Work Text:
Sungchan: did u know oprahs on ozempic
Sungchan: also can i come over
A response plops up on the top of his phone in under ten seconds. Sungchan hopes he dies.
Sohee: no lol
And—well, okay. Sungchan pushes his phone under his pillow and tries to even out his breathing. He is so hard it hurts.
Eunseok has been fucking Anton for approximately twenty-five minutes and Sungchan really, really tried to just go to bed, put on an episode of his favorite podcast and everything, but… Anton is loud.
Whiny, in this throaty, out of breath way, just like when they played basketball with Chenle last week, nostrils flared and all flushed from the neck up, missing every single hoop because Anton isn’t very good at basketball even though he tries very hard.
Sungchan really can’t tell if Anton is even attempting to be quiet. The sound is muffled through the wall but it does just short of nothing to conceal the sound coming from the other room, a gargle here, a particularly hard thrust of skin on skin there. He imagines Anton’s face, smushed into a pillow, Anton covering his own mouth with sweaty palms, Anton sucking on Eunseok’s fingers to—
Yeah, this won’t do.
Sungchan: i guess i can always just kill myself
It isn’t like he has feelings for Anton.
Eunseok and Anton have been dating on-and-off for about three months. On, because Eunseok might be a little in love with Anton, and off, because he’s shit at relationships. Sungchan doesn’t get what keeps Anton coming back.
Actually—maybe it’s the sex. Sungchan turns on his back and stares at the ceiling. He never minded his and Eunseok’s rooms being attached to one another. Aside from his short… fling with Wonbin, that quickly turned into something way weird, and ultimately ended in Eunseok swearing off art majors for good, his best friend slash roommate doesn’t have many guests over. Then he met Anton. Who just also happens to be an art major.
Anton just keeps coming. In more than one sense. Sungchan runs a rough hand over his face. He really needs to sleep. It’s good for them, he thinks. Good for Eunseok; he’s perpetually tense and kind of a douchebag to anyone that isn’t Anton or Sohee and, for the most part, Sungchan. Good for Anton, too, it seems.
Maybe Anton is a little bit in love with Eunseok as well.
Sungchan bats at the metaphorical clouds of his graphic imagination. Anton’s face, flushed, scrunched up in pleasure. The glistening skin of his collarbones. His teeth burrowing into the flesh of Eunseok’s throat, leaving him covered in bruises for Sungchan to glare at in the morning.
Since he super doesn’t have feelings for Anton, he super doesn’t get jealous. This is about him not getting enough rest to be a full-functioning college student. He’s less than three years away from his prefrontal cortex fully developing, he needs eight hours of sleep a night! He isn’t fifteen anymore!
Sungchan: please pelase please pleaseplease ㅠㅠㅠ
Sohee leaves him on delivered but Sungchan has his Twitter notifs on, so he can see Sohee reposting Splatoon fanart right this second. It’s not even 1 AM. He didn’t even feel like going over to Sohee’s place anyway. It’s a half hour away and Sungchan’s shit at remembering directions when Eunseok isn’t next to him, patiently guiding him.
He thinks about jerking off but it’s awkward and he’d feel guilty. Besides, he can hear Eunseok, too, his low grunts, unfairly steady. Sungchan hates that Eunseok seems to know what he’s doing and that he has good stamina.
He could go to the bathroom to work through it under the guise of a spontaneous, not at all suspicious middle-of-the-night-shower, but they might still be at it when he comes back and the problem wouldn’t be solved.
Fine. He’s a little bit jealous. Sungchan is a bad liar, most of all to himself. His dick hurts and his heart hurts more and as much as he thinks Eunseok is seriously somewhat cool or whatever, he really doesn’t get what would be appealing about him in a romantic sense, especially to someone like Anton.
Anton is so… everything. He’s kind of, like, alternative and really into photography and fashion and he painted Sungchan’s nails this deep shade of violet once, all concentrated and quiet, gently holding onto Sungchan’s hand because he wouldn’t stop fidgeting because they were high and he could hear Eunseok imitating Sohee imitating Cher from the bathroom.
Sungchan had eventually just stared at the top of his head, his vampy-red hair, shiny under the shy glow of Eunseok’s and Sungchan’s living room light.
Another time, Sungchan ran into Anton bleaching his eyebrows in their bathroom, hair pushed up with a pale-pink, fluffy headband. He was only wearing boxers and one of Sungchan’s old gym shirts that must’ve ended up in Eunseok’s closet, its collar loose, cruel in how it hung off Anton’s love-bitten shoulder.
Sungchan swears he can hear Eunseok’s bed creaking. Anton lets out a particularly high-pitched moan that breaks into something coarse, something guttural. Jesus Christ. Sungchan’s fingers ghost over the waistband of his sweats. He’s tenting them now, the head of his dick poking into the already damp fabric as if to rip through it like the Hulk.
If only he could forget all about Eunseok’s existence for only a minute or two. That’d be enough. He just—Anton sounds so beautifully raw. He can’t help it.
I’ll clean this up, Anton had told him, gesturing to the mess of Q-tips and paper tissues in the sink, the edges of his words singed with worry. Sungchan had carefully pushed him to the side by knocking their hips together, snorting dismissively, reaching for his toothbrush. Like he’d mind. Like he wouldn’t let Anton set fire to his car.
He isn’t sure but he thinks, judging by the growl of I’m gonna come I’m gonna—, Eunseok might’ve orgasmed.
Which. Good! But so much for stamina. He can’t properly hear them over the sound of his own heart hammering in his chest anymore. He still hasn’t touched himself, hasn’t dared to. His arousal surges through him like bouts of electricity.
Eunseok’s door opens—it always scrapes over the terribly installed carpet of his room, dull and yet loud enough to be grating in the silence of the night. Sungchan sits up, feeling short of breath. His head is spinning.
It’s Anton. It has to be Anton. Sungchan wants it to be Anton. When his phone vibrates against the mattress, he flinches. The door closes quietly, timidly. It’s Anton, it’s Anton, it’s Anton.
Eunseok: Sorry if u heard that dawg
Sungchan has to take a moment. He counts thirty-one of his heartbeats until he feels like he can move without doing something he’ll regret.
His room is mostly dark, so he uses the screen of his phone like a flashlight, frantically looking for the hoodie he was wearing earlier. His boner feels hot against his stomach—he’s tucked it behind his waistband, hoping to hide it well enough until he gets a grip and it softens. He needs to talk to Anton.
Unlike Eunseok’s door, his opens outwardly, into the hallway, which would mean it could be quiet if it weren’t for the nasty creak of the hinges. Sungchan winces at the noise, closing his eyes in anticipation for a second but Eunseok doesn’t seem to budge. Sungchan can hear the tinny sound of some short streaming from his roommate’s room. He tries to ignore the familiar itch of anger, sitting right under his skin.
He forgot to put on socks. The floorboards are cold against his bare feet. Before he enters the kitchen, he finally pulls his hoodie over his shirt, leaving the hood up, peaking around the corner like an intruder in his own flat.
Anton’s front is basked in the harsh lighting of the refrigerator and he’s violently gasping into an open carton of apple juice—the expensive one Sungchan bought yesterday morning. (Sungchan doesn’t like apple juice. Eunseok only drinks caffeinated beverages.)
He looks worn out, his hair disheveled like it’d been tugged at, his cheeks visibly flushed even from the distance between them. Sungchan swallows thickly and rubs the inner corners of his eyes to check for gunk. He’s fine. He’s also not that hard anymore.
When he creeps out of the safety of the hallway’s shadows, Anton’s head shoots around with wide eyes, lips parted. Sungchan raises his hands in what he hopes is a disarming manner.
“Just me. Hi.”
“Oh. Hi, Sungchan.”
Anton blinks at him. He isn’t hiding his disappointment and Sungchan momentarily feels incredibly stupid for having come out to—to what exactly? He wishes he didn’t need to scramble for an excuse to want to see Anton.
They don’t say anything for an instant and Anton goes back to chugging apple juice. Sungchan worries that he’ll feel sick. He said before that even though he loves sweet drinks, they’re only to be consumed in moderation or he’ll get nauseated. Sungchan stays quiet. He’s just kind of leaning against the door frame, having stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket to conceal his now-semi as best as possible.
Anton is only wearing an oversized BoJack t-shirt and checkered pajama pants, though he doesn’t look cold in the slightest. Even the back of his neck and the skin of his arms is blush-toned. Sungchan hates himself.
“Was I too—” Anton frowns at the carton lid in his hand, turning it in between his fingers. “Did we keep you up?”
He isn’t looking at Sungchan and Sungchan isn’t sure whether to be grateful for it. He doesn’t know what to say. Yes, Anton had been loud. Anton is always loud when Eunseok is fucking him.
Thing is—aside from those times, Anton is very quiet. When he’s sitting criss-cross on their couch, listening to Eunseok’s Property Brothers commentary and eating sweet-and-spicy fried chicken. When he’s doing his makeup in the bathroom, using his ring finger to purposely smudge his black eyeshadow, carefully dotting carmine-red on his plush lips, to give them some color. When he’s reading non-fiction at the kitchen table, letting Sungchan do his assignments across from him because he’s always been more productive in the presence of someone else.
So, Sungchan can’t tell him. Sungchan also can’t really be angry at Eunseok, considering he’s the only one to get Anton to let go of his inhibitions. Sungchan can’t be angry. That wouldn’t be fair. All he has is his green-eyed monster, and he’s too decent of a person to let Anton fall victim to that.
Sungchan shakes his head.
“You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.” Anton sounds doubtful, a crease appearing between his white brows. Sungchan seriously thinks Anton could rock anything. He looks so pretty like this, bare-faced, sweat-drenched hair drying in spikes on his nape.
Anton quietly screws shut the carton and puts it back in the fridge but doesn’t move to close it. It’s the only source of light right now. Sungchan tries a smile.
“Got too into my podcast. Did you know Oprah’s on Ozempic?”
That gets a disbelieving chuckle out of Anton. Score. Sungchan pushes himself off the door frame and pads over to the kitchen counter, lamely leaning against that instead. His throat feels kind of dry—he reaches up to get out a glass and sets it down with a biting clank.
He nods in the direction of the fridge. Anton stares at him, unmoving. It takes him a second to understand.
“Oh, you—use your words, man,” Anton scolds as he gets out the carton again, quickly unscrewing it and closing the gap between them with two little steps. He’s a little wobbly on his feet and when he gets closer, Sungchan can smell the sex on him.
Sungchan watches Anton watching the liquid pour into the glass. There’s a line of fresh hickey’s blooming right under his jaw and his lips are swollen, fuller than normal. Sungchan wonders if they’re sore.
“Thanks, Ant,” he whispers when his glass is half-full. Anton puts down the juice and sighs. There are only a couple inches between them now.
He nods solemnly. Sungchan feels helpless. He doesn’t like apple juice. He’s kind of worried about their electrical bill. He’s soft now and his dick feels weird in his sweats, not hanging right, still kind of stuck in his waistband, but he can’t exactly sort that out right now, so he tries to ignore it.
He sips on his glass. Too sweet. Anton isn’t looking at him at all anymore. When Sungchan asks him if he’s okay, a dam he didn’t know was there, breaks.
Sungchan has not seen Anton cry much, except for that one time they watched Isle of Dogs and Anton got weirdly quiet, like, more than usual, and just cried into Eunseok’s shoulder the entire time. Sungchan remembers sitting there, really stiff, trying hard not to look at the younger guy every couple seconds, his barely-touched shawarma cold and sad in his lap. Anton is a really pretty crier. That night, Eunseok took him home with Sungchan’s car and didn’t come back until late the next morning. Sungchan never asked.
“Sorry,” Anton tells him between sniffles, big tears rolling down his blotchy cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Like what, Sungchan wants to ask, but doesn’t. He thinks he knows what Anton means.
No matter how much he wipes his face, he can’t seem to stop, so Sungchan offers him the sleeves of his hoodie. Anton considers him for a beat, until he circles one of Sungchan’s wrists, his head dropping down to cry into the black fabric for a little while.
It’s strangely nice. Sungchan wants to pat his head but doesn’t—Anton isn’t his to console. He shouldn’t be here at all. He should be in his room and maybe shoot Eunseok a text, telling him to take care of his boyfriend.
“I’m sorry,” Anton repeats and laughs wetly, void of all humor. “I should shower. Or go home. He doesn’t—It’s fine. I just need to shower.”
Sungchan feels panic clawing at his insides and he almost grabs Anton’s face, wanting to hold onto him for a second, maybe to make sure he’s here, that he’s real, though he doesn’t know whether the urge is entirely self-serving or in favor of Anton as well. He melts so easily, crumbles into himself when he thinks he spoke too loudly or with too much excitement. Like he could ever take up too much space. Like Sungchan wouldn’t give him the moon if he asked.
“Let me take you,” he offers instead, hoping to conceal his franticness with sincerity.
Anton gnaws on his bottom lip, looking at him through glistening lashes. Sungchan doesn’t expect him to nod. Anton combs through his hair and does anyway. Once, twice. “Okay. Okay.”
They get dressed quietly—Anton gets his jumper from where he’d left it in the bathroom and Sungchan gets two pairs of socks out of his room. He glowers at his and Eunseok’s shared wall. How couldn’t he care? How could he just—how could he? Hasn’t he never heard of aftercare? Or does it just not matter to him?
When they meet in the living room, Anton quickly pulls on Sungchan’s socks, before they both sit down on the floor to put on their sneakers, Sungchan on his ass and Anton crouching into half a kneel. He smiles weakly when their eyes meet.
The hallway is quiet and they make their way to the elevator mostly quiet. Sungchan checks his jacket for his car keys multiple times. He presses the ground floor button with shaky fingers. He feels like he’s doing something wrong. He left his phone at home, not bearing the idea of Eunseok’s stupidstupid text burning a hole into his back pocket.
“I haven’t been to the dorms for a while,” he says as they go down, trying to distract himself from the uncomfortable swooping in his belly feeling he gets in elevators.
“Me too,” Anton hums, then shrugs.
It’s cold out—Sungchan’s car isn’t parked too far but he gets out a pack of Camels and offers Anton one. They walk slowly, and he tries not to let Anton trail behind him. He’s still unsteady on his legs and Sungchan wonders if he’s in actual pain or just feeling a bit frail.
He lights both their cigarettes with one flame and Anton takes a deep drag, puffy eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Sungchan bites away a grin. They arrive at his car, stopping on the driver’s side, and Anton leans on the roof with his elbows, keeping his cigarette between his lips, inhaling and exhaling smoke with every breath. Sungchan would a 100% start coughing if he were to try that. He finds it kind of sexy.
They could just smoke in Sungchan’s car—it’s kind of his brother’s, though. At least it isn’t freezing out anymore. It’s kind of calming, dark, safe for the streetlights illuminating the foggy air around them.
“Do you think,” Anton starts, only to trail off for a second. He flicks off a long piece of ash and sucks in another drag, exhaling it through his nose.
“Do I think what?”
Anton purses his lips, giving Sungchan a curious once-over. “Do you think that kebab place is still open? Where Seunghan-hyung worked until they fired him two weeks in? It’s close to campus.”
He uses his fingertips to carefully press out his cigarette butt, letting leftover ash and tobacco rain on the curb. Sungchan hopes he won’t burn himself but Anton looks so worry-free for a second, only patiently waiting for Sungchan’s reply.
“I think it’s possible. Can’t google, though, I left my phone upstairs.”
Anton puffs his cheeks up. He never has any data. He tells Sungchan as much and he shrugs.
“We’ll just drive past, I don’t mind.”
Oddly enough, it feels a little bit like the moon. Or a piece of it. He watches Anton go yay and make his way around the car, face falling a bit as he takes too big a step.
The drive is almost quaint in a way, barely any traffic to get annoyed over. Sungchan doesn’t enjoy driving, per se, doesn’t like how tense his body gets and how he has to focus on multiple things at once, when he’d much rather just glance over at Anton, who is pressing his forehead against the passenger window, leaving a smudge of skin oil on it. He’s looking out into the night, leaning in his seat as if he’s sitting on only one buttcheek, breathing out harshly whenever they drive over the tiniest hole in the pavement.
Neither of them turn on the radio. Sungchan momentarily forgets the route again and he silently panics until he recognizes where they are after taking a right turn. He’s beginning to feel a little tired now. The digital clock of his car reads 01:56 AM.
When he stops the engine, Anton doesn’t budge. Sungchan can tell he isn’t asleep by how his fingers are digging into his thigh.
“Anton, will you please look at me?”
A sniffle. Sungchan’s throat burns and his mouth tastes of smoke.
“I’m sorry. Something’s wrong with me, I’m sorry. I’m not really hungry anymore. I’m sorry.”
When Anton turns around to him, he immediately averts his gaze again, breaking out into a fit of sobs, voice breaking as he cries into his hands. Sungchan feels for a pack of tissues in his jacket but comes up empty.
Fuck it, he thinks, wrapping his arms around Anton’s body, pulling him into a tight embrace. Anton lets himself fall into Sungchan’s chest, letting out shuttering gasps, shoulders shaking heavily.
They stay like that for a moment—Sungchan repeats that it’s okay until the words lose any meaning and Anton cries until his voice disappears into nothing but a mumbled rasp. Sungchan’s throat is wet from where Anton’s face is pressed against it. He doesn’t care. He has never minded anything less.
“Please don’t go back to him,” Sungchan hears himself whisper into Anton’s hair.
Anton straightens his back a little, worming himself out of the embrace until they’re face to face, Sungchan’s arms hanging uselessly around him. Anton wipes away tears and snot with his sleeve, appearing to try and gather himself a little before he speaks again.
“Sungchan,” he croaks, and it’d be cute if he didn’t look so crestfallen, exhaustion seeping out of his every pore. He runs his thumb over Sungchan’s cupid’s bow, sliding his palm against his cheek easily, naturally.
Just as naturally, he leans up to push their lips together, thoughtfully but brief. Sungchan doesn’t get a chance to close his eyes.
Again. He does it again and again, so agonizingly slow, languidly licking along the seam of Sungchan’s mouth, teasing it open. When he parts his lips, Sungchan can taste salt and cigarette and even a hint of sweet, sweet, sweet apple juice.
Anton kisses like he’s spilling out a sonnet, like a jar of wild honey, pious in the way he sighs into him, greedy in how he tugs at his hair, as if to consume, as if any amount of physical proximity couldn’t be enough.
Blood rushes into Sungchan’s head, then to his cock. Anton is so warm—warm mouth, warm hands, warm tears, still there, dribbling down their chins as they take turns panting into each other’s mouths.
When they part, Sungchan’s lungs feel like they’ve collapsed in on themselves.
“Don’t go back to him,” he begs.
Anton sniffs, releasing his hair, fixing it with a few gentle strokes. He brushes a knuckle over the tip of Sungchan’s nose.
“Let’s get a falafel box. To share. Then we can go back.”
Sungchan doesn’t say anything. He can’t breathe. Anton delicately squeezes his cheeks between his fingers. “I’ll sleep in your bed, okay? I don’t wanna be alone.”
“O— Okay. Yeah, okay.” Sungchan sounds and feels out of it. He nods and can’t seem to stop. He lets go of Anton’s sides and looks outside. He can’t see the moon. Anton must have it. Or a piece of it.