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There are so many stairs.
Jeongin swears under his breath as his vision swims and the flight of stairs under his feet waver, shimmering in and out of focus. They’d drawn lots for the rooms sometime around the fourth round of shots—Felix nuzzling aggressively into Changbin’s shoulder in triumph when they pulled the same room—and somehow Jeongin had ended up with the room at the very top of the house.
This house that had so many fucking stairs.
Their camera crew and staff had called it quits hours ago—sometime around Minho’s third low, warbling song about losing a one true love—and headed off to the adjoining house, leaving them all in the karaoke room.
“Someone save this ahjussi!” Hyunjin cried, hiccuping furiously as the song swelled into a crescendo and Minho’s volume climbed to an eardrum shattering peak as only Minho and Changbin’s voices could. “He keeps losing the same woman!”
Jisung burst out laughing and melted off the bench to land near Felix, still helplessly laughing while Minho bellowed on in the background.
Now, as he passes by an already snoring Jisung only to find another set of stairs, Jeongin thinks he should have cut himself off three drinks ago. It certainly would have made this trek easier.
His socked foot slips on the first step and he flails, hand grasping hopelessly for the banister before Chan’s hands close around his hips holding him steady. Because it is Chan. Jeongin doesn’t even have to turn to look—he can smell him. Instinctively knows where Chan is in any room they’re in together, even if Jeongin isn’t looking at him; could pick him out of a crowd of hundreds blindfolded and deafened if he had to.
“Careful,” Chan says and then his hands are gone as if they were never there in the first place and Jeongin’s skin tingles like a warning light. Come back, come-back comeback.
He has to bite back the immediate reaction to snatch Chan back, to yank him close and pin him up against the nearest wall and sink his canines into his neck until Chan melts into him, until he gives in, until he submits—
Jeongin shakes his head furiously to clear it, trying to knock the thought out of his head before it can form legs and break down the wall he’s painstakingly built in his mind—the wall that he doesn’t even think of letting himself cross, that denotes the line between before and after.
Before he presented. Before he’d woken up and the world had suddenly been saturated to a dazzling brightness. Before, when he was satisfied keeping his thoughts to himself, to playing his part, to being the good, obedient maknae. Before, when he didn’t spend most of his waking moments thinking about their stubborn, frustrating leader.
Versus what became his after. After realising he could now smell every shift in Chan’s mood, could flip him into purring bliss with a few fingers against his skin and a tongue under his neck, could lick into his mouth and taste his desire. After feeling the way Chan gave in for him, gave in for his knot, enveloped in the blistering warmth of his heat, his tacit submission, his pleasure at Jeongin being there, being his alpha.
Jeongin doesn’t let himself think about the after. Down that road lies nothing but frustration and annoyance and Jeongin’s not the type to hold his anger down, to pretend like nothing’s wrong when he’s pissed off. But there’s no use in pushing Chan because a confronted Chan either becomes impenetrable steel or turns into a salt pillar, crumbling into avoidance and guilty silence.
“You’re going to make yourself throw up,” Chan says quietly, when Jeongin shakes his head again, grimacing as his stomach roils and vision spins.
“I’m fine, hyung.” Jeongin finds the banister with his hand and clutches onto it, making his way up the rest of the stairs as fast as possible so Chan doesn’t touch him again. He can’t be held responsible for his actions if that happens.
The moonlight is pouring through the large window in the topmost room, illuminating the couch and bright checkered rug that take over the bulk of the space. Jeongin fumbles for the light and finds the door to their room for the night against the side wall, tucked under an awning.
There has to be some sort of irony in drawing lots for the only room in this four-story house that looks like a nest. Low ceilinged and small like a cavern, it’s illuminated by a warm yellow light, two thick comforters piled up by the foot of the bed, and a humidifier sitting on the bedside table.
Chan clatters up the stairs behind him and swears under his breath as he bumps into something, the thump startlingly loud in the house's quiet.
“Oh, shit,” he says, peering over Jeongin’s shoulder to look at the room. “That’s…”
Small. Cozy. It’s not impossibly tiny, Jeongin’s squeezed into smaller beds with his members for longer nights but he hasn’t been this close to Chan since…
A flashback: Chan’s glazed eyes, a rumble in the back of his throat, the taste of his skin under Jeongin’s tongue. His voice cracking every time he called Jeongin alpha, called him his. My alpha. Mine. Mineminemine.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Chan says decisively, shattering Jeongin’s dreamy memories. “You take the bed, Iyen-ah.”
He slides past Jeongin, somehow impressively, irritatingly not touching any part of him in the narrow doorway, to grab one of the comforters. When he makes to pass Jeongin again, Jeongin grabs his wrist before his brain even thinks about doing so. There’s a moment where Chan blinks at him and then looks down at his wrist in Jeongin’s hand and Jeongin does the same. His finger are wrapped around the jut of his pisiform. Then, Chan’s scent blooms violently and abruptly, thick and blunt and dark and Jeongin’s already muddled brain grows dizzier.
“Hyung,” he says, unsteady. Firm. “Sleep with me.”
Chan gapes at him and, maybe it’s the hopeful part of Jeongin, the delusional part, but he swears Chan looks tempted for a moment before he shakes his head.
“It’s best for both of us if I take the couch.”
“It’s freezing outside and it’ll only get colder later,” Jeongin argues. He hasn’t let go, keenly feels the pound of Chan’s pulse under his palm, and looks at their hands. Knows Chan notices him looking. “You don’t even have your padding.”
“I’ll go get it.”
“Hyung—”
“You know I don’t sleep well,” Chan says firmly, as if that will end the whole argument. His hand twitches in Jeongin’s hold. “I’ll just bother you the whole night.”
“You’ve always slept well with me,” Jeongin says quietly, meeting Chan’s eyes. They’re red and bloodshot from drinking, permanently exhausted from the last few months, the past year, really. “Every time you stay with me, you sleep through the night.”
Chan opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His scent is so thick. Jeongin’s mouth waters. He wants to lick Chan all over.
He tugs lightly at Chan’s hand. Tries to sound stronger, like the alpha he’s supposed to be. “Stay.”
Chan nods, and Jeongin lets go.
Only later does he realise that Chan had agreed without further argument. He wonders if Chan had noticed. If he realised that Jeongin hadn’t asked so much as told. Wonders if Chan himself realises what happened.
It’s a heady thought.
Lying next to a wood plank would be more comfortable, Jeongin thinks when they finally settle into bed, having plugged in their phones and turned off the light. He tells Chan so, because he’s trying to get in the habit of being blunt with Chan, trying to get both of them used to it, to this new dynamic that Chan seems determined to ignore.
Chan huffs a surprised laugh. “Sorry,” he says, shifting and pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Guilt bleeds into his tone right on schedule. “I told you I’m no good to sleep with.”
“You and I both know that’s a lie, hyung,” Jeongin says in exasperation. He turns to look at Chan, who’s lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Even in the dark of the room, illuminated by the warm gold glow of the humidifier, he can see Chan’s ear pinken. “It’s just me. Relax.”
Chan snorts. Open his mouth as if to tell Jeongin exactly how impossible that is and then shuts it again, saying nothing. Wriggles around a little more to pull the comforter up to his chin, and closes his eyes for a few, tense seconds before opening them again and moving again.
Jeongin’s patience snaps. He’s exhausted and weighed down from the alcohol in his system and it’s steadily growing warm in the room, under the covers, between their bodies. All he wants to do is drink in Chan’s scent and go to sleep. And make Chan do the same.
He reaches across the chaste foot of space between them, breaches the wall of after, of memories he doesn’t let himself think about to wrap an arm around Chan’s shoulder to drag him closer. Chan stiffens in surprise.
“Jeongin,” he starts, tone melting from shock into practiced severity. “We can’t—”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Jeongin hisses. “I just want you to sleep.”
He’s driven on instinct, on blooming irritation, on long burning frustration that’s been simmering since the morning after Chan’s heat and Chan refused to look him in the eye, stinking of guilt and fear and self loathing, and—buried under it all—sated pleasure, blissful joy. Even after Minho came to pick them up and take them back to the dorms, Chan avoided him, as if that would erase what they did. As if that would make Jeongin forget how it felt to have such unimaginable power and control coursing through him, chewing at his skull.
Jeongin pushes up onto his elbow, hovering close to Chan and licks a long stripe up his neck, pressing his tongue into the scent gland that sits behind his ear. He exhales into that spot and—like this pressed along the length of Chan’s side—he can feel every inch of Chan tense up.
His hand comes up to clutch at Jeongin’s hip—to hold him close or push him away, Jeongin doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He licks Chan’s neck again, squirrels his other hand out from under the covers to stroke over that sensitive gland, rubbing slow, hypnotic circles with the pads of his fingers and feels, all at once like a wave crashing over an unsuspecting shore, Chan abruptly, delightfully relax into the sheets.
Chan shakily inhales. His scent is swelling around them, like a tropical flower in the summer, clouding up Jeongin’s lungs. “Jeongin-ah.”
“I just want you to relax, hyung,” Jeongin mumbles, his own frustration vanishing at the smell, at Chan’s consent, his obvious acquiescence. “I won’t do anything, ‘swear.”
He noses closer, kisses the muscle in Chan’s neck that sticks out when he’s exerting himself. Licks him again and feels a rumble build in his throat as Chan melts into it, hand going loose on Jeongin’s hip, tilting his head to the side so Jeongin has more access, more surface area to lavish attention on.
“We—they said we can’t…” Chan breathes, the end of the sentence blurring into a blissful sigh. Jeongin slides closer, hand wandering down Chan’s side, teasing at the hem of his shirt, nudging it upwards so he can get at the warm skin underneath.
“No one’s going to know,” he mumbles. It’s a good thing their staff had all left before they’d drawn lots—there’s no chance they’d have been allowed to bunk together. “You can go to the couch in the morning before manager hyung comes, hyung. Stay with me right now.”
Chan hums, more placid and hazy than Jeongin’s ever seen him. Even in heat he was frantic in his pleasure, clawing at Jeongin’s sides, his shoulders, his arms. Jeongin doesn’t think Chan remembers that, how he sobbed through it, how desperate he was for Jeongin’s touch, his knot. He doesn’t think Chan would let him do this now if he did.
Chan turns his head and noses against Jeongin’s cheek, inhaling deeply, clearly drinking him in; then kisses Jeongin, just the corner of his mouth, taking him by surprise. Jeongin didn’t think Chan would initiate anything like this—not tonight at least—but he must be more relaxed than Jeongin realised.
“Hyung,” he murmurs, shivery with quiet happiness. Kisses Chan back. Gently. Chastely. Bares his canines so Chan can lick over them, into his mouth before drawing back and returning the favour. Kisses him again.
“Alpha,” Chan sighs. He loops an arm around Jeongin’s waist and drags him down, over the length of Chan’s front, strength surprising even this relaxed. “Like this.”
“Kay,” Jeongin agrees easily. He’s just giddy at the fact that Chan is asking him for something. That he’s still here, in Jeongin’s bed; his omega in his bed, scent blooming with pleasure and peace because of him. He noses down Chan’s cheek again, nips gently at his jaw, drags the hand that had been resting against his hip up, taking his shirt with it, hesitant and tentative.
“Yeah,” Chan sighs, answering the unasked question and Jeongin’s mouth waters when his shirt comes off, ruffling Chan’s curly hair, revealing the plane of his taut, warm skin. He nips at Chan’s collarbone, low enough so that it won’t be seen, dips lower, licks over his nipple, something warm and toothy clawing into his gut when he sees Chan’s stomach clench with it, his abs tightening. Bites the soft swell of his pecs. Kisses the hollow of his throat. Licks over the dip in his sternum.
Chan doesn’t let him linger for too long and drags him back up with firm hands to kiss Jeongin again, careful and sweet. Intent on not letting this go any further than it should. He tastes bittersweet, the waxy flavour of his lip balm, the beer from earlier in the night, the mint of his toothpaste.
He’s completely lax under Jeongin now, liquid contentment and soft purrs rumbling out from his ribs with every exhale. Jeongin slows down his breathing, matches his pace, twin breaths, tapering off into quiet purring. Chan’s scent is the thickest it’s ever been when Jeongin inhales and kisses his neck again. He can almost taste it in the air, that rich, earthy heaviness weighing his limbs down, melting down over Chan’s body and Jeongin’s own scent blooms out in response, taking over his senses.
He knows Chan feels it at the same time he does; his dick filling out in his thin pants, rubbing up against Chan’s stomach, just starting to leak. Throat clicking as he swallows.
Slowly, hazily Chan draws back. “We’re not going to do this, pup,” he mumbles. “Not tonight.”
Jeongin hums. He’s so close to sleep, despite the obvious desire. “Yeah,” he sighs. Slowly wriggles sideways, so he’s not draped fully over Chan’s front. Chan turns so they’re curled around each other, wrapped up in each other. He’s so content he could die in this moment. “G’night hyung.”
“Night, aegi,” Chan mumbles, mouth pressed to Jeongin’s jaw. Blissed out. His omega. Relaxed. At peace. Jeongin feels victorious, triumph ribboning sleepily down his spine.
Just as sleep is overtaking him, it pings in the recesses of Jeongin’s consciousness. Not tonight. Not tonight. NOT TONIGHT.
Jeongin slips off into his dreams with a smile lingering.