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When the two had what they called little, technical corporal struggles, they stripped completely and got into the empty bathtub, one standing on each side and facing each other while the air humidifier started to work silently. Sometimes they would read something to pass the time, something to fill their heads and prevent them from dwelling on their current discomforts, but most of the time they found themselves silent, just looking directly into each other's eyes until the feeling of awkwardness on their skin disappeared and they could be themselves again.
Whatever "themselves" might be. They didn't talk about it in much depth. About who they were or who they aspired to be. Whether they liked the out loud pronunciation of their government names, whether they really liked what they saw in the mirror or what people saw mirrored on them. Whether they would prefer to trim their hair and be forced to face the full view of their faces, or whether they would prefer to let it grow past their shoulders and look like awkward versions of their own mothers. Whether they really wanted to take sex too far and have to decide which of them hated the idea of penetrating the other's bones less.
Perhaps it was because of all those "whethers" that they didn't talk about it at all. The struggles came and they just knew. Just by seeing the tension above each other's shoulders. The weight of wrongness pulling them down. They didn't need to vocalize it for the other to understand. Ghosts like dysphoria could be as solid as the very palpable feeling of their own blades.
Getting in the bathtub helped, a little. To breathe some air that made sense, to be in the presence of someone who made sense. Someone who felt as outcast in the world as he did. Someone who would simply get it without him having to formulate elaborate, meticulous, and thoughtful explanations for the sake of the comfort of a loved one. Someone he didn't need to embellish his own feelings with. Someone he could confide in that being seen as a man was like having his bones dug with tiny, agonizing pincers which made him want to tear it out of himself with his own teeth, far from that skin that would always be misinterpreted by everyone.
Perhaps that mutual understanding was part of what made him want Taeyang so much, although it was by far one of the biggest reasons. But it was an important one, no matter how strange it sounded, to long for someone because they wanted to debone themselves as much as he did.
Despite the nausea of the discomfort, it was in those moments, when the two looked each other in the eye, that the want intensified. Because when Jongseob stared at his reflection in the other's eyes, when he saw the same traits which he maintained a love-hate relationship with, that was when he could see himself. Himself, only himself. No imposed image. No guy that others build for him without his permission.
Given the softening of the other's tense stare, he liked to think that it was the same for him. That he could offer the same comfort. And perhaps, just perhaps, that he was wanted just as much. As the genuine, raw Jongseob.
That sounded nice — nice as in everything — even with the feeling of carnage still simmering at the tips of his canines.
When those thoughts overwhelm him, suddenly it's very difficult to cling to silence in one of those moments in the bathtub. For the first time, looking into those eyes that were the only mirror he could desire, he felt an uncontrollable urge to say something, anything, without being sure how to express it. It was easier to be read like a map than as words transcribed from a broken old transmitter.
But he tried, he opened his mouth anyway. Before he could even find his voice, Taeyang was already raising his eyebrows at him. Inviting even with the breaking of the ritual.
Jongseob exhaled deeply. His adaptability only made him want him more. Hungrily so.
It was like a recording full of static and he didn't know if it would be understood.
His eyes never left each other's eyes, not once.
“Let me consume your skin,” he offered, gently.
Of course, there was an implication becoming denser in the air.
So you can consume mine.
Taeyang stared at him. More than he had stared before, deeper, invasive. For a moment, Jongseob had a real fear that the static had been too high, his intent lost in his lack of clarity.
But in a blink, the other's eyes softened once more and he was already pushing his naked body forward, his knees scraping against the bathtub's bottom as he made his way to him. Jongseob didn't even have time to breathe before he placed his hand on the back of his neck and pulled his face onto his shoulder.
It sounded like a "of course”.
Jongseob breathed carefully against him, his eyes closing at the surface intricately constructed of scapulae as firm as cold concrete.
He slowly raised his hands to hold him back, to dig his fingers into his skin and delicately feel his bone structure, wanting to know precisely how each joint connected from the smallest bones to the largest ones. He pressed the tips against them and confirmed to himself how perfectly sculpted the other was, how beautiful he was entirely, even if he himself didn't always agree with it.
Taeyang as Taeyang, the person who he saw, with no gender to hover around, was inherently pretty, and he always would be. He wanted to be able to convey that perfectly to the other and make him keep it confidentially within his heart to analyze it zealously later, at a time when dysphoria wasn't digging its nails into his self-image.
But Jongseob wasn't good with words when he couldn't even say the same for himself.
He could only hope his fascination could be absolved through meat.
The other pushed him toward a better solution with a bite devoid of mercy against the shell of his ear. When the other's teeth sank into that sensitive spot, Jongseob's fingers pressed harder against his body, and his teeth clashed sharply against the ones below, a harsh collision that made his ears ring.
Drops of blood fall onto his shoulder and slide down, painting himself with himself.
The pain was immeasurable, but what truly made Jongseob tremble was feeling the other's swallow near his ear, his damp lips brushing weakly against the spot he bit. The shameless feed.
Taeyang's way of encouraging him to take what he wanted without hesitation. Taking first, obviously.
It was revolting.
It was so lovable.
Made him want him so much the prospect of not feeding on him back seemed more painful than the little piece torn from his ear.
His fingers slid upwards, digging until they were gripping the other's shoulders and pressing himself closer and closer until the shape of his own bones was imprinted on his.
Then, like a hungry cat, he bared his canines and began to dilacerate him.
More blood flowed and fell into their bathtub, blending into their air.