Chapter Text
4. The time James tried to set Juhoon up and Martin nearly lost his shit
“Where's Jju?” Martin asks, looking left and right in the crowded, bustling backstage. The backstage of music shows is always chaotic, a mess of all kinds of staff and idols alike rushing to their respective stations. James is squeezed next to him in the pandemonium, his body twisting left and right to avoid the onslaught of people. Overhead, Martin faintly registers someone calling for the next group–&Team sunbaenim, apparently, to prepare for stage.
James thinks Martin looking for Juhoon makes for a funny sight, akin to a deer in headlights moreso with his makeup and permed hair falling in soft curls framing his face.
“Where even is our staff,” Martin is asking, squinting at a faraway sign that looks like everything but the word CORTIS. Anyways, James wouldn't know better. The whole team knows he's blinder than a bat without his glasses.
They'd gotten separated from the team after a rushed performance, the apologetic staff hurrying them on while saying that the show was already running late and there were still multiple groups to go. James and Martin had slowed down at a hallway intersection to let another group pass, but when the flurry of makeup noonas, cameramen and coordination crew finally left the hallway clear, the members were already no where to be seen. So that's how they ended up wandering the space like homeless orphans.
“You're the tall one, you tell me,” James quips, holding onto Martin's arms from the back and manoeuvring him like a human telescope. “Tell me what you see in the northeast direction.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“Northeast means around your 3 o’clock, stupid.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Martin retorts, his eyes roving over the crowd. “Still no trace, though.” He pauses. “You know what, I do see something. I see Hueningkai hyung trying to give Soobin hyung a fat smooch.”
Now it's James's turn to stop in his tracks. “Are you fucking with me or what,” he asks, shrugging when Martin shakes his head. “Sure, I guess. That's on brand for them,” he mutters, then straightens up. “That still doesn't help us though. Let's go another way.”
“We have to find them soon,” Martin stresses, clutching onto the hem of James's shirt like a lost puppy as James physically creates a way out of the sea of people. “What's all this height for if you can't even make it out of a crowd?” James grumbles. Martin pinches the back of his neck in retaliation.
They finally reach a random doorway after James's valiant efforts. “Oh,” James says, in a relieved tone. “There's Juhoon.”
“Jju? Where?” Martin exclaims excitedly, suddenly cheerful at the prospect of reuniting with his boyfriend. He sees the head of fluffy brown hair first; the exact hairstyle that had half the staff cooing and fawning over him much to Juhoon's embarrassment. Martin couldn't blame them. He himself was only barely restrained from pouncing on his adorable boyfriend. Juhoon had looked especially cute and soft with his freshly permed hair, and after the performance, Martin couldn't help but mourn a bit that the hair was only temporary. Maybe he'd bring it up in conversation later.
He sees the familiar outline of a small face, prominent nose, and plush lips, a smile already forming on his lips as he takes a step into the room. Then he sees who Juhoon is talking to, and he stills, smile dropping instantly.
A male idol from another group is chatting with Juhoon. No, this isn't the problem. Martin isn't one of those overly possessive boyfriends that prohibited their partners from having friends– that's just outright creepy and weird. No, the elephant in the room was that the guy was blatantly flirting with Juhoon. His Jju. What the fuck?
The guy was leaning his person way too far into Juhoon's personal space, and even from a distance Martin could see that he was clearly chatting Juhoon up. He was even smirking flirtatiously. Martin thought he looked stupid.
“Oh, that's cute,” James commented. “Maybe Juhoon's going to get himself a little boyfriend.”
Martin turned around so fast he got whiplash. “What the fuck do you mean, boyfriend?” The horror in his voice was thinly concealed.
James raises his eyebrows. “Woah, calm down, man,” he elaborated, “they could keep in under wraps and stuff like that. Lots of idols date nowadays,” he continued like he was talking about the weather, completely unaware of Martin about to have a breakdown next to him. “Just warn him a bit about scandals and you'll be fine.”
The guy’s lips move again, and this time, Martin sees Juhoon laugh. It's a small smile, but Martin swears he almost gets a heart attack there and then.
“What do you mean, boyfriend,” Martin seethes, “I am his damn boyfriend!”
“You are?” James questions in surprise, but Martin is already stalking towards his lovely boyfriend and the terrible homewrecker.
“Hey, Jju,” Martin says in the most casual tone he can muster, draping an arm over his shoulders. “Who's your friend?” He tries to ignore the vein twitching in his neck.
“Hi, babe,” Juhoon replies, huffing out a laugh, “This is Tomoya, from NEXZ. Do you know them? They're a JYP group.”
“That's cool,” Martin grits out, “did you meet him today?”
“Yeah, they're waiting for their performance, and Tomoya came over to get to know me more,” Juhoon smiles. “He even complimented my look today. Isn't he nice?”
“Yeah, he is,” Martin says in a strained voice. “Hello,” he greets, extending his hand for a handshake. “I'm Martin, his boyfriend,” placing a bit of extra emphasis on the last word.
If the guy's face could get any paler under all the makeup, it just did. Serves him right, Martin thinks grimly. “Nice to meet you,” Tomoya stammers, looking like he's two seconds away from bolting from the room. He meets Martin's handshake, and Martin can't help the urge to squeeze just a tad harder than usual.
Tomoya pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I think my manager is calling me back,” he says nervously, retreating backwards as he waves to them.
“Bye,” Juhoon calls out, but Tomoya is already halfway out the door, not even sparing another glance.
As soon as Tomoya’s figure is no longer in sight, Juhoon turns on Martin, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “What was that? You've never introduced yourself as my boyfriend before,” he questions.
“Babe,” Martin whimpers, voice pained. “He was flirting with you! I think I even saw two of the makeup noonas gossiping and pointing at the two of you.”
Realization dawns on Juhoon's face, and he colors, cheeks turning a flushed pink. Cute as fuck, but Martin's heart is still pounding a thousand beats per minute. “Oh,” he says meekly. “So that's what it was. I thought he was being nice when he kept complimenting me.”
Martin blanches. “He kept on WHAT?” Oh, god.
He falls onto the couch next to them, pulling Juhoon along with him. “Jju, my heart is really, really fragile, and I'd rather we get through our 7 years before it fails on me,” he moans, hugging Juhoon's waist tightly.
Juhoon just laughs at him. Half his body on Martin's lap, he twists around to meet Martin's eyes, whose facial expression looks like someone just kicked his newborn puppy. “You'll live,” he teases, booping Martin's nose cheekily. “I can't believe you got jealous. Is this a first?”
“I don't care if it's a first,” Martin sniffs. “I'm sad now,” he announces. “I need kisses to feel better.” He holds his arms out like a petulant child, lips pouted. Juhoon watches this 190cm tall giraffe, leader of one of the most promising rookie boy groups, make grabby hands at him, and he feels inexplicably fond.
They're still in the spare room, where other staff are definitely present despite pretending to not see them, so he slaps Martin's hands away gently. “Not here,” he mutters, face aflame. Out the corner of his eye, he spots one of the makeup noonas ducking behind a screen, giggling.
“Nooooo,” Martin whines, but he puts his arms down. Juhoon settles into the couch next to him, swinging one leg over Martin's. Then, quick as a flash, he sits up and gives Martin a small peck on the cheek. “A compromise,” he tells him, secretly relishing in the way Martin's face heats up instantly.
“Never, ever kiss in front of me again,” James calls, fake-gagging extra obnoxiously. The both of them startle, leaning away from each other instinctively before remembering James already knows, or is supposed to know, about their relationship.
“So d'you think this is counted as gradual acceptance or nah,” Martin whispers to Juhoon, although James has somehow managed to conk out on the other couch in record time literally seconds after he called their pda out.
Juhoon watches James with a pensive look on his face. “Eh, maybe.”
5. The time Martin basically screamed it to the whole world
After long, gruelling days of dance practice, songwriting and choreo brainstorming, it was finally time for the most anticipated days of the week: the weekend (Not the artist). It’d only been five days, but it’d felt more like five years locked in a dingy room with shitty Wi-Fi and depressing lighting to all of them. If they had to practice one more choreo again, Martin was going to rip his hair out and parachute off the hybe building. He swears he even caught Keonho and James searching up mental institution recommendations on the company computer.
So then, when the five of them were all lying on different places in the living room after a coma-inducing dinner (re: Keonho behind the TV, Seonghyeon half-off the couch, Martin and Juhoon curled up on the floor, and James on top of the dining table), Keonho raised the excellent idea of going out the next day, which was an off day. Oh, joy.
Everyone agreed, because why not? Even idols had to touch grass. In fact, they should probably be touching grass more than the average person with the way they were basically chained to the company during preparation periods, Martin thought, It was the law of photosynthesis or something. He’d have to ask Juhoon later.
“Let's go thrifting tomorrow," Keonho mumbles, wiggling further into the gap between the wall and the TV cabinet, much resembling those cave divers that go on treacherous expeditions and slip into cave crevices thinner than your asscrack like they don't have a wife and kids at home.
From the couch, Seonghyeon snores in response.
-
It's a sunny, blue sky kind of day, which does wonders in boosting everyone's moods. In the middle of winter, it's still cold, but it's not the type that sinks into your bones and bites at your skin mercilessly. It's the kind that leaves your cheeks rosy and air crisp. The sweet smell of freshly made hotteok wafts through the streets, which has James demanding all of them get some first.
Holding a piece of steaming hotteok, James licks his sugar-sticky finger. He looks like an overgrown child in his puffer jacket zipped up to his chin, Juhoon thinks. “Alright,” James says, glancing between them, “how are we gonna split up–”
“Actually,” Martin interrupts loudly, “Me and my boyfriend,” he places heavy emphasis on the boyfriend, then decides once isn't enough, “my BOYFRIEND, mind you, are going to shop TOGETHER, AS A COUPLE, in PUBLIC.” The decibel number at which he's speaking is enough to turn a few pedestrian heads, but Martin doesn't care.
Keonho gapes at him. And if that wasn't enough, Martin barrels on, “We're going to go on our cute, ROMANTIC DATE, where we'll be KISSING. ON THE MOUTH. GOODBYE.” Then he catches Juhoon's hand and starts dragging him off in the opposite direction.
For a few long seconds, no one speaks. James is frozen mid-bite. Seonghyeon has both his eyebrows raised.
“Soooo, are we believing it now?” Keonho asks slowly, stunned.
No one answers.
Amused at his boyfriend’s antics, Juhoon lets himself be pulled along the street, hooking an arm around Martin's. He doesn't spare a second glance back at the rest of the guys. His brain supplying images of their shocking faces is enough for wear.
“You're ridiculous,” Juhoon laughs, shaking his head.
“Yeah, well,” Martin says, and even though Juhoon can't see his face, he knows there's a shit eating grin on there right now. “I felt like really drilling the point in.”
He glances at Juhoon, like he can't bear to hold eye contact for long. “You love it, though,” he smirks triumphantly.
“Unfortunately,” Juhoon rolls his eyes, though he fails at holding in the smile forming on his lips.
Their first stop is a new thrift store Juhoon has been wanting to go to for a while. The vintage shop is a quaint, cozy space, racks upon racks of clothes framing the shop's walls so closely you can barely see the striped wallpaper. Martin doesn't fail to catch the way Juhoon's eyes lit up at the sight, akin to a child in a candy shop. Kissing in public would be inappropriate, however much Martin wants to, so he settles for squeezing Juhoon's hand lightly, terribly endeared.
After a little more than an hour, though, Juhoon is feeling less endeared and more exasperated.
“We've been in here forever,” he tells Martin, “please just make a damn decision.”
Martin shushes him. He's stooped over one of the bottom racks, holding a blue sweater in his hands. He hears Juhoon groan behind him, then continues critically analyzing the clothing he's about to have a headache over. It's a beige sweater that fits him like a glove(he tried it on earlier), with a little daisy embroidered where his heart would be, charged at a pretty fair price for a teenager.
It's kind of cute. But is it really? Is the fumes of unwashed vintage clothes getting to his brain? Maybe. It's about to drive Martin up the fucking walls.
He feels the inside of the sweater. It's a bit scratchy, stray bits of wool dragging on his palm. He needs an undershirt if he wants to wear this out. What if he forgets to wear one? What if he runs out of undershirts one day? This is so difficult. This isn't refundable. Does he actually need it?
“Yes,” Juhoon groans like the telepath he is. Martin yells. “Just buy the damn sweater. It's even on sale. I can buy it for you, for Christ's sake. If we stay in this shop for any longer, I'm going to kill myself and write my death note in front of you.”
Martin doesn't want Juhoon to die, but he also has a disharmonious sense of self preservation and social awareness, so he looks up at Juhoon and asks, “What if it doesn't look good on me after we get home? You know how scammy the lighting of clothing stores are.”
“It's going to look good on you,” Juhoon sighs, putting two fingers to his temples. “Everything looks good on you.”
“Yeah, but what if you're just saying that because we're entangled?"
“First, we can rework it into something better with the fabric if you really hate it that much later, and Second, never call dating an entanglement ever again.”
“Same difference.”
The start of a murderous glint is burgeoning in Juhoon's eyes, so Martin takes the hint and gathers the sweater in his arms, and heads to the counter to pay. Juhoon stands by the door, looking at his phone with one hand. A shopping bag identical to the one the shopkeeper is handing to Martin hangs by his side. He's tapping his foot, unaware, and Martin can sense the mild annoyance radiating even if Juhoon himself doesn't realise it. Suddenly, he feels a bit bad.
The cashier rings up the sweater. Notes rustle and coins clink in Martin's hand as he pays the cashier hastily and mumbles out a “thanks”. Bag in hand, he crosses the small space in four long strides, reaching Juhoon.
“I'm done,” Martin says as he slides his hand into Juhoon's, and they step out of the shop.
Juhoon side eyes him rather dismissively. He sniffs once—seasonal allergies, and stares intently at the stoplight in front of them. Martin knows immediately what this is all about.
“Aw, baby,” Martin croons, letting go of Juhoon's hand to link their arms together. “I’m sorry for taking so long. Forgive me?”
In the time that Juhoon doesn't respond, the light has turned green. They start walking, their steps falling in tandem as Martin matches the rhythm. Left, right, left, right. He holds onto Juhoon's arm, feeling leather under his fingertips.
“Why,” Juhoon says blandly, and Martin perks up. A response, finally.
“Because I love you,” Martin says easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Juhoon pauses in step next to him, though he regains his pace quickly.
Silence again. Martin turns to look at him, and what he sees is nothing short of beautiful, he thinks. Juhoon's cheeks are warm, pink dusting across his features and climbing down his neck before disappearing behind his checkered scarf. His expression is still indignant, albeit wavering, like he can't let himself give in so easily. “Forgive me,” Martin repeats, coaxing, and he leans down to peck the corner of his eye.
Juhoon tries for put upon and misses by a mile. “No,” his mouth says, but the upward curve of his lips is evident. Martin feels Juhoon's grip on his arm tighten, and he grins.
They browse around a few more vintage shops on the streets, scrutinizing pieces of clothing like fashion professionals instead of teenage idols. “The cut on this shirt is so vulgar,” Juhoon notes, in one of the stores, while Martin comments on the structural harmony of a cardigan.
At some point of time, they'd migrated onto the street for food.
“I'm so hungry, my stomach is sticking to my back,” Martin moans, hunched over. “And it's cold. Why is it cold? This sucks balls.”
“Then get hot food,” Juhoon tells him, pulling him along the street. “Look, I see a fish cake soup stall.”
The time needed for Martin to recuperate from his little fit should honestly be considered a miracle of science, because he jumps up so fast at the mention of fish cakes Juhoon yells in surprise.
“Stop scaring me,” Juhoon scolds, but he lets himself get dragged towards the fishcake stall by a overenthusiastic Martin anyways.
“Should we get one or two,” Martin whispers, the both of them now queueing in the short line for fish cakes.
“Why are you whispering? Just get one,” Juhoon answers, in a normal voice. “I want to get something else later.”
“Okay,” Martin whispers back, just to be obnoxious.
The line dwindles down relatively quickly, and then it's their turn to order. Martin gets one cup of fish cakes for the both of them, even remembering to ask for extra soup for Juhoon. He makes small talk with the stall owner while Juhoon takes the steaming cup in his hands.
Food acquired, they stroll down the street. Juhoon sips at the soup, listening to Martin talk about the blister he was sure he had on his foot even though he hadn't looked. Where was the previous hunger he was ranting about? Juhoon doesn't know.
“And I swear to god, we walked so much today I just know there's a blister the size of freaking China on my left–”
“Here,” Juhoon interrupts, drawing a stick of fishcake out, hoping to shut Martin up for a few minutes. However, he unfortunately steps on a piece of bumpy, deformed land at this exact moment, and he stumbles, spilling some hot soup on the hand holding the cup.
“Aish,” he mutters, intending to brush it off and move on, but a certain someone has other plans. Martin shrieks.
“Oh my god!” Martin all but screeches, immediately taking the cup from Juhoon and putting it on a fire hydrant that was conveniently located right next to his ass. “Jju, holy fuck! Are you okay?” He brings Juhoon's hand up to his face to inspect with a worried expression, turning it left and right.
“I'm fine,” Juhoon replies, amused at Martin's dramatics.
“Thank god,” Martin breathes, whipping around to give the innocent cup of fishcakes the evil eye. He doesn't stop holding Juhoon's hand, Juhoon notes, his fingers dancing over the back of his hand, the skin over his knuckles, pinkened by the cold. It makes for a rather funny sight; Martin's hands, much larger than his own, cradling his hand like it’s something fragile, something precious.
The cold air has turned harsh and relentless. Martin's hand is rough with calluses, but his touch is gentle, delicate–personally, Juhoon thinks it's the warmest he's ever felt.
+1 The time they finally believed it (to absolutely no one's pleasure)
Juhoon is starting to deeply regret agreeing to come with Martin to the studio. After their group dance practice, they'd had the choice to either do vocal training or have some time to work on new tracks in the studio. To Juhoon's surprise, the three of them had chosen vocal training, even James, who once bitched for three hours straight about how horrible his session was. Like, actually three hours straight. Juhoon had been floored at the amount of stamina James's vocal chords still contained after his apparently disastrous session.
At the time hearing that the three of them were choosing vocals, while Martin picked being in the studio to absolutely no one's surprise, Juhoon had secretly delighted in getting to have some alone time with his boyfriend on company hours. So he'd pretended to hesitate between vocals and track-making for good measure, before picking studio time innocently.
Now, though? Juhoon seriously doubts his self-judgment and life decisions that had led up to this point. For the past few hours, Martin has become one with the producing software, throwing himself completely into whatever beat he has on. If Juhoon didn't know any better, he would've thought the computer was Martin's one true love with the way he was showering attention onto it.
“Fuck,” Martin swears, just as a massive fart sound blasts in surround sound in the studio. Wow, Juhoon notes. It even has reverb. “Wrong button,” Martin mutters, but his gaze is still lazered to the screen.
It's not like Juhoon doesn't like producing. He loves it too, though definitely not as much as Martin does. It's just that the way Martin has been screaming the lyric “got my stacks up and my swag on” into the mic non stop is really beginning to grate on Juhoon's nerve endings. He even started singing alternate voices for the lyric, including (but not limited to, Juhoon lost count) a poor mimicry of Mickey mouse’s squeak, a pretty decent rendition of death metal, and for some reason, opera singing with a note so high Juhoon covered his ears.
Guitar perched dangerously on his knee, Martin squints impatiently at the fluorescent screen, mouse clicking rapidly in succession to whatever sound pack he was layering.
Ugh, the voice in Juhoon’s head grumps. This wasn't how he thought this would go at all. He tips his head back on the office chair to stare up at the ceiling, his own tracks and remixes opened on his Macbook. At the very least, he thought there would be a bit more interaction. Some friendly banter here and there, sharing some thoughts on hopeful tracks, maybe even a few pecks on the cheek. But they're three hours in and there's been so little of everything Juhoon feels like he's searching for a drop of water in the damn Sahara.
It certainly doesn't help that Martin's big, veiny hands flying over the keyboard and playing chords on the guitar are giving Juhoon some music-unrelated thoughts. What? Juhoon's just a teenage boy after all. Sue him.
He tilts his head sideways on the headrest, shifting his gaze to his hyperfocused boyfriend. In the dim lighting of the studio, the glow from the computer screens illuminated Martin’s face. The light only served to outline his angular features sharply, like his tall, prominent nose and defined jawline. Juhoon wets his lips unconsciously, fingers drumming on the handrests, watching Martin’s eyebrows knit together as he figures out a chord progression.
Juhoon can’t take it anymore. He’s bored out of his wits. “Martin,” Juhoon calls out, though he’s really only half-expecting a response. Doesn’t matter. Martin is going to turn his attention on him soon enough.
More sounds of buttons pressing and random notes.
Sighing, Juhoon gets up from his chair, feeling the vertebrae in his back pop. Fuck it, he decides, and steps next to Martin’s chair. Then, facing Martin, he swings one leg over Martin’s thighs, and plants himself right in his lap, thanking his lucky stars Martin’s chair doesn’t have pesky armrests to get in the way.
Martin’s reaction is so slight, blink and you miss it. He merely leans forward and continues working on his track, though he does bring a hand away from his setup to curl around Juhoon’s waist. A quarter to success, despite the underwhelming reception, Juhoon muses. Guess I have to crank it up a notch.
Face nuzzled against Martin’s neck, he starts pressing kisses onto his skin, bringing his arms to wrap around his shoulders, He pauses to inhale deeply, taking in the comforting scent of Martin’s pine-scented perfume and washing powder lingering on his sweater,
“Jju,” Martin says absentmindedly, fingers stroking Juhoon’s waist lightly. “What’s up?”
Juhoon knows his eyes are still trained on the screen, so he forgoes a response and hums into the curve of Martin’s neck instead, sending vibrations across his now flushed skin. He’s so predictable, Juhoon thinks, rolling his eyes where he knows Martin can’t see him. But also oblivious as hell. No wonder our members are like this, the voice in his head laughs. Birds of a feather flock together.
He shifts his hips forward to properly straddle Martin, smirking at the way Martin’s breath hitches unknowingly. Face still buried in Martin’s sweater, Juhoon starts discreetly grinding his hips downwards into Martin’s crotch, suppressing a groan that nearly slips from his own lips from the liquid heat starting to pool in his lower belly.
Juhoon knows he’s close to finally breaking Martin out of his producer stupor, if the way he clears his throat and shifts restlessly in his chair is anything to go by. There’s also a unmistakable blush creeping up his neck, peeking out from his blue collar, and Juhoon grins.
Mouthing wetly at Martin’s neck, Juhoon nips at the delicate skin there, watching red marks bloom under his teeth, as he deliberately ignores the way Martin is flushing redder and redder, wondering how much more time it’ll take for Martin to snap.
Turns out, it only takes a few more minutes of subtle grinding for Martin to intervene. “Babe,” Martin says, voice trembling, putting his hands on Juhoon’s shoulders and pushing him away from his neck to look at his face. His eyes meet Juhoon’s lidded gaze, something akin to desperation pooling in his eyes. “You’re making it really hard to fo—mmph!”
“Fucking finally,” Juhoon breathes out, surging in to capture Martin’s lips in a searing kiss. He basks in the way Martin startles with a surprised sound, hands tightening around his waist instinctively before grasping sense of the situation and kissing back twice as fiercely. Martin swipes at the seam of his plush lips, licking into the wet cavern of his mouth as soon as Juhoon’s lips part. They make out for a while longer, until they’re both out of breath and break apart with a smack, panting heavily.
They kiss more, and at some point, Martin moves down to his neck, Juhoon tipping his neck back to give Martin more access to the smooth expanse of his blushing skin, licking and sucking. “What’s up with you today,” Juhoon hears Martin mumble, but he’s too turned on to care, so he just pushes Martin into his neck with a hand and enunciates his moans with harsh grinds into Martin’s lap, which Martin receives with a loud groan.
Suddenly, Martin stands up, hoisting Juhoon up with him, large hands supporting the backs of Juhoon’s thighs with a firm grip as Juhoon’s arms link behind Martin’s head with a gasp, caught off guard by the change in height. It’s over as soon as it started, though, when Martin places him on the wooden desk of the production studio. “Hahh,” Juhoon moans, mouthing at Martin’s lips at a leisurely pace while Martin slips his hands under Juhoon’s thin long sleeve, smoothing his palms over sensitive skin. He keens when Martin’s hands find their way to his chest, fondling the soft skin there.
—
“Are you guys done too? Manager just told us to order quickly in the group chat,” Seonghyeon says, waving his phone in the other two’s faces just to be annoying,
Swatting his phone away with a grimace, Keonho replies, “yeah, I put my order down already. Are we heading back now?”
“Yeah,” James affirms, tote bag dangling by his side. “But we need to go back together. Where’s Juhoon and Martin?”
“They’re in the studio, right? I remember they said they’re doing a producing session.”
“You’re right. Let’s go find them,” Keonho says, already turning to walk towards the lifts, with Seonghyeon and James following closely.
The three of them plod through the winding hallways of the HYBE building, turning endless corners until they finally see the light at the end of the tunnel—the “CORTIS” sign glowing a few feet away from them.
“Yay,” Keonho starts to cheer, before it's abruptly muffled by Seonghyeon clamping a hand over his mouth. “Shhhh,” he hisses, matching mischievous expressions on his and James's face. “We're going to scare them,” he grins evilly, rubbing his hands together while James nods solemnly behind him.
“You look like that Sonic the hedgehog meme right now, and it's extremely uncool,” Keonho points out, but he lowers his voice too. “If you're taking the blame for when hyung accidentally deletes a few tracks out of sheer fright, sure. I'm in.”
“Whatever,” James says, waving his hand vaguely. “Now everyone shut up, get on the floor, and pretend we're in a spy movie.”
Backs pressed against the wall, they begin their treacherous journey towards their production studio, with one shared goal in mind– to scare the everliving shit out of Martin. “Juhoon hyung’s too unbothered to be pranked,” Seonghyeon had argued. “If anything, he would join us in pranking Martin hyung.” (Joke’s on them, they were the ones about to receive the biggest shock of their careers.)
However, even as they creeped up to the waiting area outside the studio, with the egg shaped trashcan and all, the air was still eerily silent. Naught were the usual sounds of chaotic beats and experimental rhythms. Instead, only the faint looping of a melody could be heard through the soundproof door.
Is this the right room, James mouths to the maknaes, features scrunched up in confusion.
Crouched at the door, Seonghyeon looks at James, nodding as he points to the sign above their heads, despite his own doubt. “On three,” he whispers just loud enough for the three of them to hear. Three, two, one. James, with his hand on the door handle, pushes down and bodyslams the door, all of them bursting into the room at once.
“SURPRISE,” they shout, the word slowly dying down into nothing as their line of sight falls on the scene in front of them.
Juhoon sits on the studio table, his shirt hiked up to his armpits, arms draped over Martin's shoulders, a trail of crimson crawling down his back. His neck is no pretty sight either; a smattering of red marks littered unevenly on his pale skin, and at the base of his neck, a particularly nasty hickey is starting to fade into purple. His pants lay discarded on the floor, leaving him in his boxers.
Martin, red from the top of his head to probably each individual toe, is barely any better. His top is still on, but his jeans are unbuckled, falling down mid-thigh as he stands in between Juhoon's legs. Contrary to Juhoon's hickeyed neck, there are bite marks on his own.
Keonho screams.
In fact, his scream is so shrill, someone from the studio a few doors down yells back a very muffled “is everything okay”. Keonho would very much love to inform them that everything is NOT okay.
As soon as they'd uttered the words “surprise”, Seonghyeon had slapped his hands over his eyes and whimpered. James's eyes widened to the approximate size of saucers and his mouth dropped open, then he turned around just as fast and started scratching at the wall with his bitten down fingernails.
“What the fuck,” Juhoon says weakly, vocalising what every single person in the room was thinking right that moment.
“HOLY FUCK,” Keonho screeches, face aflame, “YOU’RE DATING. GOOD FOR YOU!”
“WE GET IT,” Seonghyeon cries, backing up blindly. “WE’RE LEAVING NOW.” His back hits the door with a thump, and he frantically releases a hand from his eyes to grope for the exit. James has not stopped muttering what the fucks from where he's now banging his head against the wall.
Keonho bolts from the room. Seonghyeon, with a hand still over his eyes, grips James's arm firmly and staggers out of the room in record time. James catches the handle on his way out, slamming the door with a force that conveyed his horror.
Silence.
“Kill me now,” Juhoon groans, burying his face into Martin's chest. Looking up, he laughs at Martin's face, which had somehow managed to surpass its usual shade of tomato red, and was now bordering on the edge of maroon. Juhoon presses his hand to Martin's chest to make sure his pulse was still intact.
“Oh my god,” Martin whispers, coming back to his senses. But after the initial shock of being barged in mid makeout session wore out, Martin bursts out in uncontrollable laughter, chest heaving. His eyes crinkle as he exclaims, “Did you see their faces? Seonghyeon looked like he just saw the ghosts of his enemies from his last 20 lives!”
Rolling his eyes, Juhoon smacks Martin's chest as he laughs, though he's also smiling. “You're insufferable,” he says, even as he makes no move to re-clothe himself.
“Yeah, well,” Martin grins, pulling Juhoon closer, “at least they believe it now.”
“They literally saw us,” Juhoon sighs.
Humming, Martin leans forward to kiss the corner of Juhoon's lips, then pulls back slightly to look Juhoon in the eye. “You know, when they first came in, I was mortified,” he confesses, “but I don't really have anything to be embarrassed about, do I?” He gestures at Juhoon in a full-body motion. “Beautiful boyfriend.”
“You sap,” Juhoon tells him, even though he feels his ears heating up even more.
“Sure I am,” Martin accepts, then fiddles with a few stray threads on Juhoon's shirt, a thoughtful look in his eyes that Juhoon isn't sure he's going to appreciate. “So,” he murmurs, “since they've all been sufficiently scared away,” he runs his hands over Juhoon's back, winking at him salaciously, “should we pick up where we left off?”
Juhoon doesn't entertain him with an answer, but it's also not a no, so Martin seizes the opportunity and goes for it.
“This is still embarrassing, by the way,” Juhoon laughs into Martin's lips. He doesn't sound very embarrassed at all, which Martin is gracious enough not to bring up.
“Whatever you say,” Martin breathes, enamoured.
—-
AFTERTHOUGHT
After they flee from the room, all 3 of them charge straight to the manager's desk and demand to be taken home. With a small detour to the store for some bleach and ice cream. Then they camp out on the couch with a tub of ice cream each and face masks waiting for Martin and Juhoon to come home just to chew them out like disappointed parents.
“I better see you both with ten gallons of cleaning supplies in that studio tomorrow.”
“Ugh, fine.”
In the end, Martin cleans the whole studio by himself while Juhoon lounges on the couch like a princess.