Work Text:
The dressing room door clicked shut a little too hard.
The noise from the concert still rang in their ears—cheers, chants, the echo of their names tangled together—but in here, it was suffocatingly quiet.
Juhoon stood in front of the mirror, wiping off his stage makeup with sharp, practiced motions. His expression was unreadable, cold in a way that didn’t match the adrenaline still rushing through him.
Behind him, Martin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.
“You didn’t have to push me away like that,” Martin finally said, voice low but tight.
Juhoon didn’t turn. “We were on stage.”
“I know where we were,” Martin snapped, taking a step forward. “I’m not stupid.”
“Then don’t act like it.” Juhoon tossed the used wipe onto the table, finally meeting Martin’s eyes through the mirror. “You got too close.”
A bitter laugh slipped out of Martin. “Too close?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You were literally holding my hand five minutes before that.”
“And I let go, didn’t I?” Juhoon shot back, sharper now. “Because people were watching.”
“They’re always watching, Juhoon.”
Silence.
That was the problem.
It sat heavy between them—every glance they couldn’t hold too long, every touch that had to look accidental, every moment they had to pretend meant nothing.
Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why does it feel like you’re ashamed of me?”
The words landed harder than Martin expected.
Juhoon froze.
For a second, something cracked—just a flicker—but it was there. Hurt. Real, unguarded.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said quietly.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Juhoon turned fully this time, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between them. His voice dropped, controlled but trembling at the edges.
“I’m protecting you.”
Martin’s expression didn’t soften. “From what? Fans? Rumors? Or your image?”
Juhoon exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding through. “From everything that comes after. You think they’ll just accept it? You think management won’t tear us apart the second they find out?”
“Maybe I’d rather get torn apart than feel like this,” Martin said, almost a whisper now. “Like I’m… nothing to you the second we step out there.”
Juhoon’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out—but he stopped himself.
That hurt more than if he hadn’t moved at all.
“You’re not nothing,” Juhoon said, softer now. “You’re the only thing that’s real.”
“Then act like it.”
Footsteps passed outside the door. Voices. Laughter. Too close.
Both of them instinctively stepped back.
The distance snapped into place like it had always been there.
Juhoon looked away first, grabbing a towel, forcing his expression back into something composed, untouchable. “We can’t do this here.”
Martin let out a hollow chuckle. “Yeah. We can’t do anything, right?”
Another silence. Heavier this time.
Juhoon didn’t answer.
Because he couldn’t.
And Martin didn’t wait for one.
He turned, opening the door just enough for the noise of the outside world to flood back in—loud, bright, fake.
Before stepping out, he paused, not looking back.
“On stage,” he said quietly, “at least I know where I stand.”
Then he left.
The door closed softer this time.
Juhoon stayed where he was, staring at his reflection—perfect, polished, exactly what everyone wanted.
—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
The ride back to the hotel was too quiet.
Keonho and Seonghyeon whispered to each other in the back, James half-asleep against the window, the manager scrolling through his phone—but Martin and Juhoon didn’t say a word.
Not even a glance.
By the time they reached the hotel, the tension hadn’t faded. It had settled—thick, heavy, unavoidable.
Room assignments were handed out quickly.
“Keonho, Seonghyeon—you two together. James, you’re with me,” the manager said, already halfway down the hall. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Martin, Juhoon—you share.”
A beat.
Neither of them reacted.
They just took the key.
—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
The room was… normal.
One bed. One bathroom. A soft yellow lamp casting a warm glow that felt completely out of place with the cold silence between them. A little too dim for their liking.
Martin shut the door behind them and leaned against it for a second, like he needed the support. Juhoon walked further in, setting his bag down by the chair, movements controlled, distant.
“Of course it’s one bed,” Martin muttered.
Neither of them said another word after that. They went about their own business, quiet, careful not to cross the invisible line that had existed between them for far too long.
Martin took the first shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the tension that clung to his skin. When he stepped out, he wore only his pants, the dim light catching the sharp line of his collarbones and the curve of his shoulders. Juhoon tried to ignore it and just run to the bathroom to freshen up.
A few minutes later, Juhoon emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a white bathrobe. The soft fabric did little to hide the tension coiled in his movements, the way his gaze immediately found Martin—lying on the bed in just his pants, the dim lamp casting shadows over his skin.
Juhoon paused at the edge of the bed, studying him. His lips curved slightly, a dangerous little smile that Martin recognized instantly. Without thinking, Martin’s heart hammered—and for the first time in hours, he stopped pretending he could play it cool.
Juhoon made the first move. Slowly, deliberately, hand brushing against Martin’s shoulder, leaning closer, just enough to test the line between them.
That was all Martin needed.
He shot up, practically on top of Juhoon, fingers tangling in the belt of his bathrobe, pulling him down. Their lips met in a collision of frustration and want, hard and desperate.
Juhoon tried to steady himself, to push back, but Martin was relentless, claiming him, pressing him down against the mattress. Every inch of hesitation melted under the intensity, every careful thought evaporating in the heat of the moment.
Martin’s hands moved with purpose, sliding from Juhoon’s shoulders to the small of his back, holding him close, controlling the rhythm now. Juhoon’s hands shot up to grip Martin’s arms, tugging him even closer, encouraging him, daring him to take the lead.
It was messy, it was urgent, it was everything they’d been holding back all night.
Juhoon had sparked it—but Martin was the one who took over, moving with a dominance that left no room for doubt. The world outside—the fans, the cameras, the stage—didn’t exist. There was only them, tangled together, breathing hard, and a tension that neither could—or wanted to—ignore.
Martin hovered over him, leaning down, whispering harshly against his ear, “You’re mine. You know that, right?”
Juhoon shivered, both from the words and the proximity, gripping him tighter. “Yeah… I know,” he murmured, voice low, almost broken under the weight of their desire.
And in that dimly lit hotel room, with one bed and no boundaries left between them, Martin fully took control—finally letting go of every ounce of restraint he’d held back.
Martin didn’t wait. His lips found Juhoon’s again, harsher this time, claiming and demanding, while his hands roamed with purpose—sliding under the bathrobe, gripping, pulling him impossibly close. Juhoon gasped, caught between resistance and surrender, but Martin didn’t give him the chance to think.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” Martin growled against his ear, teeth grazing his jaw. “Every look, every touch… I can’t stand it anymore.”
Juhoon shivered, pressing against him, trying to steady his breath, but the words, the heat, the sheer force of Martin on top of him made him lose his composure. “Martin… wait—” he started, but the protest died in a broken breath as Martin silenced him with a hard, searing kiss.
Their bodies pressed together, sheets twisted around them, every movement urgent, chaotic, messy in the best way. Juhoon tried to push, tried to regain control—but Martin was everywhere at once, hands, lips, weight, dominating the space and making it impossible to think clearly.
Juhoon’s hands gripped Martin’s shoulders, then slid down his back, pulling him closer, silently inviting him to take over entirely. And Martin did—not gentle, not careful, but deliberate, fierce, consuming.
He whispered again, low and rough, “I told you… you’re mine. No one else. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Juhoon’s breath caught, body arching instinctively toward him, unable to resist anymore. The tension they’d been holding all day, all night, spilled out in every brush of skin, every gasp, every desperate grip on the other.
Time blurred. There was no room for hesitation, no thought for consequences—just heat, closeness, and the undeniable truth that had been simmering between them since the stage.
Martin stayed on top, dominant but not careless, guiding Juhoon, claiming him, while Juhoon responded in kind—pushing, pulling, gasping, letting go of all restraint.
And when they finally stilled, tangled together, hearts racing, breaths uneven, the quiet that followed wasn’t awkward—it was full. Full of everything they’d been trying to ignore all day: want, need, and a dangerous kind of love that no one could see, but that consumed them completely.
For once, in that small hotel room, there were no rules. No image to protect. No stage to perform on.
Just them.
And Martin wasn’t letting go.
—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
In the next room, the silence didn’t last long either.
At first, it was just the faint sound of movement—bedsheets shifting, something bumping lightly against the wall.
Keonho, who had just flopped onto his bed, frowned slightly, glancing toward the shared wall.
“…Did you hear that?”
Seonghyeon, halfway through scrolling his phone, didn’t even look up. “It’s a hotel. People exist.”
Then—
A muffled thud.
A pause.
And something that definitely wasn’t just “people existing.”
Seonghyeon slowly lowered his phone.
Keonho blinked. “…Oh.”
Another sound. Lower. Closer. Harder to ignore.
They both froze.
For a solid five seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then Keonho leaned in slightly, whispering like the wall could hear him. “I knew it.”
Seonghyeon turned his head so slowly. “Don’t.”
“I knew they had something going on,” Keonho insisted under his breath, eyes wide like he’d just proven a lifelong theory. “The tension? The looks? The way Martin hyung stares—”
“Shut up,” Seonghyeon hissed, immediately grabbing a pillow and throwing it at his face.
“Do you want to die?”
Keonho yanked the pillow off, still whispering aggressively. “You’re hearing this too!”
“I’m not hearing anything,” Seonghyeon said flatly, already lying down and pulling his blanket up like this could spiritually remove him from the situation. “I am choosing not to hear anything.”
Another noise from the other side of the wall made them both go stiff again.
Keonho slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes even wider now.
Seonghyeon squeezed his eyes shut. “We better pretend this never happened,” he muttered. “If Juhoon hyung finds out we heard—”
“We’re dead,” Keonho finished immediately.
“Not even dead,” Seonghyeon corrected grimly. “Worse.”
A beat.
Keonho slowly nodded. “…Yeah. Worse.”
Silence fell again—but this time it was very intentional.
Seonghyeon reached over blindly and turned on some random TV channel, volume just loud enough to drown out the wall.
Keonho grabbed his other pillow and pressed it over his ear for extra safety.
Neither of them said another word.
Because some things—
Were definitely above their pay grade to acknowledge.