What difference does it make if everyone can see, Sungmin breathes against your naval, halting the remainder of your protests with an ever-so-playful grin twitching at the corners of his swollen cherry red lips. His fingers are cool against your sides and he nuzzles the tip of his nose against the front of your pants and when you open your eyes again you're sprawled across the couch, arms draped over armrest, the muscles in your fingers twitching while Sungmin's hot mouth works wonders on your cock. And you think yeah, what difference does it make?
The van jerks and jumps and thwarts your every effort to steal just five minutes of sleep before your next schedule. Your neck is still damp from the previous recording and why didn't you become a businessman like your father had wanted you to be? You close your eyes, imagine yourself curled beneath your favorite blanket between your favorite pillows with your favorite music playing softly in your ear—but it still doesn't feel right. So you replace the music with Sungmin's gentle humming against your chest and find that feels just about right.
He plants little surprises in your bag before you leave for set sometimes so that you have something to remind you you're his, or so he says. Sometimes you wonder why he thinks you do forget, but you never ask because that would be odd and anyways, how would you even say it? Today it's a heart-shaped ginger cookie, perfectly golden on the top but slightly darkened on the bottom and coordi-nuna squeals, how cute, as you pinch the edge with the tips of your fingers.
You wake up to the first snowfall of the year glistening like a sea of diamonds through the bedroom window, and you forget how angry you were the night before and all the things you shouldn't have said. You forget his accusations and how you swore you were through with this, with him, with his pink and his stuffed animals and his stupid nicknames and everything that makes him Sungmin. Snowflakes flutter past your window with a gust of wind and you remember the last Christmas, how he laughed when the breeze tossed his hat into the snow. Right before you kissed him. With his pink-gloved fingers cupped around your frozen ears. With the soft stuffed bunny he gave you still dangling in your hand. Whispering ever-so-softly against your lips—merry Christmas, baby.
A few minutes later you press your cell to your ear, counting each and every ring until you hear his weary sigh on the other end of the receiver. Hello? And you can tell he's been crying all night because he sounds like a smoker of twenty years even though he can't stand the smell of cigarettes.
I don't hate your pink or your stuffed animals or your stupid nicknames or anything that makes you you, hyung. Please come over.
Then a pause, a sniffle. I love you too.