fine,” he finally calls over his shoulder, curt and leaving little room for Seungjun’s typical prodding. “Let’s continue! We have a lot to perfect.”
¡! 🩸 ❞
Drifting around,
Unable to settle anywhere
Days spent wandering
Yuto is exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that makes you want to collapse where you stand and writhe on the floor until the kinks in your muscles are stretched out. His whole body aches—from his shoulders down to his calves and ankles—due to hours of non-stop dancing.
All he wants to do is rest—and maybe sneak a pinch of cream-ppang—but there’s no time for that.
Their performance is less than a week from now, and the members still can’t nail the choreography he worked so hard to create.
Mistake after mistake, stumble after stumble, song restart after song restart.
Hyojin’s moves are too stiff, Jaeyoung can never find his correct position, Minkyun’s footwork is always a few seconds behind everyone else’s, Changhyun keeps blanking on the choreography, and Seungjun…is just Seungjun.
It isn’t until Changyun pauses for the nth time—arms poised awkwardly and eyebrows knitted in confusion—Minkyun staggering into him, that Yuto motions for Seungjun to cut the music.
Your tousled hair
Reflected in the dim light
Dances, dances, dan—
“Fuck, I’m sorry, guys. I swear I know the moves, it’s just—” Changyun frustratedly cups his flushed face. “—I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just…”
Yuto glares at him from the mirror, not even blinking when a bead of sweat trails from his hairline, seeps into his eyelashes, and stings his eye.
“Sleep deprived?” answers Seungjun with that sickenly sweet voice he uses when he’s trying to be comforting. Yuto unconsciously clenches his fists in annoyance. “We should probably call it a night anyway. It’s nearing midnight, and we’ve been at this long enough.”
The members nod in agreement, all except for Yuto, who continues to lour.
“I’m sleep deprived, too, hyung.” Yuto cuts his eyes at Seungjun. “Do you see me fucking up every five minutes?”
All eyes land on him. The air feels as though it’s been sucked out of the studio, replaced with something stuffy and stifling.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Seungjun stares pointedly at him. “That’s no way to talk about your hyung.”
Okay, so maybe Yuto isn’t acting like his usual respectful, patient, forgiving self. But he hasn’t felt like himself in a while. And with the dull ache that’s been gnawing away at his insides unabated—regardless of how many painkillers he knocks back—his pissy mood has worsened these past couple of days.
“It’s a shitty excuse.” Even with the phone facedown, out of the corner of his eye, Yuto catches the floor lighting up a pale blue. It’s another message from his mother—he just knows it. His nails press burning crescents into his palm until the skin threatens to break. “I’ve worked tirelessly on this dance, with very little food and even less sleep, and I haven’t made one mistake. So, what’s the real reason you can’t at least try to get the moves down properly?”
“Well, shit, Yuto!” Changyun runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, his eyes somewhat glassy and his voice taut. “I have a lot of stuff on my mind, okay? So, I—I’m sorry I’m not able to remember the hundreds of moves you came up with, but this comeback has been hard for me and—”
“Hard for you?” Incredulous, Yuto whirls around at that, finally facing his members and not just their reflections in the mirror. “The comeback has been hard for everyone, but that’s still no excuse to be incompetent”—his eyes snap to Hyojin—“or ungraceful”—to Minkyun— “or slow”—then finally, at Jaeyoung—“or uncoordinated.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
Yuto continues as if Minkyun had said nothing. “It’s like I’m the only one busting my ass to make sure we’re performance-ready, while the rest of you—”
“Shut the fuck up, Yuto!” Hyojin’s shout silences the studio, and all that is heard is labored breathing and the gentle hum of the too-weak air conditioner. He has only ever shouted at the younger once in the duration of their friendship—when they were trainees, and Yuto learned then that Hyojin’s yell often came before a swing to the jaw.
Yuto’s words die in his throat.
“We’re all working hard for this comeback—not just you,” Hyojin hisses, taking a few steps towards the younger.
A wide-eyed Jaeyoung grips his shoulder, stopping Hyojin in his tracks. Yuto almost wants to laugh. They all know that if he truly wanted, it would take at least three of them to hold Hyojin back from decking him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, Yuto, but I won’t tolerate you belittling my members any longer.”
Just then, a particularly sharp pain strikes, causing Yuto’s knees to buckle. For only a second, he dips downward, arms instinctively crossing over his abdomen, bottom lip caught under his teeth. Seungjun quirks an eyebrow.
“I think what Jinnie-hyung is trying to say is”—Jaeyoung hesitates, looking back and forth between the two men, his hand now on Hyojin’s back—“we’ve all been working incredibly hard, and we’re all deserving of some grace. We’re a team after all, right?”
“And most importantly, this dance studio is our safe space. We’re allowed to be flawed here while figuring things out.” Seungjun places a warm hand on Yuto’s shoulder, where his bare skin meets the cotton of his tank top. Goosebumps spread down his nape, and Yuto pretends not to know the reason why. “We’ll be performance-ready, Yu, and everyone will see your vision come to life on that stage.”
Yuto faces the mirror, and finds that he looks how he feels—like shit.
His silver overgrown bangs are tacky against his forehead; his roots are too dark, and the bleached ends just barely obscure his eyes. The LED fixtures above highlight the harshness of his features—the dark circles under his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, the smile lines bordering his mouth, the bright red zit positioned on his cupid’s bow. And even though he knows his mind is cruel, he swears he sees two small mounds pressing against the fabric of his top.
They don’t understand.
They have less than a week to prepare, and sure, the stage they’re performing on is nothing special. But each comeback is a chance to be rediscovered—to be mainstream, to stand out among the hundreds of other boy groups scrambling for their turn under the spotlight.
It’s a chance to prove to the world, his mother, and even himself that he is a pro-idol—a male pro-idol, even with the rufescent scars under his pecs and the empty space between his thighs and the sticky fluid that ruddies his bedsheets every month.
“Whatever,” mutters Yuto to no one in particular as he shrugs off the blonde’s touch. He turns on his heels, his sneakers squeaking against the vinyl flooring as he walks briskly towards his duffel bag and phone.
Only Seungjun calls out to him. Yuto ignores him, grabbing his belongings and hastily stepping out the door.
¡! 🩸 ❞
The bathroom stall smells like ichor.
Yuto is sitting on the commode, a fresh tampon in one hand, his phone in the other.
He was right. His mother texted him again, this time at 12:53 am. Yuto inherited her high cheekbones and her insomnia, and if he didn’t despise her so much, maybe he’d find that endearing enough to at least chuckle at.
Mother: As soon as I laid my head down, nostalgia hit me. Do you remember that princess wand your father gave you
when you were a kid?
12:53 am
Of course he does. It was the last birthday gift he ever received from his father, just days before the car accident.
Mother: I was cleaning the attic and found it. I’m lying beside it right now. It brings back so many memories.
Like how, for the longest time, you wanted to grow up to be a princess.
12:53 am
Yuto doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drops onto his screen, and then another, and another, until random characters are being spawned into the message bar.
Mother: I can’t help but wonder, had my Yuki found a prince, would she have still run off to dress as a man and dance for the
entertainment of Koreans?
12:54 am
The tang of copper gets to be too much on the back of his tongue.
His throat clenches, and Yuto releases a choked sob.
¡! 🩸 ❞
There are two crimson stains, no larger than 10-won coins, on the crotch of his grey sweatpants. It’s noticeable—just barely, but at least there’s fresh cotton inside him.
Yuto splashes cool water onto his tear-stained face, and when another pang strikes, he squeezes his thighs together and holds his breath until it passes.
When he exits the bathroom, he slowly treks down the corridor, following the sound of music and the distant slapping of sneakers against the floor. He mentally prepares to face the mess he left behind, but when he opens the door…
Maybe it’s because of the rainy night
The subtle atmosphere
Keeps getting heavier
…there’s only Seungjun still dancing. Only a part of him is relieved.
Yuto watches in silence. Seungjun is graceful as always, with footwork that is clean and precise. His lithe body ebbs well with the rhythm; narrow hips swaying in time with the fast-paced beat, long arms flowing perfectly. With every few moves, his shirt lifts just enough to show the very soaked band of his sweatpants clinging to his sylphlike waist.
At the feeling of his ears heating up, Yuto clears his throat.
Like my cluttered table, unresolved
We’re just left in disarray,
Simply placed there—
“Did I scare everyone away?” he asks, heard just barely over the music as the door shuts behind him.
Seungjun spins around and shoots Yuto a smile he doesn’t care to return. “Something like that.”
The music cuts off.
Do we have to define something
Just to keep meeting?
Or say it’s hard to con—
Seungjun joins the younger, standing so near that Yuto can feel the heat radiating from his dewy skin. A bead of sweat rolls down the column of his long neck and soaks into the sagging collar of his shirt.
“Actually, they weren’t good to continue any further.” He briefly lifts the hem of his shirt to dab at the perspiration collecting at his hairline. Yuto notices the subtle push of ribs against pale skin and wonders if Seungjun has been eating well, or if he’s just as starved as he. “So, I sent everyone back to the dorms. Now that it’s just you and me, I was hoping we could have a little chat.”
Yuto sighs. Typical Seungjun—always craving closure for every conflict.
“Hyung, if you’re looking for a kumbaya moment, I’m not interested. Either we practice, or I’ll just head home too.” He’s bluffing. Yuto wants to dance—he needs the distraction.
Seungjun crosses his arms and looks at him with that piercing, blank stare they all jokingly refer to as the ‘cursing eyes’. Normally, it makes Yuto laugh—makes him want to tease the older—but right now it’s mildly uncomfortable. Yuto awkwardly shifts his bag on his shoulder.
“You almost made Changyun-hyung cry, y’know.”
“Nearly everything makes him almost cry,” Yuto counters dismissively.
After their schedules calm down and their performance passes; after the pain subsides and takes the ichor with it; after he relearns how to establish boundaries with his mother and a piece of himself returns—he will apologize then. Besides…
“Changyun-hyung isn’t the only one with issues.” It’s said as an aside to himself, uttered under his breath, but Seungjun hears nonetheless.
“Issues?” His gaze softens. “What is this really about, Yu? And don’t lie to me—I know this is about more than a Mnet stage.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Bullshit.” Seungjun curses softly. “You’ve been on your phone more often, nearly biting the heads off our members, ignoring fans on Bubble, and”—Seungjun reaches for Yuto’s face, and as soon as his fingers graze his jaw, the younger flinches away—“your eyes have been swollen a lot lately, as if you’ve been crying or something. As your friend and leader, I deserve to know what’s going on—”
“It’s none of your fucking business, hyung!” Yuto says harsher than intended, feeling some satisfaction at seeing the blond flinch a little. “On-team, off-team leader—that’s the bullshit.”
Seungjun visibly deflates, huffing a humorless laugh. “Are you being serious right now?”
Yuto prodded a sore spot.
Seungjun has been insecure about his position in the group since its inception—something only Yuto is aware of. Invisible, useless, lost in Hyojin’s shadow; that’s how Seungjun views himself, even with the off-team leader role. Yuto almost wants to take it back, but there’s a bigger part of him that craves instilling that same sense of dread he himself has been feeling.
He digs his fingers further and twists.
“Hyojin may treat you as an equal, but we all—Fuse, the company, the members—know who’s really in charge.” Yuto grips the cool steel handle of the doorknob behind him; even with the cruelty burning inside him, Yuto is certain he won’t be able to handle Seungjun’s sad gaze much longer. “You’re demanding I give you an explanation like you’re Hyojin 2.0. You’re not him, and I don’t owe you shit.”
It’s silent.
Seungjun stares with those doe-like, red-rimmed eyes, the corners of his pouty lips trembling just slightly, his chest slowly rising and falling as he recovers from all the dancing he was doing just moments earlier. He looks pretty in an undone way (the damp hair, the sagging shoulders, his oddly vacant gaze, and the pink acne scars scattered along his sweat-damp and flushed cheeks).
Yuto went too far—he can sense it. And even though Seungjun doesn’t have a violent bone in his body, something in Yuto is screaming for him to make his exit.
“You don’t actually mean that…do you?”
It’s the furthest thing from the truth, but Yuto doesn’t bother responding. It feels good not to be the only one openly hurting, even if his pulse is pounding in his ears.
There’s another bout of silence, before…
“Can I ask you something, Yu-ah?” Seungjun tilts his head downward, almost puppylike, his locks obscuring his eyes.
Something about his voice sounds…off. It’s uncharacteristically soft, and there’s a subtle lilt to it that Yuto has never noticed before.
Suddenly, he’s all too aware of how alone they are. The studio is too empty, the air too damp with sweat, the fresh cotton too thick against his walls, the lights too bright above their heads. Seungjun is too close, too quiet, too still.
The screaming in his head gets louder.
“Your bitchiness,” Seungjun continues measuredly, “...you gripping your middle earlier, the spots on your pants…” Now it’s Yuto’s turn to flinch. “Are you on your menses?”
Yuto’s face flushes, a hot pressure building behind his eyes. He presses down on the door handle until he hears a soft click, mumbling, “Fuck you, Seungjun.”
Just as he pushes his weight against the door, the room tilts and the air is knocked out of his lungs.
Yuto doesn’t know how—but he’s sprawled on the floor, breath caught in his throat as a sharp pain travels up his back and spreads throughout his shoulders and nape.
A smug Seungjun looms over him, his hair almost white under the fluorescent lighting.
“I thought so,” Seungjun says calmly, kicking Yuto’s duffel bag across the room. “It must be heavy this time. Y’know, I read on a forum somewhere that dick works better than any ibuprofen.”
Yuto’s pate spins, and for a moment, he thinks he’s imagining everything—the argument, the hit, the coolness of the floor, Seungjun’s voice.
He attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, but Seungjun grabs him harshly by his silver-dyed strands. Yuto yelps in pain, legs flailing uselessly and heels failing to dig into the floor. His fingers grasp for Seungjun’s as the older drags him further into the studio.
“Let’s see how true that is, Yu.”
¡! 🩸 ❞
Yuto has never seen it before, but he knows it’s girthy, circumcised, and flush-tipped. Its shaft is tanned, veiny, and heavy on the tongue.
At least, that’s how Hyojin described Seungjun’s cock late one night after a few shared bottles of soju—pretty, above average, musky-smelling. Lying on Yuto’s too-small bed with cheeks as scarlet as his hair, Hyojin drunkenly let slip how he and Seungjun have been fooling around since they were schoolboys in high school.
Really, it wasn’t news to Yuto; his room is parallel to Seungjun’s, and the walls are thin. He hears the muffled moans, the sharp slap of skin-on-skin—and every time, he touches himself, imagining what it’d feel like to be stretched full by nearly seven inches of Seungjun. And with Seungjun being the most receptive to his trans identity (“This isn’t anything to be ashamed of. You’re still our Yuto, our agi ppang, regardless of what’s between your hips.”), Yuto always envisioned it as sweet and tender.
Nothing like this…
The floor is cold against Yuto’s splayed palms and tear-soaked cheek, but the firm hand keeping him in place—gripping the small of his back and digging its thumb into the dimple there—is warm.
Bare ass arched painfully into the air, Yuto’s muff is on full display; a dainty white string hangs limply between his parted thighs. He can feel his knees bruising against the hard floor, and even though his nose is stuffy from crying, the smell of copper is unmistakable.
“Maybe you’re right,” Seungjun is positioned behind the younger, his weeping tip nudges the back of Yuto’s thigh every so often. “Maybe Hyojin does treat me as an equal despite me just being a glorified best friend. But how is that any different from how I treat you?” With his other hand, Seungjun wraps his index finger around the tampon’s string and slowly pulls.
“Don’t you expect me to still treat you as a man despite all the mess you’re making, Yu-ah?”
A sob wracks through Yuto, his opening spasming pathetically as warm liquid trickles down his inner thighs and stains the floor below.
He’s going to die here—that’s what Yuto tells himself. That his death won’t be from Seungjun’s hands, but rather from the shame and disgust that comes with having this body. Every crimson droplet that leaves him, and every taunt that follows, is a reminder that he can never truly escape the burden of being born Yuki.
Seungjun finally releases his lower back, but Yuto doesn’t dare let it cave in. He’s rigid, remaining in the same cramped position even when Seungjun’s thumbs push past his puffy lips and spread them open to expose his bleeding cunt more. Yuto’s breath catches in his throat as he feels something hot pearling at his entrance, silently praying it’s more blood and not something white and gooey.
Groaning, the older inserts a finger into the mess within his folds. Yuto wails then, wetly babbling an amalgamation of broken ‘please stop’s and ‘no, hyung’s as one finger turns to two, and two turns to three. The squelching is obscene and nauseating.
“With as much bullshit you were spewing earlier, I know ‘hyung’ and ‘stop’ aren’t the only words you know,” Seungjun chuckles, fucking his fingers in and out of Yuto faster. Yuto imagines the ichor running down Seungjun’s wrists in perfect streams and thinks, if he had eaten anything this day, it would have spilled from his mouth by now. “Besides, it’s not like you’re a virgin.”
Taunting. Cruel. Deserved.
“Don’t you remember why Minseok’s contract ended?” Casual, as if the event didn’t have them reeling for years afterwards. Yuto still rereads the messages he sent to Minseok after his departure, all of them left unread. “Not that I ever blamed him. I’m curious too.”
He wants the floor to open underneath his aching, contused knees and swallow them both whole. All at once, his breathing slows, his cries soften, his lids become heavier as long fingers scissor him from within. All the fight has left him, and all there’s left in the dribble of tears, slick, and menstrual blood is resignation.
When Seungjun’s fingers curl into a bundle of nerves Yuto’s own are too short to reach, he doesn’t contend against the clenching of his pussy. When the intrusion leaves him and a cramp follows, making his hole weep more red down his thighs, Yuto pays no mind to the itchiness of his knees as blood collects around them. When hands bruisingly grip his waist, painting his skin red as something bulbous lines up with his swollen entrance, Yuto pleads nothing. And when Seungjun slams into him, all seven inches burrowing directly into his bundle of nerves, Yuto lets his mouth drop open in a silent scream, his eyes rolling back into his skull and seeing stars.
He’s impossibly full, a mixture of blood and slick spilling past his lips, which are stretched taut around Seungjun. Seungjun’s grip tightens even more, and he pulls his hips back until his tip pulls at the rim of Yuto’s cunt.
Yuto is going to die. Even if he survives this, Yuto is going to die.
With a loud moan being his only warning, Seungjun slams back in, and now…
Yuto is at his mother’s house, seated at her kitchen table. His auburn locks are styled into wispy layers, his blouse perfectly fitted to show a hint of his bust, the hem of his uniform skirt resting just above his unblemished knees. He’s the spitting image of his mother, and the daughter she always wanted.
Another thrust…
Yuto is lying on the floor of the hotel room he’s sharing with Minseok. They’re naked, with skin sticky from dried sweat and spent seed. Minseok rests his head on Yuto’s chest, carefully tracing the scars there, whispering about his distant dreams of attending culinary school and opening a bakery somewhere in Japan. His voice gets lost in the pounding Yuto hears in his own chest.
Another thrust…
Yuto is curled up on his bed with Hyojin, stifling his giggles behind his Yoshi plushie. With breath smelling of peach-flavored soju and eyes pushed into sparkling crescents, Hyojin whispers that Seungjun tastes just as sweet as he looks. “Sweeter than soju?” Yuto asks, reaching over to dab away the liquid atop Hyojin’s lip. Hyojin nods, “Sweeter than the sweetest soju.”
Another thrust…and another…and another…and he’s back at the studio—face resting in a pool of sweat, tears, and spit.
Seungjun is panting, pistoning his hips faster as if Yuto is nothing more than a breathing fleshlight.
When he rips out of Yuto, it’s painful, as if Seungjun has taken a piece of him that cannot be returned. Yuto’s body finally collapses, and Seungjun finishes his defilement by standing over him and releasing his seed onto Yuto’s ass, back, and face.
When the cum lands on his cheek, Yuto smells it before he feels it—musky—and when it slips into his open mouth, it’s cloyingly saccharine.
From the corner of his eye, Yuto thinks he can see Seungjun’s cock, still erect somehow, with a shaft that’s been stained red. Seungjun coos, saying something in that sickly-sweet voice of his, but Yuto can’t hear over the blood rushing to his skull. His ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with wads of cotton.
He can no longer feel his body nor the floor underneath it; the aching in his core has stopped. He can no longer register the stickiness between his thighs and on his skin, nor can he smell metal and musk. And when his eyes close, he finds that the stars are gone and so are the memories.
All Yuto sees is an infinite blackness, and he lets it consume what’s left of him.
¡! 🩸 ❞
Yuto awakens in his bed.
He’s tucked under his Mario Kart-themed covers, clad in clean pajamas with a fresh tampon nestled (albeit uncomfortably—it’s shifted too far to the left) inside him. His Yoshi plushie lies abandoned on the floor, underneath the slightly ajar casement window.
The sun rays that pour in through his thin curtains are warm and golden—too golden for it to be morning.
Aside from the feeling of sandpaper between his thighs, his body feels numb. His swollen eyes are bleary, his mouth is parched, his throat is raw, and there’s half a glass of water on his nightstand. He vaguely remembers a hand lifting his head and another pressing something cold to his lips, something cool spilling into his mouth, and a chalky lump going down his throat.
Dazed, he stares blankly at the Mario stickers scattered along his ceiling. It hurts down there, and Yuto has no one to tell.
Maybe he’s not meant to be an idol in a boy group. Maybe he should return to Osaka. Maybe he should be the daughter his mother still mourns.
Maybe…Maybe…May—
A soft knock sounds at his door, and his name is called sweetly from the other side. It’s Hyojin, and when he enters the room, he’s holding a steaming bowl of hamburger steak with fried egg—Yuto’s favorite. His stomach growls, but he has no appetite.
“Good to know our maknae isn’t dead,” Hyojin teases, softly kicking the door shut behind him and striding towards the nightstand. He places the bowl and its chopsticks next to the glass of water, then picks up the plushie from the floor. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat anything that wasn’t cream-ppang.”
The bed dips when Hyojin sits on its edge, and Yuto finally looks at the man who is smiling at him as if he hadn’t been seconds away from clobbering him just last night. Bare-faced with his copper-red locks combed neatly, he looks well-rested and happy. The neckline of the black shirt he dons droops, revealing his collarbones and a hint of his chest. It must have come from Seungjun’s closet.
“Seungjun carried you in here bridal style. He said you passed out in the studio while practicing your dance break.”
Yuto swallows, his throat clicking audibly from being so dry. He can still taste Seungjun on the back of his tongue.
He rasps a half-truth. “I’m jus’ burned out.”
“I figured.” Hyojin nods. “After yesterday—”
“—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I lost my shit, too, last night.” Hyojin’s smile flickers somewhat as he turns his attention to the stuffed Yoshi in his hold. “Comebacks are always stressful, but I noticed you’ve been taking it harder this time. I’m worried about you—we all are. Even Fuse is worried.” He quietly chortles. “When Seungjun did his live today, they kept asking about you.”
“Hyung did a live?” Yuto whispers.
“Yeah, in the studio. He danced to your Spotify playlist.” Hyojin looks at him then, beaming as bright as the sun outside the window. “You are so loved, Yuto.”
They wouldn’t love him if they knew what he truly is—that he hides a lacuna between his thighs.
Yuto’s tired eyes slide back to the window, where they stare into the endless sea of cerulean blue. There’s a pressure keeping him pinned to the bed. It leaves his head feeling nearly empty and slows the rise and fall of his chest. Heavy is the realization that he cannot change what has happened; whatever wounds he’s carried here from home have been reopened by Seungjun, and Seungjun doesn’t even care.
Hyojin stands, pulls the sheets back, and places the stuffed Yoshi beside Yuto’s head.
“Be sure to eat before your food gets too cold.” A gentle command paired with fingers daintily moving the silver strands of hair from Yuto’s eyes. Hyojin stands over him for a few moments longer, fingers still dancing on Yuto’s face, as if giving the younger time to say something.
This is what makes him different from Seungjun-hyung. Hyojin never pushes; he never takes.
Outside Yuto’s door is the hurried pitter-patter of sock-clad feet against wood floors, the distant giggles of Changyun, and the shrill of Minkyun’s voice.
Yuto never meets Hyojin’s eye, but he can sense the older’s smile nonetheless. His fingers travel from Yuto’s messy bangs to the pointy tip of his nose, and then finally to the cupid’s bow above his lips. And then, he’s walking to the door.
It isn’t until Hyojin’s hand grips the doorknob that Yuto says…
“You were right, hyung.” There’s a tear pearling in the corner of his eye. It tickles when it sweeps down his cheek and soaks into the pillow below.
Hyojin spins around. “About?”
Yuto swallows, but the lump remains. He talks around it, slow and controlled. “About it being sweet.” He can feel Hyojin’s stare burrowing into the side of his face.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Yuto’s chuckle is humorless. Seungjun is still inside him—inside his mouth, his throat, his core. He can feel him in the sting of his cunt, the dull nudge of the crooked tampon nestled within his walls, the pressure in his back.
“It really ‘s sweeter than the sweetest soju.”
Hyojin stands there, pale hand resting on the golden doorknob. It’s unclear to Yuto whether he understands or not. After all, Hyojin was drunk when he said it.
It’s quiet for some time, and then Hyojin says sotto voce, “Eat and get some rest, Yu,” before slipping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
Yuto is left to stare at the empyrean above, bathed in afternoon sunlight and drowning in an infinite blue.
¡! 🩸 ❞
Mother: I had a dream about you last night.
9:36 am
Mother: You could at least say good morning to your mother. Is that not the right thing to do?
10:11 am
Yuto: i was raped
3:42 pm
Mother: You haven’t answered me in days, and this is the first thing you tell me.
3:45 pm
Mother: Are you trying to hurt your mother?
3:45 pm
Yuto: last night i was raped
3:47 pm
Mother: No matter what you call yourself, men will always be able to sniff out a woman.
3:48 pm
Mother: I don’t know why you insist on pretending to be one. Men are no good.
3:48 pm
Mother: Especially Korean men. Come home and stop this nonsense.
3:49 pm
Yuto: im in so much pain mama
3:52 pm
Mother: This is God reminding you what you truly are. Have you learned your lesson now?
3:53 pm
Mother: Come home, Yuki. There’s no justice to be had there.
3:58 pm
Mother: I’ll book you a plane ticket.
4:19 pm
Mother: I wish you would stop hurting your mother, Yuki.
5:32 pm