there’s just something about sehun that keeps yifan on the edge of his seat.
a/n: THIS STORY IS ABANDONED. I REPEAT, ABANDONED.
yes, i know, that makes it sound like i have left a beloved family pet out on the street, but i haven't. i am just never finishing this story. i would prefer if you all came up with your own ideas for how it should have ended and honestly, if you come crying to me about how this isn't finished, i will probably laugh at you because that is the kind of person i am -- which is to say that i am sorry it's not done, but not sorry enough to finish it now. just pretend this is one of those aff chaptered fics that will never update again. (mostly, i'm posting to get this out of my wip folder so i can stop opening it and staring at it sadly for hours like i am now and also because manda gave me sad puppy eyes through the internet).
ANYWAY, a long list of thank you's,bc this wip is like a year and a half old. to bubbles and buttercup for always being by the phone in case townsville needs saving, to thea for her unfaltering support for this story and of me ^^, and to all my good friends because holy fuck this thing is a year and a half old, i whined about this for over a year.
some music for the road — pumpkin soup by kate nash, or alternatively, sisqo's the thong song.
warnings: kris, panties, the term "gaping asshole"
On the Fringes
“What did our maknae do this time?” Baekhyun asks, through a mouthfull of half-chewed samgyeopsal.
Yifan blinks, poking himself in the cheek with his chopsticks and dropping a piece of meat on the table. “What?”
“Sehun. You’ve been staring at him since our food came.”
Sehun is sitting next to Chanyeol down on the other side of the table, fighting with him over the biggest piece of meat. He’d had a haircut earlier that day, changing his hair from silvery pink back to platinum blond, and it falls over of his forehead as he snatches the piece out of Chanyeol’s bowl and pops it into his mouth. Chanyeol sputters angrily as Sehun chews, licking the little bit of sauce off his lower lip and gloating.
He's not looking anywhere near Yifan's direction. Yifan swears it's on purpose.
“Staring? I’m not staring.” Yifan looks back down at his bowl of rice, ignoring Sehun and Chanyeol’s laughter as it mixes and drifts down the table. “I’m just tired. Glazed over. You know. Like a doughnut.” Yifan should really stop talking before he gives something away.
Baekhyun scoffs, shoving a napkin in Yifan’s face. “You’ve got sauce on your cheek, duizhang.”
Yifan rubs at the spot and scowls.
If it’s possible, Sehun’s mouth is even pinker than usual when Yifan pulls away for a moment, watching Sehun’s tongue lick out across his lips as he catches his breath. The back of his neck is still tingling from where Sehun had run his fingers as he walked past five minutes before on his way to the bathroom. Yifan had frozen in his seat at the touch, a secret signal for him to follow.
“So this is like, a regular thing we’re doing now?” Yifan’s mouth is throbbing, the bathroom tile cold against his shoulders, and Sehun’s fingers are fisted in the hem of his shirt, pulling their chests together. They really don’t have much time before the others notice they’re both gone.
Sehun presses a kiss to Yifan’s jaw, slipping one hand around to fit into the small of Yifan’s back. “Problem?” he says, breath hot against Yifan’s skin.
“No—I,” Yifan tries. Sehun works his way up to where his jaw meets his throat, and scrapes his teeth lightly. Something hot and familiar is curling in Yifan’s belly, like steam. He lifts a hand to thread through Sehun’s newly colored hair, letting the smooth strands slip through his fingers. “No.”
Sehun closes his eyes, tilting his head back into Yifan’s touch like a cat curving into a petting hand. His lips are shiny with their combined spit, and Yifan kisses him again, this time hard enough to make Sehun whimper a little against him, squirming in Yifan’s arms as though to get closer, as though they’re not on a time limit, and Yifan makes no move to stop him.
This, whatever it is, is most definitely A Problem.
This regular thing that Yifan and Sehun are doing now, the Kissing Thing, is pretty new.
When they had unofficially celebrated Sehun’s eighteenth birthday, a little party tacked on after their Chinese showcase so they could all be together as twelve before their debut and separate promotions started, Sehun’s hair had still been dark, glossy and ruffled from the other member’s hands. He’d pretended to pout and then laughed when they brought out the cake, snatching one of the strawberries off the top of it before Lu Han could even put it down, eyes bright and sparkling. He’d looked young, just a kid to Yifan’s eyes. It was hard to believe he was turning eighteen.
Over that first year, though, it’s like someone presses fast-forward on Yifan’s clock, making him age twice as fast, through the blur of debut and the seemingly endless period that stretches out after, performing the same song over and over as though nothing is changing.
M’s travel schedule is hard, the traumatizing chaos of the fans at the airports becoming almost routine, and Yifan has these moments where he’ll be sitting in a chair somewhere, the feeling of something being off crawling up his spine, when he realizes that what’s missing is the press of a too-close airline seat against his knees. The K members have it hard in a different way, performance after performance, nothing but MAMA for months, until Kyungsoo’s teeth clench so hard the muscles in his jaw twitch whenever he hears the opening choir.
With twelve boys, men, all together, constantly under pressure and on the brink of exhaustion, it only makes sense that they would grate against each other. Even through the haze of his own personal problems and his three-month absence, Yifan watches how the members break and then stitch themselves and each other back up again. The line between coworkers and friends and family fuzzing in and out of focus as they all find different ways to deal.
By the time Sehun’s birthday rolls around again, they’ve all grown up. Sehun’s hair is a dusky pink then, shoved under a cap because he’d been too tired to shower that morning, white tank top hanging off his collar bones during practice. When they’re done for the night, shrugging on the sweatshirts they’d shed earlier, Yifan finds himself looking at the pull of Sehun’s shoulder muscles, the long slope of his neck as he stretches.
Sehun still acts like a kid most of the time, both on camera and off, but out of all of them, he’s probably the one that’s grown up the most.
Yifan’s realization that Sehun isn’t such a child anymore doesn’t change much. They’ve never been friends, despite all of Yifan’s efforts, and it only makes sense that he wouldn’t notice the little things until they were all lumped into one dorm together.
It’s strange, though. They all have their ways of coping — Chanyeol’s developed this habit of chatting up his own reflection, not even caring if Yifan is in the bathroom too, ordering and reordering his bottles of skin products to help soothe his nerves, and Baekhyun talks about his quest to smack every ass in Exo onstage over dinner while Minseok pulls on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and cleans every dish twice, just in case. But Sehun…
Even after living in the same dorm for a few months, working together through comeback promotions and a repackage, from spring through summer, to fall, Yifan has no idea what Sehun’s coping mechanism is.
One night in September, close to Jongdae’s birthday, Yifan is deliriously tired, dragging his feet while he walks to the kitchen of the dorm for a glass of water before trying to get a few hours of sleep. Sehun clears his throat from the doorway as Yifan puts the water bottle back in the refrigerator, full cup cool in his hand.
“What are you doing still up?” Yifan asks. Sehun tries to flatten his hair with a hand where it’s sticking up in the back. He looks really cute all rumpled with sleep.
“Lu Han and I fell asleep watching a movie on his computer.” Sehun’s blond hair refuses to lie flat and Yifan laughs at Sehun’s pout, walking over to shut off the kitchen light. Sehun looks up at him as he gets closer, cheeks sleepily flushed. He’s still shorter than Yifan, but he’s definitely growing.
Light from the kitchen is catches on the planes of Sehun’s face, the lines of his nose and jaw, the pink of his mouth and cheeks. The thought drifts through Yifan’s mind before he even has a chance to stop it: not cute, something more than that. Something that’s been growing, weighing like a hot stone in his chest.
Yifan is so exhausted the thoughts are passing single-file through his brain, like blood cells through a vein, and his mouth is painfully dry from mouthing words for hours as he worked through his language textbooks. “You should go back to your own room, try and get some rest.”
Sehun doesn’t respond, eyes caught on some random point on Yifan’s face. His stare makes Yifan feel clumsy and very unleader-like. To compensate, he tries to do too many things, attempting to blink, take a sip of water, and reach for the light switch with his free hand all at the same time, and his exhausted brain overloads, causing him to stumble and knock shoulders with Sehun.
“Sorry,” he gets out, water slopping over the edge of the cup and onto his and Sehun’s shirts. Sehun reaches to steady him, hand catching his elbow.
“I think you’re the one that needs sleep,” Sehun says. His palm is really warm compared to the cold water seeping through his shirt. Yifan shivers.
“Yeah,” Yifan laughs at himself quietly, “I’m on autopilot right now.”
And then Sehun is leaning up, hand tightening on Yifan’s arm, and kissing him on the mouth. His lips feel even warmer than his hand, and Sehun uses his new height to press Yifan up against the doorframe, tilting their mouths together with a hand on Yifan’s chin. Yifan lets out a sound without his brain’s permission, almost like a sigh, and just lets it happen.
Sehun breathes back at him, the exhale brushing Yifan’s cheeks as he shifts to slip his tongue inside, and carefully licks the inside of Yifan’s mouth, the backs of his teeth, the sensitive insides of his cheeks.
Yifan feels dazed, blinking his eyes rapidly back to focus when he pulls back. Sehun isn’t the best kisser, lips clumsy and mouth stale with sleep, but there’s something meticulous about it, a thoroughness that has electricity zinging all the way down to Yifan’s toes.
The hand disappears from his elbow. “Goodnight, hyung.”
Yifan thinks he must be really tired because Sehun just kissed him and his brain is telling him he liked it.
Sehun’s gone before Yifan even absorbs what he’s said, and the rest of the water from the cup spills onto the floor as Yifan sags in the doorway after he hears the door click shut.
By the time November rolls around and he turns twenty-three, Yifan’s almost used to it. Or, he likes to think he’s used to it, but really, it’s a little hard for him to get used to something he has no control over whatsoever. (It’s even harder to admit his lack of control to himself than it is to get used to it, but Yifan thinks things could be a lot worse and decides to keep his mouth shut.)
Sehun’s kind of made a habit of pressing him into walls and kissing him, though he likes it the other way around, too, when Yifan uses his size to box him in, and Yifan sometimes watches Sehun in show recordings, all long legs and wide shoulders and pale neck, and wonders when Sehun got so incredibly hot.
Maybe, Yifan thinks wildly one day, when Sehun is wearing a really stupid sweater and baseball cap at the airport, and their fans are screaming at them, pressing in too close, maybe it’s the famous that makes Sehun hot. It’s worked for lots of other famous people before.
On the plane, Sehun falls asleep on Jongin’s shoulder and drools a little, mouth gaping open grossly, and Yifan decides that it’s definitely because he’s famous, and not anything else.
It’s kind of weird, though, Yifan begins to realize, because, sure, they don’t get to see each other very often, and he’s pretty positive Sehun isn’t doing this Kissing Thing with anyone else (Yifan definitely isn’t), but things between them seem to be progressing slowly.
Not that Yifan is looking for things to progress, really. Much.
It’s just —
Yifan is twenty-three and has legions of people fawning over him (they all do) and yet, he can count the people he’s kissed on the fingers of one hand.
When Yifan had done this kind of Thing with another boy back in high school, they had definitely gotten to the hands-down-the-pants stage by now, and Sehun has improved at kissing — he’s even figured out that Yifan likes it when Sehun uses his teeth, tugging at the edge of his lips and then soothing them with his tongue — but whenever Yifan’s hands go anywhere near the waistband of Sehun’s pants, Sehun pulls away.
Like now: Sehun is under him, fingers threaded into Yifan’s hair, and Yifan thinks he’s probably gotten better at kissing too, because Sehun is making these little sounds, whimpers muffled by Yifan’s mouth, and he’s hard, hips jerking up against Yifan’s every time he shifts.
But then, when Yifan tries to slip his hand beneath top of Sehun’s jeans, Sehun shies back. He twists, using his new growth-spurt height to flip them over, and Yifan forgets where his hands were headed because Sehun is straddling him, fingers fisted in Yifan’s shirt for leverage and his head thrown back.
He looks incredible.
The friction of their pants is almost unbearable as Sehun rubs against him, and Sehun’s moaning, really moaning, high in the back of his throat.
His lips are so pink. Yifan wants to bite them, kiss them, see how they look around his cock, and the image of Sehun’s lips covered in Yifan’s come, tongue licking out to taste, has him coming with a groan into his own underwear.
Sehun’s fingernails dig in sharply through Yifan’s shirt and Yifan can feel everything; the jerk of Sehun’s dick, the hot spill of come. Sehun shuddering through the choked sounds of his orgasm.
He falls against Yifan’s chest, sweaty forehead nestling into the curve of Yifan’s neck. There’s something oddly peaceful about it, them lying there together now that their Kissing Thing has definitely leveled up, and it’s not until Sehun climbs off him that Yifan remembers the way Sehun had shied away, like someone trying to keep a secret.
Yifan doesn’t have a chance to confront Sehun about the whole pants secret thing for a while because preparations for the Gayo Daejuns keep them too busy to do anything more than trade lazy kisses in the bathroom when they pass each other in the morning and evening. It’s almost January by the time Yifan gets Sehun squirming under him again, and Yifan wonders if maybe SM puts something in their water, because Sehun has somehow gotten even more attractive since the last time Yifan saw him up close.
He’s let Yifan strip their shirts off, the curve of his waist warm beneath Yifan’s fingers, and Sehun pulls Yifan closer with palms flat to his shoulder blades. Yifan can’t remember why he thought this was so complicated. Their hips are slotted against each other, legs tangled, and it’s only a matter of time before their pants get undone and Yifan can stop worrying that Sehun has an actual physical chastity belt hidden in his underwear.
He slides a hand over Sehun’s hip, fingering the top hem of his jeans, and Sehun goes motionless beneath him. Yifan freezes too, moving back as Sehun pushes him away so he can sit up.
They’re side-by-side on the bed, Sehun pulling his legs into his bare chest as though to shield himself. Yifan runs a hand through his already-mussed hair.
“Is it like…? You can be nervous. It’s okay. We can wait.” Yifan doesn’t sound like himself anymore. The voice coming out of his mouth belongs to “EXO-M’s Duizhang Kris”, and it makes him cringe.
He doesn’t understand Sehun, doesn’t know what makes him tick or how he deals with the pressure they’re all under or what kind of secrets he might be hiding. Yifan and Sehun aren’t even really friends, not like Sehun is with Jongin or Lu Han or even Junmyeon, but there’s something vulnerable about Sehun’s eyes that Yifan hasn’t seen very often and he wants Sehun to know that he can be trusted. That whatever’s going on, it’s okay.
Sehun’s looking at him, lip caught between his teeth, like he’s standing at the edge of somewhere very high and deciding whether or not to jump.
Yifan reaches out a hand to touch Sehun’s shoulder, but changes his mind halfway there, letting it fall uselessly into his lap because Sehun has curled himself up kind of small and doesn’t look like he wants to be touched right now.
“Whatever it is,” Yifan says, and he’s himself again, the part that’s a little camera-shy and probably too kind for his own good, “you can tell me.”
“Okay,” Sehun says, more to himself than anything as he unfolds from his huddled position and stands. Yifan tries to stand too, but Sehun stops him. “Just—stay there. I need to show you something.”
“What, you need to show me the deep, dark secret in your pants?” Yifan jokes, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but the laughter dies in his throat when Sehun starts unbuckling his belt. The sound of his zipper is loud in the room, and it seems like Sehun shoves his jeans down his legs as fast as possible, before he has a chance to change his mind. He steps out of them, kicking them out of the way, and Yifan’s eyes widen.
It’s almost funny, because Yifan has spent a lot of time thinking of what the deep, dark secret in Sehun’s pants could be — anything from a simple case of nerves to the worst case scenario, like a hairy dick or something — except it’s not funny at all, because Sehun seems really nervous and he’s standing there wearing a pair of women’s underwear.
“Oh,” Yifan says, mouth working on autopilot. “That’s…”
“Not what you thought?” Sehun finishes, voice small as he fidgets. He’s looking anywhere but at Yifan.
Most of Yifan is more interested in the fact that Sehun is nearly naked, the pale skin of his thighs finally out in the open, to be bothered with the fact that there’s a pair of lavender panties cradling Sehun’s junk, and so he’s having a hard time thinking of how he should respond.
“Weird,” Yifan’s mouth finishes, and it definitely didn’t ask for permission that time. Yifan pieces his brain back together when Sehun flushes bright red, bending to snatch his jeans up off the floor. “I mean—“
“I know what you meant,” Sehun says, slipping his pants on leg-by-leg, and Yifan could kick himself because Sehun sounds pissed. He opens his mouth, hoping to somehow magically say the right thing and stop Sehun from leaving so they can talk about this, but Sehun cuts him off. “Don’t even bother,” he snaps, face still flushed with embarrassment, and leaves without even bothering to grab his shirt.
Yifan sits there on the bed for what is probably a long time, until he realizes that the desk across from him has pictures of Junmyeon with his family on it, and this isn’t even his room.
He tugs on his shirt, the image of Sehun half-naked flashing through his mind again, and ends up so distracted that he bumps his shoulder hard on the doorframe on his way out.
Surprisingly, it’s Chanyeol that brings it up.
“It’s you,” he says, “so, I’m kind of assuming that whatever it was, you didn’t do it on purpose, and you don’t even know what it was that you did that was so dickish.”
They’re in Beijing for an award ceremony, and Chanyeol had muscled his way into Yifan and Zitao’s hotel room earlier that evening, saying that Zitao had already commandeered Baekhyun for drama-watching and he and Yifan haven’t hung out in forever.
Chanyeol’s version of “hanging out” is a lot of lying around with their heads hanging over the edge of the bed, while Chanyeol wiggles his toes in the air to the beat of the music blasting from his earbud. The other bud is in Yifan’s ear and he misses hanging out with Chanyeol, but the blood is all rushing to his head, Chanyeol’s had this same song on repeat for the last half hour, and Sehun hasn’t even looked in his direction for days, so Yifan’s heart really isn’t in it.
“Well, I didn’t mean to do it, but I think I kinda… did something.”
Chanyeol’s toes stop wiggling and he sits up, the sudden movement tugging the headphone out of Yifan’s ear.
“You did what?”
“‘Did’ is a bit strong.” Yifan sits up too, shifting awkwardly on the bed. “It’s more like I said something. I think.”
“Doing dickish things to Sehun?” Chanyeol says, pointing at Yifan accusingly. “And you’re wearing glasses! I never knew you had glasses! It’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”
“I don’t — These glasses are fake!” Suspiciously, Chanyeol leans forward, and pushes his finger through the open frames. Yifan sighs, “Chanyeol, you are actually about to poke out my eye.”
Chanyeol grabs the glasses off Yifan’s nose and puts them on. Looking in the mirror across the bed, he says smugly, “These look way better on me.” Yifan rolls his eyes and Chanyeol crinkles his nose at him in their reflection. “Anyway, whatever you did — “
“Said,“ Yifan interjects dully.
“ — you should probably apologize.”
Yifan slumps back down onto the bed. “I would, if I could figure out how.”
“Sehun’s actually not that complicated most of the time,” Chanyeol says, flopping down next to Yifan. Yifan disagrees with that, but before he can say so, Chanyeol jabs him in the ribs with a finger. “Just say you’re sorry?”
Yifan grunts. Sehun hasn’t looked at him in a week, and it’s not like they’re dating or something, this whole thing is just a…Thing, but Yifan kind of hates it — hates that his shoulders somehow feel a little heavier without the weight of Sehun’s stare. “Maybe.”
“Do it soon,” Chanyeol says, and swings his arm into Yifan, smacking him in the stomach, “because Sehun’s kind of a gaping asshole when he’s irritated.”
The thing about Sehun Yifan is slowly beginning to understand is that even though Sehun puts up a stoic front, it’s mostly because he sometimes hates being the maknae and having to bear the brunt of the rest of the group’s teasing. Under that hard shell, though, Yifan’s thinks Sehun’s insides are soft, easily bruised, and while he’s ignoring Yifan, the way he looks when he sits by himself sometimes, tiny frown on his face, makes Yifan realize that Sehun isn’t angry at him anymore, probably just hurt
— which Yifan totally gets now, because once he’s thought about it, calling someone weird right after they’ve just revealed a big secret to you is a really stupid and asshole-ish thing to do.
Yifan is an asshole. This is not a new self-discovery.
When they get back to the hotel after the ceremony, Chanyeol latches onto Zitao, dragging him off and chattering away about some kind of game he and Baekhyun had invented earlier involving the hotel room balcony and bars of free soap (Yifan doesn’t think he really wants to know), and Yifan is left standing like an idiot in the lobby waiting for Sehun to finish his conversation with Lu Han.
Luckily, Lu Han catches Yifan’s eye over Sehun’ shoulder and connects the dots fairly quickly.
“Yixing!” he calls, patting Sehun on the shoulder as he brushes past to catch up with their bandmate. Sehun turns to watch him go, but when he catches sight of Yifan behind him, his face hardens.
“Sehun — “ Yifan tries, but Sehun stalks off towards the bank of elevators as though he hadn’t heard.
Yifan sighs and follows, longer legs letting him catch up just as Sehun tries to slip into an empty elevator at the end of the bank. He stops it with an arm between the closing doors. Sehun looks at him with that tiny frown, but at least Sehun is looking at him.
He stands next to Sehun, who moves away under the pretense of pressing the button for their floor.
Yifan opens his mouth to try to apologize again, but Sehun cuts him off. “Don’t.”
The elevator dings a few floors up, and a couple gets on, standing between he and Sehun. Yifan is taller than them both, so he can see Sehun over their heads as they speak quietly with each other, not seeming to notice the tension pulling tighter between them as Sehun’s frown deepens. Sehun has his lips pressed thin, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors, and when they open just a few floors later, he ducks out, almost too quickly for Yifan to follow.
Yifan reaches out to try and catch Sehun by the elbow as the doors close behind them. “Sehun, would you just let me — “
“Let you what?” Sehun stops abruptly, making Yifan stumble as he tries to avoid running headlong into Sehun’s back. “Call me a freak again?”
Sehun’s voice is too loud for the hotel hallway. Yifan knows most of the rooms are filled with their bandmates, but even though Sehun is obviously angry, he’s sure he wouldn’t want someone else overhearing this conversation.
He grabs Sehun’s wrist and tugs him down a few doors. Sehun sputters, protesting. “Get off! You can’t drag me around and expect — “
Yifan pulls his keycard out of his pocket and fumbles with the door to his and Zitao’s room. “Just — hang on for a second.”
Sehun is still swearing at him when Yifan tugs him through the doorway and lets the door click shut behind them, locking the deadbolt for good measure. “ — manhandle me into your room like some fucking asshole from a drama.” He wretches his arm out of Yifan’s grip and stalks into the room. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms and turning around, “Say whatever you need to so I can go. I’m tired.”
Even though they’d all changed out of their performance outfits, they both still have their hair gelled up, back from their foreheads. The style makes Sehun look older, especially with his hair dark again, the lines of his cheekbones and jaw laid bare.
Yifan swallows. He’s been rehearsing this in his head for the last week, but now the words seem stuck in his throat. “I didn’t mean it, when I said that it was…”
“Weird,” Sehun finishes for him, the word out of his mouth so swiftly that Yifan wonders if he’s been repeating it to himself ever since Yifan said it. The very idea makes Yifan feel even worse.
And just like Yifan thought, the angry mask is slipping, Sehun’s voice is a little smaller, a little sadder, and Yifan’s chest tightens because it’s his fault.
“Yeah. That.” His mouth is dry, and Sehun still doesn’t look like he believes him. “I didn’t mean it. I was just surprised. I’m sorry.”
Yifan takes a step towards Sehun, hesitant, because Sehun looks like he’s standing on the edge of that cliff again and Yifan doesn’t want to scare him away.
“If you like, um,” Yifan says, voice cracking slightly, like Yifan is sixteen and going through the world’s most intense puberty in history again, and Sehun looks like he might want to laugh. “If you like it, it’s not weird to me.”
Sehun’s jaw drops a little, as though he wasn’t expecting that. “Oh.”
Taking another couple steps forward, Yifan decides to push his luck a little. “Are you wearing some right now?”
Sehun shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking down to the hotel room carpet. Yifan takes that as a yes, but he wants Sehun to say it. Sehun’s let him in on one of his secrets, and that this time, Yifan wants to be able to say the right thing. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Sehun mumbles, still studying the floor, and his cheeks are pink, teeth worrying at his lower lip. Yifan is standing close enough now that he can tell it’s a different kind of nervousness than before, the hurt dissolving slowly into the air between them.
Reaching out to tug on the hem of Sehun’s cardigan, Yifan smiles down at Sehun’s head. “Hey,” he says, waiting for Sehun to look back up at him. When he does, Yifan realizes he doesn’t have very far to crane his neck, and someday, maybe, Sehun will be as tall as him. “That’s okay,” Yifan breathes, because it is, and it’s like the tension suddenly drains out of Sehun’s shoulders.
Yifan kind of likes the idea of them being eye-to-eye one day, and really, their heights don’t matter much because even if Yifan is taller now, even if he’s the hyung, he likes it when Sehun is the one that pulls their faces close and presses their lips together. Like now, when Sehun reaches up, and kisses him, closed-mouthed and almost sweet, except that his fingers are running through Yifan’s hair, undoing the gel until it’s all unmolded and probably looks ridiculous.
Yifan doesn’t really care, surprisingly. He’s a little vain, he’ll admit, but he’s also missed the rounded shape of Sehun’s mouth, and the little breaths he takes as their lips shift together, just on the edge of making a sound.
He loses himself in it a bit, kissing Sehun, being kissed by Sehun, so when Sehun shoves at him a little, the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and Yifan stumbles, his hold on Sehun the only thing that keeps him from sprawling back across the bed.
Instead, he ends up with Sehun in his lap, knees on either side of Yifan’s thighs allowing him to rise above Yifan and tilt his face up so he can lap at the roof of Yifan’s mouth and rub their crotches together. Sehun pulls back slightly, chest heaving and brushing against Yifan’s, and when Yifan opens his eyes, he thinks he might like this too, the way Sehun looks above him, breath hot and shuddering between their lips.
Slowly, Yifan lifts a hand from where it’s fallen to rest on Sehun’s thigh, and moves it to the small of Sehun’s back. Sehun arches into it, grinding down with his hands on Yifan’s shoulders. The skin under Sehun’s shirt is warm and soft. Yifan can feel the bumps of Sehun’s spine, and he follows them down past the top of Sehun’s pants for the first time.
The fabric of the panties is lacy, delicately textured under Yifan’s fingers, and Sehun lets his head fall back, exposing his throat. Yifan licks along the tendon that runs the length of it and pushes his hand further down Sehun’s pants, until he has a whole handful of Sehun’s ass. He can feel where the panties end, lacy edge under his fingers as he squeezes, and Sehun squeezes too, fingernails digging into Yifan’s shoulders. He moans loudly in Yifan’s ear.
Yifan likes how the curve of Sehun’s butt feels in the underwear. He wants to see what color they are and how they look against his skin again.
“Can I…?“ Yifan hasn’t released his handful of Sehun’s butt, and Sehun is pushing back into his hand.
“Can you what?” Sehun breathes, rolling his hips against Yifan’s. He’s hard, and Yifan’s skin feels hot. He tries to undo the button on Sehun’s pants but his right hand is still busy down the back of Sehun’s pants, making him clumsy. Sehun smacks his hand away, undoing them himself.
The panties are blue this time, cobalt, with a scalloped edge that runs underneath the skin of Sehun’s belly and the head of his cock looks pretty and pink through the gaps in the dark lace. Yifan wants to touch, and Sehun arches even further when Yifan pushes his shirt up and out of the way to mouth at his nipples.
Sehun hisses between clenched teeth when Yifan finally touches his cock. It’s hot in his palm, bigger than Yifan expected, and Sehun is even more gorgeous like this than he remembers. He’s thrusting up into Yifan’s hand, pretty throat swallowing around these little sounds, and finally he gets out, “Fuck, hyung, your hands. Your fucking huge hands.”
Yifan gets a better grip, pushing the panties out of the way so he can touch the hot surface of Sehun’s dick. It feels amazing, and the way Sehun is looking at him, lashes fluttering as he gasps and bites at his lips, is amazing to, because it’s because of him.
Yifan’s been hearing about his enormous hands ever since his teen years, big enough to palm basketballs and history classroom globes, but he’s never been really as thankful for them as he is now, fingers pumping Sehun and catching the little beads of precome welling at the tip of his cock and wetting each slide. Every noise Sehun makes, every shift of his pelvis is a spike of heat beginning to boil in Yifan’s stomach. He’s close, and the way Sehun’s cock is swelling in Yifan’s hand, muscles of his stomach trembling, Yifan thinks Sehun is too.
“You’re so — “ Yifan grunts, feeling his balls tighten, and it’s too soon, much too soon, but, “You’re so hot, I — “
One long pull, a rub against that spot underneath the head of Sehun’s cock, and Sehun comes into his palm, hot and wet. He moans and rolls his hips through it, and the face he makes, mouth falling open and tongue slick inside of his mouth, has Yifan coming too, embarrassingly in his pants.
His hands are shaking when Sehun moves again, reaching around Yifan’s shoulder to grab some tissues. The shame of having such an easy trigger is flushing his face, but Sehun only glances down at the wet patch in the front of Yifan’s jeans and smiles to himself, like he’s got another secret. He cleans Yifan’s hand carefully, running the tissue down every finger, and when he catches Yifan’s eye, Sehun leans forward and kisses him again. It’s not as chaste as the one a while ago, more comfortable than anything, and Yifan pulls Sehun in, lying back on the bed, and nibbles on his lips.
There’s no expectation, no next step, only the knowledge that Chanyeol and Baekhyun will keep Zitao busy for hours and no one will bother them. Yifan slips his hand down the back of Sehun’s pants again, spanning one side of his butt with a hand, and Sehun laughs a little against his mouth before putting his fingers through Yifan’s half-gelled hair again in revenge.
The fabric of the underwear feels nice against Yifan’s palm and he thinks that even if it’s not his thing, if Sehun likes it and wants to confide in him, this panty stuff might not be that big of a deal.
Sehun the trainee was someone Yifan never talked to very much, for a lot of reasons really: Sehun was younger, the distance of four years between them much wider than than it would feel later on, Yifan’s Korean (and Sehun’s Mandarin) still needed work, and neither of them are incredibly outgoing people.
They met through Chanyeol, Yifan’s particular friend from rapping class. Chanyeol had this stretched look to him back then, like most of the younger boys did, growth spurts tightening the skin over their bones too fast. Sehun was beginning to have much the same look when he and Yifan first met, the sullen, unimpressed face of a young teenager peeking out from underneath his fringe. He didn’t say much, more absorbed in his phone than in meeting Chanyeol’s friend Yifan, and Yifan would have felt offended, except that Chanyeol told him Sehun did that to everyone.
After a few months, Yifan actually hears Sehun talk and notices he has a lisp, just a tiny one that shows up on the edges of his words, and he wonders if maybe that’s why Sehun avoids talking a lot until he remembers that Sehun is in a rapping class with him, and obviously doesn’t seem to care very much about it.
Other than that, their paths didn’t cross much, not until Exo gets slated for debut, and Yifan, now Kris, Exo-M’s Duizhang, decides it’s his job to get friendly with all his future bandmates.
Sehun, he finds out, doesn’t really do “friendly”. He answers all of Yifan’s questions but never asks any back, and it’s not that he’s shy — Yifan sees him giggling with Jongin in the corner of the practice room and hears how he cutely cajoles Junmyeon, Chanyeol and Lu Han into giving him extra food at meals — it’s that he’s stand-offish, keeping most people (including Yifan) at arm’s length.
Yifan gets it, really, he does. He’d moved around enough as a kid to realize that having too many friends is a hazard, that having a few that know you well enough to trust with your secrets is safer, but sixteen-year-old Sehun seems kind of funny and cute in that dongsaeng way, and it’s not a big deal or anything, it’s not going to affect the band.
Yifan just thinks that the fact that he’s not one of Sehun’s chosen few kind of blows.
One of the things Yifan likes the most about messing around with Sehun is the look on his face when Yifan does something new. Sehun is nineteen and not very experienced, despite the fact that he’d had the balls to make the first move, and so when Yifan drops to his knees with Sehun pressed up against the doors of his and Jongdae’s closet, he takes a few seconds to savor the way Sehun’s eyes go as round as saucers, tongue licking out to wet his kiss-swollen lower lip.
He looks kind of nervous and it has this silly little tickle starting in Yifan’s chest, like bubbles overflowing the edges of a cup of soda. Yifan can feel the muscles of Sehun’s stomach jump under his fingers as he undoes the button of Sehun’s pants, pulling them down until he can press his palm against Sehun’s growing erection.
Another thing Yifan likes about this arrangement is Sehun’s cock. He likes the way it fits in his hand, the heavy, hot weight of it when it’s hard, the little noises Sehun makes when Yifan gets it just right, jerking him in fast, tight-fisted strokes. Honestly, he’s been wanting to get a closer look at it, because along with being pretty big, Yifan has the sneaking suspicion that Sehun’s cock might just be really, really nice.
The way that Sehun’s breath is shuddering in and out of his lungs makes Yifan pretty sure that Sehun’s never gotten a blow job before, and so he decides to take it slow. He cradles Sehun’s balls through soft light blue fabric, tonguing at the bones of his hips through the sheer panels on either side of his panties.
If he’s being honest with himself, Yifan likes this pair. They look pretty against Sehun’s skin, and the trail of dark hair that runs underneath his navel, and when he tugs Sehun’s jeans down a bit further, Yifan can see how they hug the tops of Sehun’s thighs with tiny, delicate frills of lace. Sehun is getting hard enough that his cock pulls the fabric out of place, and Yifan presses a kiss to the tip, just so he can feel Sehun shudder, a hand grabbing at Yifan’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Hyung — “ Sehun breathes and Yifan smiles to himself a little, leaning forward to run his nose along the length, his cheek and lips.
“Okay?” he asks, fingers curling and nails scraping at the skin of Sehun’s stomach, ready to pull the fabric out of the way.
Sehun nods, cheeks flushed. Yifan holds his eyes as he bares Sehun’s legs, dropping the jeans off somewhere to the side and pushing the undies down his thighs. Yifan isn’t exactly super experienced himself, but his Kissing-And-Whatever friend back in high school had always been more than eager for Yifan to blow him, said he liked the way Yifan’s small mouth looked stretched around his cock, so Yifan likes to think he knows how to make it look good, at least.
Sehun’s cock, pulsing in his hand, is definitely nice. The sound he makes is nice too, a choked groan as Yifan’s tongue wets the head before sliding the ring of his lips down and losing himself in the way Sehun is staring at him, eyes fluttering open and closed with each suck, like Yifan is something awe-inspiring, something transcendent.
Yeah, Yifan definitely likes this part.
The part that he doesn’t like is that apparently he’s not allowed to ask any questions. Not for lack of trying, though.
“Why?” Yifan asks, afterwards. Somewhere in the middle of everything, they’d made it to the bed and Yifan had lost his pants. And shirt. Sehun is lying on top of his arm, post-orgasmically lazy, and Yifan would push him off, because his body weight is cutting off the circulation to his fingers, if Sehun didn’t look so satisfied.
Yifan runs the fingertips of his free hand along the lacy top of Sehun’s underwear in lieu of an answer. Sehun tenses up next to him.
Sitting upright, he tugs the blue undies back up over his softened dick, and the set of his shoulders makes it clear to Yifan that the wall is up again. Sehun is shutting him out. “Does it matter?”
Clenching and unclenching his fingers to get the blood flowing in them again, Yifan shrugs and says, “Not really, I guess. I just wondered.”
“Well don’t.” Sehun climbs over him and is pulling on his clothes before Yifan can even think. He grasps over the edge of the bed for his boxers because for some reason, he feels like he’s really screwing this up again, and if that’s the case, Yifan would rather not be naked for it.
“Sehun, it’s not — “
“Just because you know about this doesn’t mean you get to question me like some circus freak,” Sehun practically snarls, tugging his shirt over his head.
“I don’t think you’re a freak. I told you before — ” Yifan has finally managed to get himself not-naked, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Sehun search for his shoes. “I just thought, with what we’ve been doing, that that meant you trusted me — “
“Fuck this,” Sehun says, throwing on his sweatshirt. “If you find my shoes you can keep them.” He walks over to the door, and Yifan stands, wanting to go over and keep him from leaving, but Sehun’s hard eyes stop him in his tracks. “And what we just did — what we’ve been doing, means nothing.”
Sehun slams the door on his way out and the draft has goosebumps crawling up Yifan’s arms along with the shell-shock. He rubs at them with his hands to warm up, but even though Yifan’s got his pants on, he feels naked.
Sehun’s cold shoulder lasts for almost a month, until M is sent back to China for a week for some interviews and a magazine photoshoot, and so Yifan is left, as he’s sure Sehun probably intends, to ponder his sins
— whatever they are. Yifan is still working on figuring that out.
Honestly, if he’d ever thought about it, Yifan would have realized earlier that despite his bored front, Sehun is sensitive. Not like a child, even though sometimes he still tugs at his hyung’s sleeves and pouts when he doesn’t get what he wants. But Sehun is a teenager, not yet an adult, no matter how management and the industry might try to ignore that fact, and that means that Yifan, who hadn’t been much of a teenager in his day, has no idea what he’s done wrong.
“So,” Lu Han says, slipping into the van next to him, “I hear you pissed off Sehun. Again.”
“What the fuck did you do this time?” Lu Han scoots closer, like invading Yifan’s personal space will make him answer the question. Yifan should be used to Lu Han’s doll-like mouth spewing foul language after years of sharing close quarters, but it still makes him frown.
“I didn’t do anything,” Yifan grumbles, crossing his arms and hoping the threat of sharp elbows will keep Lu Han away.
It doesn’t, and Lu Han leans into him, smirking. “Well, Junmyeon said that Jongin said Sehun said he wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”
“What — How does something like that even come up in conversation?”
Lu Han shrugs. “Baekhyun likes to make the rest of K play “Fuck, Marry, or Kill” with other idols during practice breaks.” Yifan chokes on absolutely nothing at the thought and Lu Han turns to him, smile so wide Yifan practically plasters himself to the van wall to get some distance. “Hey, can we start doing that?”
“Aw, come on! It’ll be fun!”
“No.” It’s useless, of course, because Jongdae overheard the question and is already explaining how the game works to Zitao. The subgroup’s maknae is listening with wide eyes and Yifan puts his face into his hands, sighing.
“This is probably why Sehun is mad at you,” Lu Han says. “You’re no fun.”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Yifan finally explodes, and he’s lucky the others are busy arguing over which idols they’re allowed to use for the game, because his voice is loud enough to make Lu Han jump. He lets his hands drop into his lap and says more calmly, “I never do anything on purpose, he just gets pissed if I say or ask the wrong thing. I thought he trusted me.” His hair is falling into his eyes and Yifan shoves it back defeatedly. He wishes management would let him cut it. “We’ve known each other for years now, but I don’t even feel like we’re friends.”
“Ah.” Lu Han sits back, looking sympathetic. “Sehun… doesn’t make friends quickly. He’s been at SM a long time, seen a lot of people come and go.”
“So have I. So have Jongin and Junmyeon and most of the rest of us.”
Lu Han shrugs. “He was really young when he came to the company and, I don’t know, everyone is different.”
“Great,” Yifan groans, and Lu Han pats him consolingly on the shoulder.
“It’s okay, duizhang, you don’t have to be friends with everyone.”
Yifan wants to tell Lu Han that it’s more than just wanting to be friends with Sehun, that the little noises Sehun makes when Yifan kisses his neck or runs his fingers over the waistband of Sehun’s panties make him feel a little strange, too near his heart to be lust and not painful enough to be a heart attack (probably), and that he kind of wants the fact that Sehun had trusted him with his secret, one that Yifan hadn’t even realized the sheer magnitude of until he thought back on how nervous Sehun had been when he had first showed him, to mean something.
Really, Yifan tells himself calmly, it’s just that he wants he and Sehun to be bros.
He must look really pathetic, because Lu Han pats him again, this time on his knee. “Sehun doesn’t give his trust to people easily. Even if he does, he’ll probably shut you out again once or twice. He has a hard time letting people in on his secrets — even people he likes.” Lu Han fiddles with the bag in his lap, thinking. “And that’s hard to tell, too, unless he wants something.”
“Sehun’s face kind of looks like a pug,” Yixing says randomly from the seat behind them, and Yifan jumps, wondering how long he’s been listening.
Lu Han cackles, pulling away from Yifan fully to join in with the others as they listen to Jongdae choose between Hyorin, Kim Taehee and Changmin sunbaenim. (Jongdae has always been a tits man, so his choice shocks absolutely no one.)
Yifan stares out the window the rest of the way back to the dorm, feeling only a little less hopeless than he was before. Maybe when they get back to Korea, Sehun will have forgotten what he was so pissed about in the first place.