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When Wooyoung kisses him, it tastes like acid– Like fighter fuel draining into a sewage pipe and an unsatisfying climax spilling down Yeosang’s throat because they’re too stressed to chase it properly. It’s sweat, overpriced water, bitter soy sauce, and Yeosang’s desperation on his tongue. Slick, smooth, horrible stinging spreading from his mouth, and then his back where he presses them together. Then his shoulders where his nails will leave indents; his thighs (hickeys and bruises); his hair (caresses and feather-light tugs); then his mouth again. Yeosang’s already burning alive by then, firecrackers dancing across his skin.
Wooyoung will say “Pretty,” and he won’t meet his eyes but his mouth will turn up at the corners, “You always have been though.”
When he says it, it doesn’t mean anything. When he says it again, his voice pitches down and, suddenly, it means something.
“San let me fuck his thighs earlier.” His voice would be throaty and strained, pressing himself flush against his chest and touching their foreheads together—an act of goodwill.
Hear me out before you run.
“And when I came I—” he’ll stutter because he’s telling the truth and the guilt’s eating him alive. He deserves it. Sometimes, Yeosang thinks he doesn’t. “I was thinking about you.”
Yeosang keeps his mouth shut and grinds down against Wooyoung’s thigh. They don’t have much time left. They both know it, and Wooyoung’s still acting like a manager isn’t knocking on every closet door looking for them. But Wooyoung has always been good at that. Acting.
“‘Sangie,” his breath is hot in the crook of his neck, and Yeosang shivers, slipping a hand into his boxers when it’s clear Wooyoug isn’t going to. Yeosang counts the minutes they have left till they get kicked out of the venue. “When we get back to the hotel, will you—” He tangles his fingers in his hair and yanks, letting his head thump back against the wall as he listens to Wooyoung’s breathy moan.
He doesn’t need to hear what Wooyoung will ask to know it’s something Hongjoong would disapprove of. The adrenaline makes them all reckless and stupidly horny, and once they fuck around in another country, the moment they step back into Korea the reality will kill them on impact. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to say something he’ll regret and get thrown off his A-game when they still have five states left. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to say something that’ll make him fall apart when they both know he doesn’t mean it. He thinks he does right now because Wooyoung is fucking stupid, but when he can’t follow through it’ll be Yeosang standing in Seonghwa’s doorway with tears running down his face.
“Young-ah,” Yeosang thrusts into the right circle of his hand faster, breath coming out in short little puffs, “Just… Could you? Please?”
“We don’t have time—”
“Wooyoung.” His face twists into something that will haunt his peace of mind for the next few nights, but he unzips Yeosang’s jeans the rest of the way and drops to his knees regardless. “Fuck. You’re so hot. On your knees like that—” He takes him down all the way and gags because he knows Yeosang likes it; he knows it’s the only way to get him to stop talking.
Wooyoung doesn’t like sucking dick. He eats ass like a whore and fucks San’s thighs whenever he’ll let him but something about acknowledging the fact that the second party does have a cock is like a slap across the face. It’s too real, maybe. Like waking up in a cold sweat, looking around, then realizing he can’t have what he wants and this is as close as he’ll get. Yeosang has similar problems with reality but his are a bit more shameful, they take the form of Wooyoung tied up in his bed and fucking him til he’s dumb or stubby fingers tugging at his cock and Wooyoung’s mouth pressing a smile against his own or something where Wooyoung cares a bit more than he does now. A lot more.
Yeosang spills down his throat with a choked-out “fuck” and thinks about the lines of San’s body as he catches his breath. Maybe there’s redemption for Wooyoung in Yeosang’s acts of goodwill. Isn’t it something that even when no one else can see, he’s still healing the gashes Wooyoung’s left in his wake? Maybe that’s the desperate little devil in his head trying to convince him Wooyoung’s a saint.
Yeosang doesn’t lift his head when he hears the door shut with a tiny click, and he hopes the next time he looks at San, he'll see right through his soul and dig out the truth. He hopes Wooyoung says something dick-ish to him later so he has a reason to avoid him. He hopes that later Wooyoung will press his ear to the hotel wall and listen to Yeosang fuck his frustration into one of their backup dancers. He hopes that he'll listen to them all night and regret something– anything at all.
Sometimes, he thinks that maybe Wooyoung doesn’t know what he’s doing, maybe he’s just desperate for physical touch like the rest of them are and Yeosang is the most plausible option next to San. But then he sees him with Yunho. He sees him with Mingi. He sees him with Seo Changbin and Choi Yeonjun and every person under the sun he can get into his bed and Yeosang thinks that, maybe, Wooyoung deserves whatever’s coming to him.