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The package is not even his. That’s the first and most important thing. Sohee wants it on the record, before anyone gets all holier-than-thou about privacy, that he is not the type of person who opens other people’s mail unless that person shares a bathroom with him and leaves his contacts to marinate in his drinking glass and uses his face wash even when he’s been told, verbally and in writing, multiple times not to. Then he feels like he is owed at least a little insight into the inner workings of his life.
It isn’t like he makes a habit of opening other people’s mail all the time, and his own package was supposed to arrive today.
So, of course Sohee tears open the package with his usual measured violence, thumb pressed firm against the tape, tongue caught in his teeth. He’s expecting the Banpresto Rei Ayanami, limited edition, one he’s been tracking for two weeks. The corner of the box is already mangled, but that’s par for the course lately. This new place, every delivery looks like it’s been dropkicked from a moving van.
Inside is nothing plastic, nothing blue-haired, nothing remotely Evangelion. Instead, nestled in a mass of bubble wrap, is a box that says “LELO” in elegant black type, with a little gold heart above the O. He squints. Not a figurine. Not his, probably. Sohee yanks the shipping slip free with a flick and there is Anton’s name.
He realizes he’d gotten too excited and didn’t check until the box was gaping, flaps like spastic origami wings. He could just tape it back together like he never saw it, but the box is already open. The corner is shredded, and Anton’s name is so clearly on the slip, and what’s the point in half-assing a crime?
Sohee peels the rest of the tape off, lifts the lid, and stares at the pale pink… bullet. It's got a charging cord. He instantly starts to sweat, even though it’s barely March and the heating in their building is on the fritz. He picks it up, weighs it in his hand.
He knows what it is. He’s not an idiot. He’s been on the internet. Still, it’s smaller than he thought—sleek, almost clinical, a kind of pink that doesn’t exist in nature but looks like it should belong in a Y2K-themed art gallery. He frowns, then turns it over in his palm, pressing the button out of morbid curiosity. Nothing. Dead out of the box.
He snaps the box shut. Maybe if he leaves it on Anton’s chair with the packing slip, Anton will think the delivery guy did it. Or maybe he should leave it charging on the kitchen counter, just to see if Anton cracks first. He could even bring it up at dinner. He could say, “Hey, did you know your vibrator is the same shade as Pepto-Bismol?” Or he could kill himself to avoid having to deal with any of that.
He’ll just say he noticed the shipping label after starting to open it. That’s defensible. It was a normal, honest mistake. He drops the LELO box back in the bubble wrap and arranges the torn cardboard with the precision of a Tetris grandmaster. The packing slip he wedges underneath, just visible enough to make it look like it had been inching out all along. He slides the package onto the counter, pushes it flush with the wall. No one will notice. No one will care. It looks fine.
His phone vibrates: Anton, with a string of exclamation points, followed by “20 min away do u want anything from the bakery??” Sohee’s thumb hovers, then he types: “nah im good,” punctuated with a thumbs up. His mouth is dry. His hands, now that he’s looking at them, are shaking. He wipes them on his sweatpants and carefully stands an empty Pepsi can next to the recycling bin, a pantomime of having done nothing at all.
He’s not going to think about it. He’s definitely not going to think about Anton spending his own money on a pink vibrator and having it shipped to the dorms. He’s not thinking about the expressions Anton’s dumb face would make using it. He’s not thinking about any of that, and he’s not thinking about Anton at all.
He barrels down the hall, swings into his room, and slams the door. He flops onto his bed and stares at the ceiling, phone clutched to his chest. He’s still holding his breath when the front door rattles twenty minutes later. There’s the percussion of Anton’s keys hitting the shoe rack, the low boom of Anton’s voice announcing, “I’m home!” Like he’s hosting a TV show and not just coming home from some work related outing. There’s a clatter as Anton drops his bag, a faint curse—probably stubbed his toe again, idiot—then footsteps toward the kitchen.
Sohee’s heart is pounding. He listens for the moment Anton sees the box. Silence, then a soft, “Oh.” Another silence. He waits, staring at nothing, his hands squeezing the life out of his phone.
There’s a knock at his door, not even five minutes later. “Sohee,” Anton calls, voice level but a little breathless, “why’s my mail on the counter with the box half-open?”
He says nothing for a beat, then, “I thought it was mine. Sorry, man.” He makes it sound offhand, casual, like he isn’t picturing the vibrator resting in Anton’s hand, or getting wet in Anton’s mouth, or. Well.
The door opens a crack. Anton peers in, his hair a little windblown, the package clutched to his chest like a rescued kitten. “You sure?” He sounds nervous. His gaze lingers.
“I didn’t open it all the way,” Sohee says, and immediately hates how defensive it sounds.
Anton comes into the room, rests his hip against the end of the bed tentatively. He’s close enough that Sohee can smell the outside air coming off him, sharp and green. “You’re a shitty liar,” Anton says, not unkindly.
Sohee shrugs. “Didn’t want you to think I was, like, judging.”
“Are you?”
“Dude, it’s 2026. No one cares.”
Anton’s mouth twitches, a half-smile forming. Sohee tosses his phone onto the pillow and rolls onto his stomach, hiding his face in his arms. “Get out,” he mutters.
That night, he brushes his teeth so hard his gums bleed, and stares at his own reflection in dismay. If he blinks, the mirror will show Anton’s hands instead of his own, working the brush in slow, decadent circles. When he rinses his mouth, he thinks about Anton’s lips parted, pink to match that ridiculous toy, and wonders if the box is already in use or still sitting somewhere in Anton’s room, unopened. The thought is so intrusive it short-circuits the dumb song that has been stuck in his brain for three days.
Sohee’s not obsessed. He’s not even nosy. He’s just got questions that will probably never be answered, and that’s what rankles him the most.
He wants to know if Anton read the manual or just winged it, if he tried it standing or lying down, if he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making noise. He wants to ask if it worked, if it was everything the glossy marketing promised, if it made him come so hard he had to muffle the sound in his sleeve. But he’s not a freak. He’s normal and respectful and he’s not going to keep an eye on Anton every time he leaves his room just to see if he emerges looking—different.
But after two more days pass, he realizes he’s got to admit to himself that he’s obsessed. The vibrator consumes his every waking thought. He wakes up and washes his face, thinking about Anton fingering himself open, pushing the vibrator against his prostate and muffling his moans into his pillow. He washes the dishes and thinks of Anton’s long fingers wrapped around his cock, sandwiching the vibrator in between, jerking his hips up and whining like a bitch. He’s in dance practice, running through the choreography again, absentmindedly wondering if Anton arches his back and pushes the vibrator into himself while laying on his stomach, or if he stays on his back to do it.
He’s so in his head about it that he nearly doesn’t notice Anton in the mirror. He’s biting his lip, gaze soft and unfocused. It’s the same face he makes when he’s trying to sneak an extra dumpling with chopsticks, the same face he made that one time Sohee caught him watching a drama and pretending not to cry. But now his gaze is fixed squarely on Sohee.
Sohee freezes. For a half second he considers just pretending he didn’t notice, but Anton’s eyes flick up, catch his, and his mouth quirks into a bashful, stupidly endearing smile before he ducks out of sight.
Sohee’s entire body nearly vaporizes from embarrassment. He glares at himself in the mirror, then at the corner where Anton had been standing. His shirt hangs loose on his frame, collar damp with sweat, hair sticking up. He looks like a mess. He feels worse.
The moment they get back to the dorm he goes into his room, sits on his bed, hands idle in his lap, and stares at the ceiling until the popcorn texture blurs into a field of hateful little dots. He tries to clear his head—think about literally anything else—but his brain is stuck on loop, running the day’s events like a screensaver.
He can’t stop picturing Anton: cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, arms tucked behind his head while he—well. Does whatever it is he does with that thing. Sohee wants to punch the wall harder now, but all his muscles have turned to hot soup. It’s probably a good thing he’s not a psycho. He’s just horny and frustrated and maybe, in some horrifying way, jealous.
For a moment, he lets himself imagine walking into Anton’s room, seeing him splayed out on the sheets, the pink toy buzzing low between his thighs. The look on Anton’s face—open, desperate, maybe even pleading. Would he beg? Would he hide his face or meet Sohee’s eyes and dare him to say something? Would he ask for help? The thought is enough to make Sohee dizzy.
He palms at his crotch, more for the principle than anything else, then stops. This is madness. He can’t just jerk off to the idea of his bandmate getting off. That’s a line, right? There are lines. He’s not sure what they are, but he thinks he’s crossed at least four.
He pulls his hand away, frustrated with himself, but the outline of the idea is burned in. It won’t go away. It’s not even about the toy anymore. He wants to see Anton open up all the way. What would it take to get Anton to collapse, to admit he wants anything at all? Would he be loud? Would he beg, eyes wet with tears?
He squeezes his eyes shut. His palm is pressed hard enough to his groin he might leave a bruise. A quick, violent shame, like a match flare, makes him want to stop. But then he’s picturing Anton again, skin damp, knees splayed, whining into the sheets, body jerking with every pulse of the vibrator. Does Anton ever think about him while he does it? Does he ever picture Sohee standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching? Would he let Sohee get closer, just to prove he isn’t fazed? Or would he look away, too embarrassed to hold the stare?
He can’t handle it. He can’t handle himself. He snaps his waistband down—fuck it—grinds the heel of his hand deep, and lets the fantasy run wild. In his mind, Anton is not quiet. In his mind, Anton is messy, gasping, begging. He wants to see Anton fuck himself with his own fingers, see the careful, bratty control break down. He wants to see him helpless, ruined, ruined, ruined.
He comes in under five minutes, biting the inside of his arm to keep from making a noise. He’s panting, sweat beading at his hairline, the sheets bunched up under his knees. The sticky mess is already cooling on his stomach, disgusting, but he doesn’t care. He lies there and lets the aftershocks roll through him, pulse hammering in his ears, the ceiling overhead spinning slightly with the leftover adrenaline.
He waits for the guilt, or the regret, but all he feels is relief, as if something has finally been excavated, a weird thorn pulled out. He closes his eyes, lets his hand fall away, and breathes.
Down the hall, a door opens and shuts. Footsteps, heavier than his own, then a pause. He wonders if Anton can hear him breathing. Wonders if Anton knows. The thought should make him want to set himself on fire.
After a few seconds, he gets up, wipes up, and goes to the bathroom to clean himself off.