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It’s unsure how they met. Yixing can’t exactly remember.
There’s the very faint memory of winter—snow, ice, and cold; and the two of them, in the middle, warm and real and true. Mountains, maybe. Endless walks that now mean more than they did back then; maybe because they are the only memory of a first meeting Yixing can’t afford to recall.
But it doesn’t matter, really. Not when Baekhyun is right there, in his arms, where he belongs—or so Yixing hopes. He has a feeling he’s right about it, though.
The night is still young around them, outside the walls of their shared bedroom, the low light of the crepuscule leaving dark shadows across the room. It isn’t ideal—Yixing can only somewhat figure out Baekhyun’s features with this little light, but it’s enough to discern the bright twinkle of his eyes, the curve of his high cheeks, the cute tip of his nose. His eyelids flutter slightly when he blinks.
Unconsciously, Yixing smiles. He only knows because Baekhyun smiles back, the way he does when he catches Yixing staring with a fond grin on his face.
He feels warm all over, his heart clenches deliciously. He’ll never get over the feeling.
“I’m handsome, aren’t I?” Baekhyun asks, his voice only a murmur in the small space they’re sharing.
Their bedroom is not too big, just enough for their bed and the two nightstands that frame it on each side. Yixing’s guitar case rests in the corner, and Baekhyun’s photographs litter the walls, some of them framed, some others clumsily taped on the cold surface in an arrangement that has no structure but that Yixing finds brilliant nonetheless.
Everything about Baekhyun is just that—brilliant; wonderful, exciting, so lighthearted and carefree, and yet so profound with emotion at the same time. It’s addicting, and even after two years, Yixing hasn’t gotten tired of it.
He stares at the boy he gets to call his own, takes his time to let his eyes wander and linger. Baekhyun is following his gaze with his own, fond and faintly mischievous, and Yixing takes pleasure in this subtle little game they suddenly have going on. He takes pleasure in everything that involves Baekhyun.
He also realizes, not for the first time, that Baekhyun is the most beautiful person he’s ever met—not just how handsome he is, but how everything that makes him him just shines from inside him, somehow.
“No, not handsome,” Yixing still decides to reply, scrunching his nose slightly at the pout he sees forming itself on Baekhyun’s face. “Not at all. You’re average, at most.”
“Average?” Baekhyun repeats, incredulous—but his act crumbles when Yixing giggles without meaning to, and he breaks into a laugh. “I see how it is. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
When he makes to leave the bed, Yixing catches his wrist—delicate, thin, yet strong in his hold—and yanks him back to his side. Circling his arms around Baekhyun’s waist, he buries his nose in his neck, breathing in his sweet scent, before whispering, “You’re the most beautiful thing this world has to offer, Baekhyun. Now, stay with me.”
And he knows Baekhyun will want to act out and pretend to be put off by that sudden affection, but Yixing also knows Baekhyun cannot resist this, cannot resist him, and so he smiles to himself when he feels Baekhyun relax in his hold. The younger boy hums, settles back into the covers, and Yixing leaves a kiss between his jaw and his neck, where he knows it’ll tickle him just a little.
Baekhyun squirms, and Yixing’s smile grows. “Fine, I’m here.”
“You are.”
“You’re so disgusting.”
“I know.”
Baekhyun laughs at that, and Yixing bites softly at his neck, making his laugh turn into a groan. He relishes in the sound, at how Baekhyun slightly shivers under him.
He doesn’t go further, though. Yixing puts some distance between them—not too much; he still makes sure he can keep Baekhyun in his arms—and settles further into his pillow. Sleep is slowly pulling at his guts, and he knows he’s about to fall asleep soon.
“Baekhyun,” he murmurs, and he can feel his breath puff against the skin of Baekhyun’s face. “Sing me to sleep?”
The rustle of sheets. Eyes, always smiling, narrowing themselves at him. “Maybe,” Baekhyun hums. His eyes are searching his face, or maybe they’re just admiring. “Do you have a song in mind?”
“No. You choose.” Baekhyun always chooses the best songs, the ones that fit his wonderfully textured voice the best, and Yixing is charmed every time. He trusts him.
“Okay,” Baekhyun goes.
Then, he starts singing, just loud enough to make his voice heard, without going all in. It’s soft, delicate, far from flawless; Baekhyun is tired, as well, and it shows in how he barely holds the notes, and they come out slightly breathy. Sometimes, his voice wavers just a little, and that’s okay.
The fact that it’s far from being impeccable makes it perfect to Yixing—it’s authentic and spontaneous and everything he loves so much about Baekhyun, all at once. His voice is low, lower than how he usually pitches it, and it’s Yixing’s favourite tone—rich and smooth and absolutely gorgeous. Before he knows it, he’s closing his eyes, letting the music of Baekhyun’s voice lull him to sleep.
A hand finds its way to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, nails scratching at his scalp. It warms his heart and makes him sigh in contentment, and that seems to plunge him further into slumber.
The last thing he really remembers, that night, is the soft press of a pair of lips against his forehead.
***
“Gravity makes wonders…”
Baekhyun’s voice carries loud, this time. The windows of the car are down, and the smile on Yixing’s lips just won’t leave.
Wind rushes past them, ruffling their hair and rendering them breathless. When Yixing steals a look at Baekhyun, he finds him with his head thrown back, his neck exposed, and his wild hair is framing his face in moving flocks.
He’s beautiful. He’s a star of his own.
His singing stands somewhere between confident and unsure; the tone of his voice sounds assured and certain, but the foreign language of the lyrics makes Baekhyun hesitate on some instances, and Yixing revels in the way his tongue curls slightly at the way he pronounces the words.
Still, he’s singing freely, his fingers caressing the wind that blows its way inside the car, his voice sometimes low and steady, sometimes unbelievably high and delicate. Yixing makes sure to keep his eyes averted, set straight towards the road, but he can’t help it when he steals yet another glance or two towards his boyfriend.
When another song starts, Baekhyun lowers the volume of the radio, choosing to use his voice to speak instead. “What are you getting?”
They’ve decided to go for ice cream—or, in fact, Baekhyun woke Yixing up in the middle of the night with a series of kisses that turned out to be in exchange for a favour, which in turn happened to be this sudden night escapade.
The dashboard clock reads 2:09 a.m., and Yixing has work in about six hours.
To hell with work.
“Strawberry,” he decides. Strawberry ice cream is sweet and soft pink, and he feels like soft pink is a great colour to describe how he feels right now. “You?”
“Mint,” Baekhyun answers excitedly. A bright, pale green. “And if we can find chocolate chips at the store, I’m getting that too. It’ll be fucking incredible.”
“If you mix them, your ice cream will all melt, though.”
Baekhyun shrugs, snorts a laugh. “Who cares? Tastes the same. Better, even. It’ll still be cold, kind of.” A broadening smile. “Who cares?”
Yixing shakes his head, knows he probably looks way too fond for his disapproving “yeah, right” to be taken seriously.
They’ve made it out of town, because Baekhyun asked them to. They’re close to a convenience store by the highway Yixing knows to be open twenty-four hours a day, a place they’ve visited often enough at this time of the night to be considered odd regulars. They only ever show up every two or three months, but it’s as though the young cashier who works that shift just knows they’re coming each time. She always offers them the same knowing smile, and Yixing loves her for it.
Summer is nearing its end. The wind that rushes into the vehicle is warm without being thick, hinting at fresher, friskier times only a few weeks away. Yixing doesn’t mind it—he’ll gladly welcome the fall once it’s upon them. That won’t stop him from enjoying, and later definitely missing, summer nights like this one where it feels as though he’s still dreaming—except maybe, he’s doing it all while being awake.
When he parks the car, he reaches for Baekhyun’s hand, squeezes it, lets go. Before they leave the car, Baekhyun catches his hand again, just to lace their fingers and holds them still for a second.
Yixing’s heart skips a beat.
He gets a small strawberry ice cream stick. Baekhyun buys an entire gallon of mint ice cream, and replaces his initial chocolate chips idea with a large size package of M&M’s.
“I still think it’s a terrible idea.”
“No great memories come out of smart ideas, Yixing.”
“Fair point.”
They don’t feel like driving to find a place to eat, so they just settle for the hood of the car. Yixing actually manages to sit cross-legged on the vehicle, and watches with amusement as Baekhyun tries—fails—to do the same.
“You’re taller than me. You have an advantage.”
“I can’t believe you’ve just admitted to me being taller.”
“No I didn’t.”
High above, the stars and the moon are watching them, glinting their soft, perky glow. Yixing can’t see much of the stars—the air is still thick, this close to the city—but he imagines just how many must be hiding behind the clouds of smoke and light he can’t distinguish.
Or maybe they’re all just hiding in Baekhyun’s eyes.
He really should stop with the annoyingly poetic praises of his boyfriend.
He heaves a deep sigh, content, and tilts his head. He feels Baekhyun moving next to him, he hears him hum softly under his breath at odd intervals. Baekhyun makes a great photographer, but Yixing often wonders why he didn’t take a leap for the music scene. He would fit right in, he thinks. The stars seem to agree.
“Will you stop looking up and look at me instead?”
When Yixing glances down, Baekhyun is staring at him intently, eyebrows raised, lips pouting just a little. He has his spoon held up in the air, waiting. “Here. Your mouth. Open.” He moves the spoon around to emphasize his point.
Obediently, Yixing parts his lips, tastes the fresh mint flavour of Baekhyun’s ice cream. The chocolate takes longer to melt in his mouth, and he hums around it.
“How’s it?”
“Very nice.”
“Not that bad of an idea, huh?”
“Mmh. Want some of mine?”
“Sure.”
They share a few words and ice cream, and after a few bites where Baekhyun sucks obnoxiously at his strawberry stick, Yixing decides he’s not that hungry anymore and launches for Baekhyun’s mouth instead.
The way Baekhyun kisses him back tells him, in the back of his mind, that it’s what the younger has been aiming for all along. Yixing only swallows the thought with more fervent kisses, his tongue coming out to lick at Baekhyun’s bottom lip. It tastes like mint, strawberry, chocolate, and Baekhyun.
It picks up in pace and slows down again, and Yixing is left breathless, wanting more. Baekhyun nips at his bottom lip, smiles against his mouth, murmurs sweet nothings the moment they part before Yixing catches his lips again. He knows soft pink ice cream is melting and smearing all over his hand, and God knows what happened to Baekhyun’s gallon, but the taste of strawberry and mint is stronger in his mouth and thoughts than the distracting worry of making a mess of themselves.
It’s lazy and languid and builds a delicious tension, yet seems to last for hours, even though it has probably only been a few minutes. Still, when Baekhyun takes a step back, detaching their mouths, Yixing feels like he’s being woken up, dizzy and dazed, mind fuzzy.
There’s a deep, strong yearning, that’s anchored at the deepest pit of his stomach and pulling at his heart. High above, the stars are smiling—the ones that aren’t staring back at him, anyway.
Yixing has work in a little over six hours, he knows, but it seems like it’s part of an entire different reality to the one he’s currently immersed in, where it’s nighttime forever and there’s only Baekhyun and his lips and his stars.
“Mmh, I love you,” Yixing hears Baekhyun murmur, watches his swollen red lips push out the words.
A tiny whimper escapes his throat, before he replies hurriedly, desperately, “God, I love you too. I… I love you.”
It isn’t the first time, but it kind of feels like it is, in a way.
***
Sometimes, the walls of their apartment aren’t the only surfaces littered with pictures. Especially when Baekhyun is preparing for an exhibition, preliminary prints often flood the floors of their shared home, and Yixing often has to watch his step in order not to ruin his boyfriend’s work.
This is different, however. Baekhyun is working on a photo essay—his first—and it’s nothing like the artistic approach he usually goes for. Post-It notes of various colours are attached to the black and white shots, and it makes an odd kind of mosaic. Each one of them has remarks scribbled with a messy, hurried handwriting. With this, Baekhyun’s work is just as rigorous as it always is, but more sober, tinted with a certain seriousness that tends more towards photojournalism than photography as an art form. The entire work has a very distinct structure; telling a very specific story through images, with an arc and a meaning.
The shots are simple, but raw. Not exactly aesthetically pleasing, but powerful and gorgeous nonetheless. Baekhyun knows his job, knows how to work his gear—and his eye for the appealing is strikingly remarkable, Yixing thinks. Anything Baekhyun has ever shot is truly amazing to him.
And he would tell him that once again, if only Baekhyun was in the mood to listen.
Hands scratching furiously at his scalp, hair messy and going in all directions, Baekhyun is seated in the middle of his mess of prints, eyes darting a little everywhere as if he didn’t know where to look. He’s muttering under his breath, and the light that usually inhabits his eyes is replaced with a fire that keeps going from determined to panicked and vice versa.
“This isn’t working,” he murmurs, tone low and slightly shaking. Anxiety laces his words. “This just—it doesn’t make sense. Yixing, it doesn’t work.”
Although he’s addressing Yixing, they both know he’s talking more to himself than anything—it’s not like Yixing can really fix anything, and it’s not like Baekhyun would listen to whatever he might say, at the moment.
Something in Yixing always breaks, when he watches him like this, desperate determination and an urgent desire to create the most perfect, satisfying, compelling piece of work. He recognizes himself in those traits, too—if he’s honest, he’s probably worse than Baekhyun is—but it doesn’t pain him less to see Baekhyun in this state.
“Baekhyun,” he says softly. He has a mug of tea in one hand, the magazine’s issue of this week in the other. He has work to do, too—review the issue, go through new incoming pieces, all the stuff he hasn’t had time to check at the office. “Baekhyun, maybe you should take a break, yeah?”
“I can’t,” replies Baekhyun. He’s bending forward over his crossed legs, rearranging the mess of prints, removing some and moving some of the coloured Post-It notes around. “I should have thought about this before. I should have planned this better—or, no, actually, I should have stuck to my plan, and not taken all these… oh my God.”
Brown eyes nervously moving to every direction, thin and long fingers nervously plucking at the pictures and the carpet under them, hands nervously shaking and moving and not once halting. Baekhyun is nervous to the point where Yixing is, too, and he starts to move, before he stops again.
Yixing stops, stops as Baekhyun stops moving altogether. He watches as the younger sits back, slowing down his breathing voluntarily through long, deep inhales. He can see some of the pressure leave him, his muscles untightening, his body not shaking anymore. Baekhyun is still on edge though, and Yixing knows—stress does that, of course it does.
He starts moving again, tiptoes his way around the spread of pictures, and finds his spot on the couch, right behind Baekhyun on the floor. He puts down his tea and magazine and brings his hands to Baekhyun’s shoulders, his fingers digging in slightly and pushing at knots in the muscles.
Baekhyun sighs under his touch. “I’ll be okay, yeah? I’ll figure it out. I didn’t mess up.”
“Of course not,” Yixing replies, still massaging him. He keeps his voice calm, steady, something he knows Baekhyun can hold on to. “You’re too good at this to ever mess up.”
“I’ve never done a photo essay before. This is, like, serious stuff.”
“All of your work is serious,” Yixing muses. “Even the exhibition at Chanyeol’s crappy bar was serious. Sort of.” Not really. Just a bunch of film shots Baekhyun had gotten over a yearlong period at every party he’s attended. A series of mindless photographs that still managed to convey more happiness and a stronger feeling of exhilarating recklessness than anything Yixing had ever seen. Baekhyun is an artist like no other, he thinks.
Baekhyun huffs a laugh at that. “That was awful. It was my first event ever, and pretty much everyone was there more for the free booze than to admire my shitty beginner shots. Shots about booze, mind you.”
“But you got noticed, though.” He did. A week later, a curator had reached out to Baekhyun, asking to meet him to discuss a possible future project. It worked out well, and Baekhyun accumulated the opportunities since. “And it hasn’t stopped since.”
“But still,” Baekhyun insists. He leans onto Yixing’s hands, who presses his palms flat against the plane of Baekhyun’s shoulders. “I’m really… this is unlike anything I’ve done before. It doesn’t even feel like anything I’ve done before. I really don’t want to mess it up.”
“And you won’t,” Yixing assures him, because he knows. “You know what you’re doing—even if you think you don’t. And if it’s your story you’re worried about—it’s incredible. I’m an editor, remember? I know about this stuff.” Baekhyun writes with pictures, Yixing with words. They each have their own thing.
Throwing his head back, Baekhyun is now looking at him from upside down, a lopsided smile dancing on his lips. “Oh yeah, boss?”
Skipped heartbeats and rush of heat. “Oh yes.” He pulls his hands back, brings his legs under him on the couch before picking up his magazine, reaching for the pen behind his ear. Baekhyun finds it adorably old-fashioned, so he keeps doing it. “Now, back to work. I’ve got shit of my own to deal with, too.”
At that, Baekhyun groans, but there is something about his movements that seem to be more eager, less anxious than before. It’s something.
After a few minutes of silence, Yixing picks up his phone, puts on a random Spotify playlist for them to enjoy while working. A few more minutes, and Baekhyun is humming along, sometimes interrupted by his own commentary, “no, not like this, hold on,” or, “what are you doing, Baekhyun, for God’s sake,” before he resumes. Yixing’s lips smile on their own accord each time, and it almost makes his cheeks hurt.
An hour later, and Yixing is done with his revision work. Rather than standing up just yet, he steals a look at the floor, paying closer attention to the scattered pictures on the ground. He knows what this project is about—he has watched Baekhyun ponder over the idea, plan it out, put it forth and build it entirely. Still, now that they’re so close to seeing the final product, it’s something else entirely to see what it has amounted to, all those months of work.
Dark streets and alleys, unwelcoming, almost shiver-inducing. People, old and young, looking far different from the near-perfect painted dolls walking the main streets of Korea’s big cities. Baekhyun’s work focuses on the beauty in the ugly, but also its story—how there’s reasons to why slums actually do come to be, and how the problems that arise from those places are so striking yet no one pays attention. Shining light on the ugly, showing the human side to it that we ought to see but decide not to. “Something like that,” Baekhyun would say offhandedly, although he wouldn’t need to express anything through words, since his pictures truly speak for themselves.
Yixing is an editor, has built his career as a writer, yet it is hard even for him to put words to Baekhyun’s work—not because it’s bad, but because it’s that good, compelling through the contrast of black and whites and what they depict in a way that nothing else truly is.
“Baekhyun,” he says softly. “You won’t mess up.”
“No?” Baekhyun turns to look at him, eyes wide and slightly distracted, as if he was too entranced in his work to really remember Yixing was sharing the space with him. It happens.
“No,” Yixing repeats, shaking his head. “You’re amazing. You’ll do amazingly well.”
Baekhyun offers him a smile—broad, blinding; rectangle-shaped and pushing his cheeks up and Yixing smiles back because he can’t help it.
***
Yixing isn’t smiling.
His feature writer just fucked off from the surface of the Earth and he is completely unresponsive to Yixing’s emails, texts, and calls, and production night is tomorrow. If he doesn’t have all his pieces in, edited, and laid out by then, he’s screwed.
A feature. That’s four to six pages along with a spread, with pictures, and a layout that probably will take Jongdae about an extra two hours to come up with, because it has to be perfect and it has to look good and sort of new and it has to look nicely different from the rest.
He needs something—anything—right about now, but he’s left empty-handed. He sort of wants to give up on everything and maybe quit his job because he obviously cannot do it properly.
Okay, maybe not—but it’s still a pretty damn big problem, and if he doesn’t have material ready right this fucking second, he’s fucked.
He’s not even in the office—he’s at home, elbows on his desk, hands in his hair with his forehead on the cool glass surface of the table. His laptop sits a few inches away, and Yixing should probably be careful not to topple it over, but at this point this would change very little to the almost impossible situation he’s found himself in.
“I’m going to die,” he says to no one in particular, his lips dragging against the glass of his desk. It’s probably highly unsanitary. Worse has been done on that desk, though. “Or maybe I’m just going to kill Taeyong.”
“Don’t kill Taeyong,” Baekhyun says from somewhere behind him. Yixing hears the clutter of utensils coming from the kitchen, and Baekhyun’s voice loud over it. “Something probably came up, yeah? It’s not something he would do voluntarily, you know that.”
Yixing knows that. Yixing knows that Taeyong is probably one of his best and most reliable writers, despite his sometimes thoughtless tendencies behind his overall open and soft personality. He’s young and eager and unbelievably talented, everything Yixing once was—hopefully still is—too, and maybe it’s why he keeps giving him opportunities to pitch a story. Usually, most of the time, almost always, it pays off wonderfully. This time, too; if only Taeyong would actually submit the damn thing.
“Where is he?” Yixing groans, and anger boils in his veins, making him fist his hands in his hair, but he wills himself to calm down. Maybe something did come up. Maybe something important. An emergency. He hopes Taeyong is okay.
He still needs a feature. Three to four thousand words. Some sort of media to go with it. The core of next week’s issue, basically. He needs it now.
“Xing,” Baekhyun says from the kitchen. Yixing doesn’t move. “Yixing, dinner, come on.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When did you last eat?”
Six in the morning, a banana and a cup of coffee. He’s only had about three coffee cups since then. He might throw up caffeine, at this point. “Not too long ago.”
“You’re lying.” Of course Baekhyun knows. “Come on, Xing. Don’t kill yourself over it. Have a bite, yeah? You’ll figure it out.”
Reluctant, Yixing gets up, somehow moves over to the kitchen without really registering his movements. He sits down on the small table in the room, looks over at the counter where Baekhyun is busying himself with serving portions. “Ramyun?”
“I cut heart-shaped rice cakes in it too,” Baekhyun almost sings, his voice lilting beautifully and almost making Yixing forget about the feature.
God damn you, Lee Taeyong. “You’re cute,” Yixing says, because Baekhyun is cute.
Baekhyun is the stars and is a star himself, and Yixing is nothing, and Baekhyun is everything, and he made him ramyun with heart-shaped rice cakes.
“I love you,” he adds for good measure, because it’s suddenly very, very important. He loves Baekhyun, so much, the most.
“I love you too,” Baekhyun replies easily, his nose scrunching up as he does so, sitting down and putting down their food. “Let’s enjoy this!”
“Let’s.”
They eat in silence, and Yixing does more playing with his food than actual eating. The floating rice cakes are cut clumsily and they don’t really look like hearts but Yixing is okay with pretending. He picks up the little rice cake hearts carefully with his chopsticks, observes them meticulously almost, before putting them in his mouth, munching thoughtfully and slowly and in a way he hopes appears casual in Baekhyun’s eyes.
It doesn’t. “You’re not eating.”
“I am.” Yixing opens his mouth wide, and he knows it’s disgusting, but Baekhyun sort of asked for it. “See?”
“Eat everything, will you?” Baekhyun asks him. He sighs, tilts his head to one side, then the other. He straightens up. “Please. Don’t stress out too much. Maybe if you eat, Taeyong will send you his article and it will be a reward from the Universe.”
The Universe lives in Baekhyun’s eyes, Yixing wants to say. Stars in his eyes and in his brain and entire galaxies breathing in and out of him, swimming inside him—Yixing knows it all to be there, encompassed in this man across from him he gets to call his.
He doesn’t know why he suddenly thinks about all this, why it’s suddenly the only thing on his mind. Baekhyun, the love of his life, yes. Baekhyun, the moon, the stars, everything, yes. The article is still not in his inbox, but the world still spins and what can he do?
“I’ll eat,” he says, although it feels like he says something else.
He does eat. When he’s done, he walks back to his desk, finds his inbox still empty of any new email. He sends another to Taeyong, for good measure, with no content and with a subject line that reads, Hope you’re okay.
Yixing isn’t.
Baekhyun, on the couch, speaks, and maybe saves Yixing’s life, just then.
“I have an idea.”
Slowly, Yixing turns to him. “I’m listening.”
Sitting on the couch, legs under him, pretty fingernails at the end of pretty nervous fingers pulling at the end of his sleeves, Baekhyun looks so small, so soft and open and Yixing wants to claim his mouth, kiss his eyelids, pet him to sleep. “My essay. I mean—I’m done with it. The exhibition happened, like, two weeks ago. I have the files, everything. It’s going to tour soon. I’ve got info on that too. You could interview me! Anything. You have a story there, right?” he adds, hopeful, scared.
Yixing really, really wants to kiss him. Something sits and pulls at his stomach.
“I don’t—I don’t know,” he still says, honestly. “There’s… something. It could be a photography piece. Fewer words, more pictures, a few more pages. It would be better, actually. Let your pictures speak for themselves, and stuff.” It would be perfect. It is perfect.
Baekhyun sits a little straighter, smiles a little brighter. Yixing watches from the desk, mesmerized, a little lost. “Come on, though,” he insists, because Baekhyun always does, and Yixing always gives in. “You manage an arts and culture weekly. I’m a professional photographer. It’s almost ridiculous that we haven’t worked together already.”
“Conflict of interest, Baekhyun.”
“Screw that,” Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “You need a story. I have one. Take it.”
He has already said yes, is the thing. In his head, Yixing has said yes, he has probably already sent the files to Jongdae, written a thousand words or so on Baekhyun’s work, because he has that much and more to say about it.
He hasn’t done any of that yet, but he’s ready to do it. Taeyong probably won’t reach out anytime soon, and Baekhyun is right. He has a story.
“Fuck,” is all that makes it out of Yixing’s mouth.
Eyebrows slightly raised in question, Baekhyun sits still. “So that’s a—”
“Yes,” Yixing answers. “Yeah, let’s—fuck.”
He stands up, takes two steps towards the couch, before he straddles Baekhyun’s lap and grabs his face to kiss him.
It takes him by surprise as much as it does Baekhyun, but the latter opens up immediately, hums into the kiss as Yixing moans into it. Baekhyun’s mouth is soft and pliant and moves slowly, whereas Yixing is pushing, wants more, wants to give Baekhyun as much as he’s constantly giving him, because, because…
“I’m that great, huh?” Baekhyun chuckles between their mouths. Yixing licks at his bottom lip, takes it in his mouth, sucks just a little, enough to pull a groan out of Baekhyun. “Alright, come here.”
They’re kissing again, but now, Baekhyun is matching up to Yixing’s fervent pace, their tongues licking at each other’s mouths and Baekhyun’s hands roaming Yixing’s body.
Yixing feels like he’s lit on fire, skin burning to the touch, Baekhyun warm and solid under him. He’s tasting his galaxies on his tongue and it’s sweet and it reminds him of ice cream and chocolate and mint and strawberry. Soft pink turns bright red behind his eyelids.
He presses down on Baekhyun’s hips, and it ignites something in them both, sucking in the air between them. Yixing chases after the feeling, swivels his hips once more, deepens the kiss as Baekhyun whimpers.
“Again,” Baekhyun asks, and Yixing complies. It sends his head spinning and heat pooling at his guts and he has everything he’s ever wanted and more under him.
“I should probably—probably send the files to—to Jongdae,” he manages to push out, and he hates himself for it, because Jongdae is about the second to last person Yixing wants to think about right now. Taeyong holds the last place.
Baekhyun seems to agree. “You’ll do that later,” he says, annoyed and panting, teeth scraping at the skin of Yixing’s neck. He shivers, his breath stuttering. “You’re coming to bed with me.”
They’re giggling and breathless on their way to the bedroom. Once they’re there, they don’t bother with the lights—their clothes come off fast, but they take things slow; Yixing traces the lines of Baekhyun’s body under the moonlight, and it feels like every night they’ve spent which each other, or like that one night they stayed in each other’s arms, not too long ago, under the night light.
Yixing loves to take his time with Baekhyun, loves when they take their time with each other. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses at his collarbones, the tip of his fingers, the juncture of his hips. His hands slide along Baekhyun’s sides, curve at his waist, his arms, elbows. Their fingers are interlaced, their kisses are deeper, smoother, slower. The heat is rising in the room around them, their laboured breaths the only thing Yixing can make out aside from the soft sound of skin brushing against skin almost muted by their mouths.
When Yixing pushes in inside Baekhyun, the latter writhes under him, pleasure painted delicately across his face. His skin is flushed, back arching, eyes half-closed. Small breaths make it out of his parted lips, and Yixing desperately wants to kiss him again, wants to taste him again, wants…
“Look at me,” he whispers in the space between them, because he doesn’t want it to be loud, not yet.
Baekhyun flutters his eyelids, the light gets caught in his lashes, and then he opens his eyes, and Yixing almost starts sobbing. They’re so bright in the night, filled with lust and desire and warmth and so, so much love. Not knowing what to do, Yixing starts moving.
It pulls the most wonderful sounds out of Baekhyun, who tightens his grip at their interlaced fingers, holding on for dear life as Yixing pushes in slowly, deeper, each time. He whines, moans, cries out when it hits just the right spot. He chants Yixing’s name, and Yixing half wants him to scream it, half wants to shut him up with something, anything, his own mouth. Instead, he starts telling him about the stars in his eyes, the way he tastes, just how brilliant he is, and Baekhyun keens under the attention, the praise.
It shakes through them both at once, everything, overwhelming—Baekhyun’s voice is high and breathy and Yixing stills. They take each other in, they let pleasure wash over them in waves, together, taking their time.
In the middle of the night, Yixing whispers against Baekhyun’s skin, “Baekhyun, I love you.”
And it might sound like just a few words, but Yixing shivers, and his heart swells, when Baekhyun replies almost reverently, “Zhang Yixing, I love you too.”
The stars, the galaxies, the Universe; they all seem to agree.