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The backstage air was already suffocating, but the sudden drop in temperature when Taesan realized his phone was missing made the entire green room freeze. His hands were busy shoving into his garments’ pockets, praying to find his beloved phone, but it was no use. He clicked his tongue and held eye contact with his present members.
"Check your bags. Everyone. Now," Taesan snapped. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had that lethal, gravelly edge that made the hair on the back of the stylists' necks stand up. He was turning his own leather duffel inside out, tearing through zippers, his sharp eyes dark with a frantic, sharp frustration. Five minutes until call time. Five minutes until they had to face a stadium of tens of thousands, and his anchors were completely blown.
Across the dressing room, draped with an almost infuriating elegance over a velvet sofa, Leehan didn’t even look up from his own hands. He was mindfully inspecting his manicure, his stage outfit already pristine, glitter dusting his cheekbones.
"It’s not in here," Leehan said smoothly. His tone was airy, light, almost bored.
Taesan’s gaze whipped to him, sharp enough to cut. "You didn't even check."
"I know what's in my bag, Taesan-ah." Leehan offered a faint, dismissive shrug, the silk of his jacket shifting gracefully over his shoulders.
With a low growl, Taesan stormed across the room. He shoved past a startled manager, his boots thudding heavily against the floor, and ripped open the zipper of Leehan’s designer tote. He didn't care about being polite. He shoved aside a silver water bottle, a velvet pouch, and any other Leehan’s belongings. Until Taesan reached the bottom of the bag. There it was, a smooth surface, in black colour, and its presence mocking, was his phone.
Taesan held the item tightly, his eyes burning in fire. He glared at the owner of the tote bag. Leehan finally looked up. A tiny, infuriating smirk played at the corner of his lips. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't apologize. He just blinked, those pretty, cat-like eyes full of silent, deliberate mischief, watching the fury ripple across Taesan's face.
"Stage in two! Members, line up!" a staff member yelled, banging on the door.
Taesan couldn't do anything. The timing was a trap, and they both knew it. He shoved the phone into his pocket, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. The anger in his eyes was blinding, a roaring fire pinned behind a forced, professional mask.
The performance was a blur of high adrenaline and controlled rage. On stage, Taesan was utterly electric. Every movement sharper, every glance at the camera heavier and more intense than his usual perfection. The fans screamed, a deafening wall of sound, entirely oblivious to the fact that his lethal charisma tonight was fueled by pure, unadulterated spite. He wasn't just performing like practiced, he was projecting.
Every time the choreography brought him near Leehan, the air between them practically crackled with static. During the bridge, where they had to cross paths closely, Leehan met his gaze dead-on. Unbothered. His movements fluid like water. He danced with a teasing, effortless grace that seemed to dare Taesan to lose his cool on live television. It only pushed Taesan closer to the absolute edge.
The second they hit the dim backstage corridors after the encore, the adrenaline hadn't even begun to fade. The ringing in their ears was still loud, their skin slick with sweat under the harsh corridor lights. Taesan didn't wait for the post-show briefing.
He grabbed Leehan by the wrist. It was hard enough to make his intentions perfectly clear, but mindful enough not to leave a mark before he dragged him away from the group. He pulled him down a narrow, poorly lit hallway leading to an empty, unused holding room meant for extra wardrobe storage. He threw the heavy door open, yanked Leehan inside, and kicked it shut behind them with a resounding thud.
"Taesan, the stylists are going to look for—"
Leehan didn't get to finish the sentence. Because the next he knew was Taesan slamming him back against the concrete wall. The impact was muffled by the thick fabric of Leehan's stage jacket, but it was enough to rattle him. Taesan immediately crowded into his space, pinning him there with the sheer weight of his presence, towering over him in the dim light of the storage room.
"You think you're funny?" Taesan breathed, his voice a harsh, ragged whisper. His chest was heaving, his breath hot against Leehan's face. "You like messing with my head right before a show? You like seeing how far you can push me?"
"Maybe I do," Leehan whispered back. His voice was defiant, a challenge tilted up in the angle of his chin, even as his heart began to hammer violently against his ribs. His eyes locked onto Taesan’s, refusing to back down.
Taesan didn't argue. He silenced him with a harsh kiss. The contact wasn't a gentle reconciliation. Instead it was bruising, fueled with a possessive collision of lips that tasted like sweat, stage makeup, and furious demand. Taesan gripped Leehan’s jaw with a firm, unyielding hand, his fingers digging into the soft skin, forcing his mouth open. He poured all the residual, frantic energy of the performance and the raw anger of the betrayal into the kiss. It was deep, relentless, and suffocating.
Leehan gasped into the intrusion, his hands instinctively coming up to grip the fabric of Taesan’s shoulders just to keep his balance. A sudden surge of betrayal hit him. How could Taesan treat him so roughly over a lighthearted joke? He wanted to push him off, wanted to claw his way out of the suffocating hold.
But as Taesan’s thumb dragged firmly over his jawline, anchoring him, and his tongue tangled deeper with a devastating, practiced heat, Leehan’s knees went entirely weak. The anger behind the kiss was intoxicating. It was too good. It was dizzying, hot, and completely overwhelming, pulling the air straight from Leehan's lungs until his head spun. The anger morphed into something thick, heavy, and desperate between them, a mutual friction that burned through the remaining adrenaline of the concert.
By the time Taesan finally broke away, Leehan was completely out of breath. His lips were swollen, parted, and flushed a deep red, his chest heaving heavily as he slid a few inches down the concrete wall for support. He stared up, his eyes wide, glassy, and dark with a mix of shock and residual desire.
Taesan wiped his thumb slowly across his own wet lips, his dark eyes tracking Leehan's beautiful disarray with a grim, thoroughly satisfied smirk. The blinding anger was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering triumph that settled deep in his chest.
"Don't touch my stuff again," Taesan warned softly, his voice low and raspy, though the lethal bite from earlier was completely gone.
He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the door ajar, the cool air of the hallway rushing into the heated room. Leehan stayed against the wall for a long moment, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, catching his breath as the frantic beat of his heart slowly steadied. He reached up, touching his tingling, bruised lips with the tips of his fingers.
A slow, wicked realization began to dawn on him through the fading sting of betrayal. If a missing phone got him that version of Taesan... Leehan’s lips curved into a faint, breathless smile. He was definitely going to have to start hiding Taesan's things a lot more often.