
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9252332.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      NCT_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Dong_Si_Cheng_|_WinWin/Lee_Taeyong
  Character:
      Dong_Si_Cheng_|_WinWin, Lee_Taeyong, Nakamoto_Yuta, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Patient!Winwin, Doctor!Taeyong, Age_Difference,
      Underage_Sex, Rough_Oral_Sex, Anxiety_Disorder, Panic_Attacks, Winwin_is
      a_Mess, Gift_Fic, Attempted_Rape/Non-Con
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-08 Completed: 2017-02-23 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 25101
****** Baby don't like it ******
by NCTH4NKS
Summary
     Taeyong is having a hard time trying to stay away from his new
     patient who is growing a little bit too fond of his company.
Notes
     take two.
     this was supposed to be a birthday present for @shinees but i'm a
     failure. what's new. i hope you like this aNYWaY. ily and happy new
     year!!
     huge shoutout to @sad_machine for always cheering me on and listening
     to my endless rants about how i can't get anything done. she's the
     best and vv appreciated.
     not proofread.
     happy sinning.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sicheng was tired. So immensely tired, as if months of insomnia had manifested
themselves in the drag of his limbs whenever he'd carry himself to the kitchen
in the mornings, just laboriously heaving them up the stairs in the evening
after they'd come home from whichever superfluous favor of an event his parents
had dragged him and his siblings to. An invariably existent state of fatigue,
accompanied by small, commercial-like breaks of hysteria.
 
Sicheng was sixteen years old. A soft age, when yet a little rough around the
edges; the sweet childlike tonality having transformed into a honey-dipped,
warm bass while his eyes had remained wide and luminous, beautiful, lathy
lashes resting upon a bone structure that could've been described as chiseled,
moldedby an artist's precisest tools. He had kept a hint of that childlike
spark; more than most his age, anyway. And it showed, in the way his mother
would put him out for display whenever they'd frequent another excessively
proper dinner party, in the way they'd smile and coo, pet his hair as if he was
some scarce preciousness, the jewel in his mother's safe that he somehow
managed to empathize with so well because it was terrifying just how familiar
he was with that sense of imprisonment, despite having the freedom to travel
almost any site that he could possibly desire to call on. Dong Sicheng was a
prisoner in his own weary state, in his shoes that were always tied too tight
and in the grip his father would have on his shoulder.
 
He was confined in his perplexity about the towering question mark that was his
future.
 
 
Yet next mornings do come and a sense of responsibility would naturally
accompany every rising sun. Although Sicheng would rather have them remain in
seclusion for a while longer, and by that he most certainly means that if he
had been familiar with the ways of freezing time, he'd apply them without
second thought. Three o'clock at night was the peace he sought after, the place
he wanted to be and the only time of the day that he didn't feel like those
enormous walls seemed to suffocate him somehow, because the larger the walls,
the thiner the air. He tried to remind himself to breathe on a regular basis,
since that wasn't that self-evident of a task, and when he fluttered his eyes
open upon hearing the maid's habitual wake up call, he swore he was getting
worse at it. Maybe he could allow himself to fake oblivion every now and again,
but not today.
 
He glanced at the phone on his bedside table. The reminder notification read
"Dad's Birthday".
 
A particular guardedness accompanied his footfalls down the stairs, his heart
running riot in his chest when he spotted his father's guise at the breakfast
table, almost completely shielded by the broad headlines of the newspaper and
alongside Sicheng's two older brothers, who were eating in quiet. Sicheng was
scared, and scared to be scared, terrified by his own restlessness which would
habitually appear to be cancelled out by languidness, but it wasn't, and
Sicheng was tremoring from within.
 
"Good morning," he mustered. His voice was too small. He gave himself away.
 
 Might as well carry through now.
 
Sicheng took seat at his usual spot at the table, next to his mother's. She
seemed to be occupied in the kitchen, the versant smell of waffles filtering
through the atmosphere.
 
"Morning, Sicheng," the oldest of his brothers spared him a glance. Too civil
to be natural.
 
Now Sicheng could officially assign a rank to the severity of the situation.
His gaze settled upon his father, who had yet to put down his newspaper so
Sicheng could make out the mien he was to brace himself for, because he was
fragile, so fragile, he didn't want to fend unprepared. If there was room to
fend to begin with.
 
His mother came in, and with her, the maid, a plate of fresh waffles balanced
on her forearm, a jug of milk in one hand, two smaller ones with toppings in
the other. His mother helped her put them down on the table, before she nodded
Sicheng's way and he finally felt his existence receiving some strange form of
acknowledgement, and he felt utterly grateful.
 
Finally, his father put down the paper, and Sicheng didn't quite know what he
expected to begin with; a grey undertone, the wonted crease between dark,
contorted brows and a vacant vision that was strangely intimidating, even from
the safe distance Sicheng liked to put between the two. His father inspected
the new batch of waffles and hummed, utilizing his fork to shove some onto his
plate. Once his mother was seated at the table and the maid out of the room,
there was nothing but the devoid clank of cutlery against porcelain, the
occasional shuffle when someone would raise the napkin to their mouth. The
usual mornings. Accustomed trepidations. Foreign licentiousness.
 
Just then, Sicheng noted how he hadn't moved ever since he had settled in his
chair. But there was no longer potential to, as tempting those waffles
presented themselves, neatly stacked on two separate plates, topped off with a
thin layer of powdered sugar and berries. His father raised voice, and his
senses went on full alert, and he wouldn't dare, no, wouldn't gather the little
bits of nerve it would take him to bring his hand forward from under the table,
because it was sweaty, or cold, or both, and it may have shaken when his father
put aside his napkin and spoke.
 
"As you're all hopefully very aware, today is special. Every year I like to use
this occasion to make a few announcements and recount what had made this year
one that I am grateful for."
 
His gaze wandered to Zheng, oldest of the three.
 
"This year I can proudly call myself the father of the CEO of the most
promising export company within Asian territory and I am delighted to announce
that he, too, will be able to call himself father of a sprouting young man in
near future," he raised his mug, the corners of his mouth still unwavering.
"may he grow up to be as prosperous as you, my son."
 
And there it was again. The dead elephant in the room, the unapproachable,
almost divine presence of excellence that re-established itself every day anew,
once they were gathered at the table, seemingly mute and vacant of any false
motives. It wasn't Zheng's fault. Nobody had a say in this system, the unvoiced
ranking, the hierarchythat no one ventured to question, because silence was
rich and slip-ups deadly, words were to be used when there was some sort of
benefit to garner and not one syllable that has left Sicheng's lips felt of
enough significance to be heeded. Not within this system. Not when he was last
in the food chain. He stared down at his plate.
 
"Yuanjun," his father continued, and Sicheng could note how his brother's
position shifted in the seat opposite to his. He was ready for the praise. His
time to shine. "you have been named after your great-grandfather for a reason.
Your name carries a great burden, the burden of a rich history that reaches
back into the early founding days of our almost ancient family dynasty. But as
it turned out, all worry was misguided. You've completed your studies at
university with flying colors this year and have already established yourself a
secure position in the family business. I know that you are gifted with an
eager spirit that will allow you to accomplish anything. Yuanjun, I am beyond
proud."
 
Sicheng clenched the rough fabric of his khaki pants under the table. His
vision didn't avert, didn't waver; he wasn't even certain if he was blinking,
really, he merely listened, hardly breathed.
 
"And of course, I want to voice my heartfelt thanks to my beautiful wife who
has always been my source of unconditional love and support. Your harbor my
heart, Huian. The years I have you by my side will always be the brightest."
 
Brief and succinct; his mother had lived through years of iconic speeches, it
wasn't much of a surprise. And yet she always managed to muster a warm smile,
managed to look so fond despite her quivering hands, and if she didn't hold
Sicheng's hand under the table at the rather frequent times that it occurred,
Sicheng wouldn't exactly know. Although, she didn't in that moment. Maybe she
was genuinely touched.
 
Silence.
 
Almost deafeningsilence.
 
Something told Sicheng he was supposed to look up, and yet, he wasn't aspiring
to decease at such fledging age, wasn't courageous, or corrupted enough to
voice a definite death wish.
 
Although.
 
He lifted his gaze.
 
The entire round, excluding his mother, had its full regard pinned to the burn
hole in the picture, perusing, permeating. One marveled at how it managed to
subsist without having been fixed, an undertaking so long overdue that it had
been dismissed as the dust particles that continued to gather atop of the old
clock every morning, no matter the endeavors of the maid, the frequency or the
rigor of her polishing. It's an infesting presence one simply had to put up
with, and this one just happened to be nice to look at.
 
Nice to look at.
 
That's what he was.
 
That's all he was.
 
"Sicheng, eat the waffles your mother made."
 
 
 
 
The day went by at a rather dragging pace, one punch following the other that
the knots in Sicheng's stomach merely seemed to have tangled themselves with
one another. Sicheng couldn't pinpoint what made his gut churn and twist the
most; potentially that episode at the large scale dinner they hosted in the
evening, when one of his father's affiliates asked what his sons had been up to
and once Sicheng's name rolled past gritted ivories, just presenting itself so
eager to be dragged, he responded with a chagrin-laced "He says he's too ill to
study", because just how evident could he make it that he wasn't going to
degrade himself to make anyone assume he might be on his youngest's side.
Sicheng was on his own. And obviously completely irrational.
 
So it sounded.
 
But Sicheng didn't budge, remained seated at the buoyant revelry, because the
least he could do was look niceand jubilant, and when he performed the
traditional dance he had prepared for the occasion, he didn't even attempt to
bide acclaim, not when he was so eager to make his exit after bowing to the
audience that was beyond euphoric. It didn't wasn't of importance, really. He
just didn't appear ill enough for a convincing stage.
 
There had also been the instant that his father had made the effort to assemble
the three of his sons by the stairs to send each to bed individually, as to
speak last words of tribute and what might've sounded like distantly related to
endearment and praise if he hadn't cut himself off the moment Sicheng raised
his pate to look at him, because yes, he was very much present. Or so it
seemed.
 
Sicheng rid himself of his tux and fell back into the soft burgundy sheets of
his bed, exhaling what seemed to be trapped in his throat for the past sixteen
hours or so. He wouldn't cry, he told himself.  The sting would vanish
eventually.
 
He got up again, hauling himself to the bathroom for a hot shower.
 
 
Regrettably, once he turned the handle and water started streaming down long,
aching limbs, warm vapor shrouding his brittle joints, he felt himself give
into the very last bewrayment for the day, namely his own.
 
Though he might just pretend those sobs belonged to the drain water that
gathered at his feet.
 
 
 
 
Whatever as yet unbeknownst hysteria it was that shook Sicheng out of his
slumber at presumably ungodly hour, it was relentless, and it was severe. Sweat
stained linen pressed uncomfortably at the shivering superficies of his tender
skin, and his respiration lagged, reaching deadlock in his throat before he'd
ploddingly push it out in riven pants.
 
No, he thought.
 
Not tonight.
 
Clipped whimpers mingled with his ragged breathing and he wanted out, out, out
of his bed, his room, this house, because the space around him seemed to taper
off all of the sudden and he had a horror of being crushed alive, of feeling
the pang of every single of his brittle bones being broken and shattered under
the force. He wailed, and the whimpering grew to footless cries, because his
legs; they wouldn't move. They'd just restlessly shift in place, enough to kick
off the sheets with immense effort and beyond that all he could do was clutch
at whatever was near, dig his digits into the mattress till they hurt just as
to get a hold on something solid.
 
Every particle of his system tensed up, a sizzling heat pooling at the
forefront of his head.
 
Never had he been so positive about his death.
 
He was dying.
 
This time for sure.
 
This time he was certain.
 
This time it'd all come to halt.
 
It'd finally stop.
 
He wept.
 
 
"Master Sicheng!"
 
 
 
 
Sicheng briefly wakened to a soft murmur, barely audible.
 
A voice. Gentle yet dejected, and muffled behind wooden barrier. Sicheng
shifted in the foreign sheets; white sheets.
 
Another voice sounded, lower in pitch, laced with force.
 
"We can't keep him here, he's being intolerable."
 
"He's your son, Guanyu. You can't just lock him away!"
 
 Mother.
 
"Enough people have been witness to this mess. He's soiling our name, Huian.
Zheng's name, Yuanjun's name," he paused. "Do you not care about your
children?"
 
There was a curt silence, curt, yet maddening enough to present the pestilent
temptation to intervene, make himself apparent. But he lingered, beset with the
mental image of his mother's spirit breaking under his father's sway.
 
She whimpered, her words impossible to make out from his position. Sicheng
choked something down.
 
"If there's something wrong with him, the doctors will figure it out. Just
leave it to me."
 
If there's something wrong with him, Sicheng mentally repeated his father's
utterance, the sobriety echoing within the walls of his cranium in such
dreadful manner, he shivered, weakly pulling the thin layer of fabric that was
covering his body further up to his cheek, till it was covering his ear. He
doubted it would mute anything. Not when the sound came from his very own head
and the damage was already done.
 
The last thing he heard was footsteps, and then a soft noise, a wail maybe.
 
He thought about his mother. And instead of submitting to another wave of panic
about what all of this would mean for him, where they'd take him, what was
wrong with him, he averted his thoughts to his mother, who was seemingly just
meters away from where he was lying, bearing a burden she wasn't built to
sustain to begin with.
 
Too soft.
 
Too quiet.
 
Too weak.
 
And so he let himself drift into another restless slumber, in which he dreamt
of broad grass fields, hearty, childlike cackling, a balmy bloom of summer, and
his mother's gentle smiles.
 
 
 He's my son too.
 
 
 
 
Sicheng didn't like his new room. Well, as a matter of fact, he particularly
harbored a certain resentment towards the wall clock that hung above the only
doorway out. It was one of those clicking, ticking ones, that always appear to
be exceptionally noisy once all light was out and Sicheng had to concentrate on
finding a peaceful shuteye for the night before he'd have to be faced with his
greatest fear yet for the next day, agitated and unpremeditated, despite being
given the time to spin out some mind blowing excuse that might plant base under
these preposterous events, as his father would label them. But Sicheng had been
blank from the moment he stepped foot into the private hospital they had
brought him to, or rather abandoned him at, and for starters he presumed it
might've just been because everything within that place was practically blank.
Devoid of color or redundant decorations, everything was kept in pristine
tidiness and color scheme, almost as if someone had purposefully furnished this
place to make it seem notably clinical and lifeless. Aside from that though,
his father had made one hundred percent sure that none of his reputable
business partners or the scandal sharp set public life would sift out his son's
actual location, sending him far off home to the ever so familiar, yet likewise
foreign South Korea, where they'd been plenty of times when Sicheng and his
brothers were still young, and sprouting. However, times have changed and so
have circumstances.
 
Not to mention that Sicheng hardly remembered a single word of Korean.
 
The nurses were nice though, even when Sicheng struggled to talk back, merely
nodding his head in a meek manner whenever they'd ask him questions. He didn't
want to be impolite. The last thing he wanted to be was impolite.
 
And yet the language barrier made itself very much more apparent after his
first night at the clinic, when one of the nurses notified him that he had been
assigned a physician to evaluate his situation. Because while Sicheng didn't
even have the faintest notion how to even voice any of those strange sensations
in Chinese, he'd be a lot further from receiving any sort of help if he had to
explain himself in Korean. Sicheng deflated. He would have to force himself to
try anyway, because really, there weren't any options. Not when his father had
made it plain that he'd demand answers by the very end of the day.
 
This evaluation mattered.
 
Sicheng sat straight up in his bed when he heard a knock on the door to his
room, calling out a broken come in before the handle pushed down and someone
stepped inside. His gaze remained pinned to his lap for the period it took the
intruder to find a seat, his focus aimed at keeping the quiver of his hands at
bay before he finally looked up; reasonably startled to find a rather youthful
looking male seated at his bedside.
 
Youthful was one thing. But so achingly beautiful. Sicheng found himself at a
loss of words as his lips fell slightly agape, eyes not-so-subtly studying the
other's facial features with that habitual childlike glimpse. He was
mesmerized.
 
And staring.
 
The man audibly cleared his throat, loud enough to startle Sicheng once more
whereat he blinked in disconcerted manner, awkwardly shifting in his position
before bashfully averting his regard back at his lap, dismayed at how he
presumably just made a severely gut-wrenching dent. There was no returning now.
The man pushed up the pair of round glasses that sat atop of his prominent nose
bridge.
 
"Your name must be Dong Sicheng," he said, and Sicheng instantly lifted his
gaze, marveled at the other's immaculate Chinese. "My name is Lee Taeyong. I am
the consulting psychiatrist of this facility."
 
His voice was deep in pitch, yet not quite as low as Sicheng's own. Far more
self-assured though, that for certain. Sicheng vaguely nodded his head.
 
"We'll just talk about how you're doing, how we're going to advance with your
treatment and in the meantime, I'll try to evaluate what we're working with.
During your stay here, it is my job to find effective ways to help enforce
amendment with whatever it is that you're struggling with, and document the
progress you're making; if any, that is."
 
Sicheng swallowed at that, suddenly immensely intent on attempting to not
visualize the consequences of the latter.
 
"You tell me about any concerns that you're having and whether anything is
making you uncomfortable," he set down the clipboard he was holding on
Sicheng's nightstand and carefully leaned forward, as if trying not to invade
the other's comfort zone. Little did he know Sicheng was already shockingly
fond of the ring of the man's voice. "So, to start this off slowly; how are you
feeling today?"
 
It took Sicheng a good ten seconds to wit that he was, in fact, being asked a
question. A question he was actually supposed to be capable of answering; it
wasn't in Korean after all. But he couldn't help but feel even more dumbfounded
than typically, wild, hardly comprehensible gesticulations usually filling up
the painfully awkward silence before his conversational partner would flash him
an understanding smile and simply leave it at that, much to his relief at most
terms. But that wouldn't do, not this time around, when the matter suddenly
appeared very much real and he was sitting alongside a professional who was
capable of handing down the dooming verdict.
 
Why did that particular professional have to be so distractingly attractive
anyway.
 
The man, Taeyong, gave him a reassuring smile.
 
"Take your time."
 
I don't have time, Sicheng thought.
 
"I'm good."
 
It sounded weak, but he didn't stutter. It was a start.

"That's pleasant to hear. Now, Sicheng. Do you know why you're here?"
 
Sicheng fiddled with his fingers. He shook his head. Was that a lie? He didn't
know for sure.
 
Taeyong sighed.
 
"Alright then .. why don't you tell me what happened before you got here? Your
mother mentioned you were quite distraught."
 
"I don't know," he looked up. "I just panicked."
 
"Why did you panic?"
 
I don't know, he wanted to answer anew, yet he reminded himself how that
wouldn't help them move forward in the slightest.
 
"I'm not .. sure what I should be doing."
 
"Should be doing with what, Sicheng?"
 
Taeyong shifted closer with his chair. Sicheng felt oddly tranquillized; if not
strikingly flustered.
 
"My life."
 
 
There it was again, when yet far afield from their breakfast table. The dead
elephant, and with it, the zipping question marks that would orbit his every
notion before he'd get the chance to even entertain the act of voicing them.
His tongue was toxic and his mind befuddled, soiled and languorous beyond a
point of utility, and he suddenly recalled his father's words. He lacked
ambition. He lacked passion. He lacked a plan. The rightplan. A dooming reality
Sicheng had contemplated more often than one would estimate sufferable, long,
restless nights marking months in his calendar and taxing that virtual dam that
was originally designated to keep all pressure at bay, when in reality it was
making the mere act of subsistinga lot more arduous by day. He had officially
played himself. Whereby he really didn't register any of it as it was
occurring.
 
He had abruptly been overpowered.
 
What bitter irony.
 
Sicheng didn't note the unnatural stretch of silence, before Taeyong raised his
voice anew, the younger caught off guard at how Taeyong had his regard intent
on studying the boy's facies.
 
"It seems things have been building up for a long time. Feel free to correct me
if I'm wrong," he reached out for his clipboard and put it on his lap; shifting
one leg atop the other so it was at an angle at which Sicheng couldn't make out
what the other scribbled down on it.
 
Sicheng nodded. It felt foreign to voice any of it out. As if it was supposed
to make the entire situation so much more severe by letting it roam the air in
sound waves. It made it real.
 
And yet somehow he felt strangely alleviated; maybe treatment would help him
after all.
 
Or maybe talking to Taeyong would. The man would try for his trust, Sicheng
didn't fail to notice.
 
But he wasn't going to create another barrier, since lastly, he had enough of
those.
 
 
And just like that it came that he decided to talk.
 
 
 
 
It came to no surprise that Taeyong was a marvelous listener. Sicheng didn't
know whether it was part of his training to unfailingly respond with the very
appropriate thing to literally every yet so wearisome detail that he'd entrust
him with, but the man was without doubt patently skilled at what he was doing.
There was barely a thing Sicheng didn't want to disclose. He told Taeyong about
the house that he would annually frequent with his mother and siblings during
the summers when they were little, about how those summers were the last
weightless memories he'd recall ever so often as to remind himself that there
was still hope of rekindling that astray zest for life. He'd tell him about the
nights of strained pondering, anxious and in smarting apprehension of the
questions he couldn't answer, the lies he'd have to force himself to contrive.
He hated lying. God,he was basically a child, still felt that burning sting
whenever a false word made its way past his pretty lips and Taeyong seemed to
be aware, even heaving a soft snicker when Sicheng spoke about the mornings at
their summer residence, wide-eyed and voice just a pitch higher. And Taeyong's
laugh, Taeyong's laugh was beautifuland Sicheng hated how he made the
impression of that naive, chaste, unwitting little child, whereas he wasn't
even certain what impression he didwant to make.
 
Either way, he genuinely didn't expect himself to have a fancy for psychiatric
evaluations.
 
Well, that was until Taeyong hit the more earnest note and told him first
predictions.
 
Panic disorder. GAD; generalized anxiety disorder. Stress.
 
Sicheng wanted to curl up and die. The verdict was too underwhelming; so
underwhelming, it was severe.
 
"You can't tell my father that."
 
"Sicheng, there's nothing wrong with–"
 
"No," he firmly cut him off, evidently blowing Taeyong out of the water. "You
don't understand. My father wouldn't have that. Never."
 
"This is a health concern that affects one of his own. I doubt that he has any
reason to be resentful."
 
Sicheng wouldn't trust his ears. Did Taeyong just dismiss everything he had
priorly confided him with?
 
He felt tears prickle in his eyes.
 
Not now.
 
 Not now.
 
Sicheng clutched at the sheets. He neededto be convincing.
 
"You don't ... understand ..."
 
"Sicheng."
 
"He'll ... he'll think I made it up ..."
 
"He can't say that if it's me telling him."
 
"He won't believe you."
 
"He will have to."
 
"That's not ... that's not how it works!"
 
Sicheng was shocked at the intensity of his words; they were loud, almost
violent, laced with a bitter tinge of hurt and desperation and he froze,
frantically attempting to strive against the now very much evident presence of
seething wetness that blurred his vision, a feel of treachery ambushing his
weakened spirit.
 
He glanced at Taeyong through tearstained eyes.
 
His glimpse sat deep in his lap, expression stern and unwavering as he spoke.
 
"I have no choice."
 
 
And with that, he snatched at his clipboard and left the room.

Sicheng curled up under his blanket, the atmosphere suddenly as bleak as ever
as the sound of muffled sobs unfurled homey vibes, along with the unnerving
ticking of the wall clock.
 
 
 
 
 
Undoubtedly, his father seemed to be in a great rush when he practically tore
the door to Sicheng's room open that very same evening, long demanding strides
announcing his presence from far down the hallways of the rather small-sized
clinic. Sicheng cowered, barely invested with the potency to defy what was to
come. He was terrified. Anxious. There was literally no way his father would
respond well to what was to come. His father barely bid him a greeting,
promptly setting about urging a nurse to summon a superior to enlighten him
about what it was to be, and his mother followed after, breathless from trying
to catch up and greeting Sicheng with a gentle hand to his cheek, which she
removed the very same instant, timidly scooting over to her husband's side.
 
Sicheng's breath came to halt when Taeyong accompanied the three of them,
suspending the stifling silence that had Sicheng praying for deflection, any
kind, any form of deflection exempting the actual confrontation with the
perilous topic of his very own sanity. He felt anything but sane when he
briefly darted his vision to Taeyong, who appeared composed, when yet
unsmiling, evidently unmoved by Sicheng's internal state of turmoil and Sicheng
suddenly despised him, hated how he politely bid welcome to his parents and
firmly held onto his clipboard, long, graceful digits curling around the edges
and for a moment the boy was grateful for the distraction, being the momentary
wave of loathing towards the face that had promised amelioration for those few
finite hours of that oh so terrifying day. It was something to focus on. Even
if just for that very moment.
 
"Needless to say, one day really isn't a time frame to draw any solid
conclusions," Taeyong began, and Sicheng's insides contracted. "But since you
insisted so strongly, I tried my best to evaluate your son's overall
condition."
 
"I would be grateful if you could get straight to the point, I have a plane
waiting for me."
 
 Of course he did.
 
Sicheng plead, plead with a god, whichever god would listen, plead to the
skies, the angels, the ticking wall clock, the 8pm moon, the yellow leaves
outside the window, the desolate lamp post down the street, the hollow clicking
of heels from the hallway, the stuffy air, the subtle chill; he plead with
Taeyong.
 
Sicheng didn't expect Taeyong to be looking at him when he glanced up, the
younger's eyes desperate and woeful. The man's brows furled just the slightest
when their gazes locked, his eyes filled with a certain intensity that Sicheng
failed to discern initially and somehow turned out to have an impossible time
bearing, because not hating him was difficult, yet despising him was all the
more taxing, if not completely impossible.
 
Time froze, and Sicheng was begging.
 
And despite the absence of words, Taeyong seemed to understand.
 
Because the next thing Sicheng knew, was that Taeyong frantically scribbled
something on his clipboard before directing his regard back at Sicheng's
father, quietly clearing his throat before he heaved what rang like a confident
tonality.
 
"Of course, sir. You see, Sicheng is actually coming to terms with something.
Possibly a traumatic event, that I have to ascertain, still," he paused to lick
his lips, gently pushing up his glasses at once. "It seems he doesn't remember,
or rather, his brain is trying to forget it. That's a very common side effect
of traumatic experiences, it's what people within my circle call Dissociative
Amnesia and you'd be surprised how often we deal with patients who struggle
with it as consequence of a trauma. What that means for your son," his gaze
fleetingly swayed to Sicheng's side, before it directed itself back at the
other man. "Is that I will have to keep him under my supervision for a while
longer. It's just for the best."
 
"Oh my god," Sicheng's mother gasped, a hand coming to cover her lips. "Will he
be alright? What could possibly have happened to him?"
 
"Although making promises is pretty much akin to committing a crime in my
business, I can confidently say that Sicheng's brain is capable of recovery.
There is definitely a chance we'll be able to help him recall whatever
distressing ... event could've triggered this odd behavior of his, if you would
just allow me to keep him here so I can keep an eye on him and initiate a
gradual treatment that'll help him with the reprocessing. Sicheng is a strong
boy," he tucked the clipboard under his arm. "And by no means in control of
what is happening to him."
 
 
And yet again, time, for Sicheng, came to a halt.
 
His ears did not fail him.
 
They couldn'thave.
 
Wide-eyed, he looked down at his lap. Dissociative Amnesia? A traumatic
event?Taeyong seemed so doubtless, so self-assured.
 
 Could he have spoken the truth after all?
 
 ... No.
 
Taeyong lied. Taeyong lied for Sicheng. Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and didn't
move a single muscle at it. Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and told his father that
he was blameless. He was innocent. He was free of guilt. Backed and verified by
an experience, no, by a professional.Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and made his
father depart with nothing more than plain, wordless acknowledgement.
 
 
Taeyong lied for Sicheng, and Sicheng felt the air flood his lungs for the very
first time.
 
 
 
 
Sicheng wanted to talk about it, but he was aware it would put Taeyong at risk.
Therefore, he didn't. However, that didn't outlaw the act of talking to the
older altogether, because if there were ways and tangible means for Sicheng to
reciprocate and show his utmost gratitude, then he'd try his very hardest to
work them; if possible, all at once, and at each and every free minute on
Taeyong's schedule. Sicheng didn't know what Taeyong had told the nurses, what
truth remained on the jottings of his clipboard, but Sicheng somehow reveled in
the attention he was receiving; especially the servings from Taeyong's end.
Their sessions started to draw out with each day, and every now and again
Sicheng would indulge himself in calling on Taeyong's company when the elder
was off duty and they'd pass away the time talking about why Sicheng loved the
color orange so much, or about how Taeyong's glasses hardly took effect in
making him look more sophisticated, as he intended them to. Sometimes, Taeyong
would laugh. And Sicheng would just naturally feel himself tumble one year
closer to infantility whenever the corners of Taeyong's lips would almost
sheepishly curl upward, barely stashing the seamless row of ivories before he'd
elicit the mellifluous chime of hearty laughter, so unadulterated, so
beautiful, and yet so so mature that it felt likewise unethical for Sicheng to
dwell in a state of mesmerization whenever he'd pause to listen. Maybe Sicheng
felt just a little too secure and comfortable in his position. Just maybe.
 
And yet it was little more than evident that the older's laughters were laced
with a very pungent hint of restraint.
 
Never would he disclose anything personal on his own accord, or be the one to
call upon Sicheng's company first, unless it was for one of their sessions; and
while it irritated Sicheng beyond any reasonable measure, it also made him dip
those contingencies into a perilously addicting shade of profound mystery, and
he wondered what kind of skeletons Taeyong hid in his closet, what demons he
fought with, if they were his very own. He wondered what Taeyong feared, if he
feared anything at all. Whether he grew up in a loving home, much like he
deserved, being spoiled with affection and care. How well the older slept at
night, or if his sleep was restless like his own.
 
He wondered if Taeyong thought about him often.
 
 
He simply couldn't do otherwise but fondly hope so, and with every passing day,
the ice grew thinner.
 
 
 
"So how are we feeling today?"
 
"Are you not going to stop asking the same dumb question every time we start a
session."
 
"I'm just thinking it might be good to stick to some habits at least," Taeyong
smiled, pondering.
 
"I'm fine. Well-rested, I think."
 
"That's good. I'm proud of you, Sicheng."
 
Sicheng's heart seized up uncontrollably.
 
All thanks to you."Thank you."
 
An odd silence fell upon the room as Taeyong sorted his papers, and Sicheng
aspired to fill it.
 
"I was wondering," he started, casting lots between the countless things he
wanted to know about Taeyong. "If you ever had a dog."
 
The question visibly caught Taeyong off guard, but he followed up by heaving a
soft laugh, unceremoniously casting his notes aside on Sicheng's bed stand. "In
fact, I did."
 
"What breed?"
 
"A Korean Jindo. His name was Nunsongi."
 
"Like snowflake!" Sicheng beamed.
 
"Yes, like snowflake." Taeyong returned the smile.
 
"But why the past tense?"
 
"Well," Taeyong tapped his pen against the superfice of his knee. "The
inevitable happened. He died when I was young."
 
"You're still young."
 
 Stop, stop, stop, stop.
 
"Not really, no," Taeyong said, sounding almost strained all of a sudden.
 
Another silence emerged. Sicheng contemplated remaining adamant, but decided to
drop the topic instead.
 
"How did he die?"
 
Taeyong jerked slightly, as if torn out of thoughts. "Huh?"
 
"Nunsong."
 
"Nunsongi."
 
"Yes," Sicheng tilted his head to the side, intently studying the gradually
forming furrow on the older's brow. Taeyong appeared to notice and promptly
attempted to ease the tension on his mien. "How did he die?"
 
"Old age. We practically grew up together so it wasn't that much of a surprise
when it happened," he briefly pressed his lips into a thin line before pushing
up the frame of his glasses; a habit that he would conduct whenever he'd brace
up for a more serious note. Sicheng was proud he had lastly managed to pick up
on that. "Anyway, we should probably move on with the session. We need you to
be strong enough to face your father after all."
 
"Did we say I would do that?"

"It's inevitable though, wouldn't you think so?"
 
"I told you, I'm not–"
 
"Take the time you need, nobody is rushing you, alright?" the curve in his lips
conveyed that habitual sense of security and Sicheng saw light, his toes
curling just a tad bit in abashment. "Remember that. I'm here to help. Your
comfort is my only wish and if there's anything I can do to make you feel just
a little bit more comfortable in your own skin, I'll do it.
 
But meanwhile try to keep in mind that you're not going to be able to stay here
forever."
 
An importunate pang permeated Sicheng's chest at that, and it hurt, hurt so
bad, and for a moment he could clearly conceive of the towering walls that he
had been so used to, far away from Taeyong, far from the safe place he had
built, the one Taeyong has provided him with, and he didn't want it to jostle
him away again. He felt like a sulky child; he was convinced he'd never be
ready enough for that to happen.
 
"I don't want to go back."
 
Not aware that he was mumbling aloud, Sicheng averted his vision to the side.
 
Taeyong heaved a profound sigh and rose from his chair to stride over to the
commode very few steps to his right, pouring himself a glass of water from the
jug placed atop before he turned around to face the boy anew, lips compressing
into a thin line once more before gently curving upward to a wee smile. A
tender sensation.
 
"I'm sure your mother misses you, Sicheng. She's probably worrying herself sick
thinking about you being here all by yourself."
 
Sicheng pondered. "But I'll miss you."
 
"Sicheng, don't."
 
Somehow those words sounded nothing like Taeyong; they had transmuted into
something distant, clinical, and it washed a shudder over Sicheng's limbs that
was so unsuspectedly forceful, that the temperature of the air that dragged
itself through Sicheng's lungs in balking shoves suddenly affected to be so
much cooler and the younger looked up, seeking Taeyong's gaze, applying for his
sympathy. However, Taeyong's eyes were somewhere else; and the glass he had
poured himself knocked over there his hands had clutched onto the edge of the
commode as he abruptly leaned back against it.
 
Regardless, he didn't move from spot. As if he hadn't noticed.
 
Sicheng blinked disconcertedly, his vision darting back and forth, from corner
to corner, on the hunt for something that was invested with the means to fill
the sudden massive lack of reassurance, and although Taeyong was right there,
standing a mere foot off from where he was precariously hugging his knees on
his bed, there was a wall, indiscernible yet still so frustratingly effective
at blocking the outlook.
 
"T-Taeyong?"
 
He loathed himself for stuttering.
 
"Sorry, Sicheng," Taeyong spoke up after a beat, his smile finally having
returned to his lips; or something closely resembling it. "I'm just a little
out of it today."
 
"Can I help?" the younger asked, too innocently, too childishly, a tad too
anxiously.
 
Taeyong's eyes flitted to Sicheng and finally halted to rest upon whose timid
guise. The boy nurtured new hope.
 
"Yes," a soft laugh pushed itself past dainty couplets, and Sicheng forced
himself to overlook a mild undertone of frustration.
 
 
 "Help me get you healthy now, would you?"
 
 
 
 
Sicheng could probably have pinpointed a specific instant when it all turned
around if he had tried to be more attentive instead of desperately clinging to
Taeyong's every yet so minor gesture of affection, which became more scarce and
short-lived as the days passed. Sicheng hated it. But more than anything, he
hated that it affected him so much, and with that, his treatment. The day his
mother called for a short report on his condition, he poisoned his tongue with
lies anew, when yet this time, he wouldn't feel even a tinge of guilt burn at
his conscience; too distracted, too sober from the lack of Taeyong to fill his
days with adoring eyes and sheepish smiles, the anxious vein that brought him
there in the first place being occupied with weighting all worry on the way he
was perceived by one and only one individual.
 
 "I found a new song by that artist you liked!"
 
 "Sicheng, I have a meeting in three minutes. Save such matters for our
sessions, please."
 
It burned.
 
And so the walls grew larger.
 
More than often, Sicheng would find himself taking walks into the little
courtyard at late hours, for one as to hang up on the stifling ticking of that
damned wall clock, and as to try to contemplate and ascertain how to escape
whatever matter had suddenly made him so blatantly unattractive to Taeyong;
whether it was his general infantile ways or the many questions he'd ask out of
sheer, undistorted curiosity. Whereas those seemed to be the things that had
drawn Taeyong in to begin with. There was just something about the way
Taeyong's eyes would so diligently scan every laughter line that curved into
Sicheng's cheeks, how he'd brush away individual strands of that shaggy, ebony
hair so they wouldn't dim the puerile gleam of whose wide hazel irises, fondly
knock his palm against Sicheng's thigh when they'd sit in the courtyard
together during lunch, reveling in the afternoon sun of early autumn, side by
side on the small wooden bench by the centered well and maybe the fact that
Sicheng had received a taste of the attention made its absence so much harder
to bear. Maybe signifying most definitely.
 
Sicheng missed Taeyong. And it was all he could think about, all sensible
notion he could muster when he heaved himself up to the edge of that very same
well at nocturnal hour, firmly planting himself atop before he clung to the
material of his sweater, hugging his frame to generate warmth in the chilly
fall breeze. His legs were almost bare; lose sleeping shorts wrapping
themselves around the boy's slightly tanned thighs as he gently rubbed them
together.
 
Looking at the few windows that still shined light, he pondered. All this time
and he hadn't really taken it upon himself to acquaint any other patients; if
there were similar cases to him? Sicheng heaved a sigh.
 
"What are you doing out here."
 
Sicheng visibly jerked, rapidly bringing his hands down to the stony surface he
was planted on to stop himself from slumping backwards.
 
"Taeyong?"
 
Sicheng's heart went on a riot. He could barely make out the familiar features
in the frail lighting of a far off lamppost, but when he did, he was caught off
guard by how unwontedly casual the older man looked; a lack of glasses, a white
long-sleeve and ripped jeans, topped off with an unlit grit hanging loosely
between tight couplets, a distant look seeking Sicheng's own once the younger
had finished his look over. Part of Sicheng cowed. The other parts were
dangerously intrigued by the out of the ordinary view.
 
"I asked what you're doing out here. It's late."
 
Despite the rather snapping tonality, Taeyong's voice was laced with a hint of
softness; if not rather just really reallytired.
 
"I couldn't sleep," Sicheng mumbled timidly, averting his gaze when Taeyong
suddenly advanced nearer. "What are you doing here? Didn't you go home?"
 
"Emergency call," he replied, lastly removing the grit from his lips, his full
regard plastering itself onto the lustrous reflection in Sicheng's eyes. "What
do you think might help you fall asleep?"
 
And yet again, the tone caught Sicheng off hand as he instantly retracted his
bare legs when Taeyong slouched dangerously close to him, the rough fabric of
his jeans fleetingly brushing against the sensitive skin as the man gradually
leaned forward, and Sicheng couldn't help but tilt his torso backwards as to
escape the other's inordinately wolfish stare.
 
"I– I didn't know you smoke," he managed to mutter out, though it sounded as
though it came out in weirdly tangled fractions.
 
"Why do you do that."
 
Sicheng blinked, startled, when Taeyong halted mere few inches away from the
younger's frozen, wide-eyed facies. From the newly found proximity, it was
possible for Sicheng to pick up on a faint smack of liquor in the other's
breath, and although he could still feel himself being dominated by a hunch of
unease, a strange sense of security came from the realization that Taeyong
probably wasn't acting fully like himself; or possibly even more so.
 
"Do what?"
 
"Is this a new act or do you usually play this dumb?" he slightly hung his pate
to the side, a lazy smile suddenly stretching across his lips. "Or is this one
just for me?"
 
Sicheng could practically hear his own heartbeat thrumming boisterously in his
ears, the sound almost drowning out Taeyong's next words.
 
Just almost.
 
"What if I just took you here and now, would you still look at me with those
wide, innocent eyes of yours?"
 
Sicheng's respiration faltered, no, it came to a complete shutdown.
 
Taeyong was glowering at him, half-lidded, hungry-eyed and Sicheng shrunk and
shrunkand shrunkand shrunk when Taeyong's hand suddenly found itself on his
naked thigh, venturing upward at an alarmingly rapid rate.
 
"T-Taeyong," Sicheng pushed out in a feeble whimper, brittle fingers weakly
curling themselves around the older's prying wrist. "What are you–"
 
"Shhh,"
 
A single of the digits from Taeyong's other hand came to rest upon Sicheng's
plump lips, warm breath fanning over the plush superfice.
 
"This is going to help you relax. See it as part of your treatment, will you?"
 
That prior lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips once anew, and just
when Sicheng was a little tooin awe, when yet a tad bit awe-stricken, Taeyong
seized the moment with his hand languidly enfolding the boy's length underneath
the thin layer of texture, thumb carefully depressing against the sensitive
tip. Sicheng gasped. Instinctively screwing his eyes shut within the very next
instant, Sicheng took the material of Taeyong's shirt into a death grip, each
and every inch of his body seizing up in yet unbeknownst ways, and his heart
convulsed violently. And yet that was nothing compared to when the man's hand
started moving, long, sloppy strokes slightly tugging at his burning skin and
despite all internal protest, he wanted, he neededto heave out a moan which he
instead reduced to an adrift whimper. Sicheng had never felt this small, this
fragile, and in spite of the ringing voice in his head that shook him, and told
him to get away, he remained, because he didn't know just how muchhe missed
Taeyong's tender touch, and when the unoccupied of the older's hands tardily
slid towards his cheek, thumb defyingly brushing over the surface of Sicheng's
parted lips, Sicheng couldn't help but completely put himself at the other's
mercy, leaning into the touch.
 
"This is what you wanted, huh. For some old pathetic fuck to touch you like
this, no?"
 
No, the voice in Sicheng's mind screamed. Only you, only you, only you.
 
A finger teased the underside of Sicheng's cock, and Sicheng liquefied under
the gentle brush of Taeyong's breath against the burn on his cheeks and he
wanted to taste, taste the liquor on the other's tongue, the soiled words, the
ecstasy, the ineradicable shatter of the thousands of boundaries they had
surpassed, broken morals, sin, sin, sin. But his lips remained remote from his
own, and Taeyong quickened the pace of his strokes, firmly jerking the leaking
length with astonishing, when yet painful precision before his lips found the
shell of Sicheng's ear, whose eyes were still tightly screwed shut, incapable
of bearing the sensory overload as he eased further into the groundless void of
this drunkenness. It was staggering, depriving the boy of all vim to even
consider putting the other's actions to halt, because this was so new, and his
body was so eagerto be touched and held and tainted and Taeyong was giving and
he hadn't been aware of just how much he wanted this.
 
"G-Gonna–"
 
"Go ahead."
 
The words came out in a breathy whisper, the pitch of it along with the sinful
way Taeyong almost endearingly nipped at the line of Sicheng's slack jaw
driving the boy to the absolute brim of his sanity; until the older abruptly
divested Sicheng of all movement and the boy deflated, finding himself in an
excruciating limbo.
 
The man's lips detached from his skin. "Open your eyes. Look at me when you
come."
 
Sicheng's lids tardily flickered open.
 
The view of Taeyong looking at him, up closely and with a gaze so piercing, so
intimate, it did thingsto Sicheng's already edging nerves and he tried for a
whine, but nothing came out. His eyes were lost in the profundity of the
other's when Taeyong's hand started moving again, and really, couldn't lie; he
had in fact figured an analogical image to himself, maybe even fantasized about
Taeyong's touch, the rough pads of his fingers dragging themselves over the
most morally reprehensible and sensitive patches of his skin, and his tongue;
his tongue that was so off-limits which made it just the more worth desiring.
The boy's body ached with desire and urge.
 
 
Sicheng' moaned and his entire body quiveredwhen he finally came undone.
 
Breathing ragged and bereft of his innocence.
 
 
Remnants of intoxication bubbled in his gut and he panted, breaths violently
pushing at his chest and making his entire torso heave with every torrent of
the cool autumn breeze that would fill his lungs. And yet he felt warm; the
older's presence emitting just the right amount of warmth to make him feel as
if he hadn't just been jerked off in the midst of a courtyard, in the middle of
the night. Sicheng allowed himself to dwell in a moment of bliss, an instant
where he wouldn't recognize circumstance or abjection, rejection or the
absolute impracticality of it all, because that very moment, Taeyong was there,
holding him, sharing warmth and leaving traces of his fingertips on Sicheng's
oversensitive skin and there was absolutely no place safer than this one, right
by the older's side.
 
Little did Sicheng know, he was lucky enough the elder had let him get off his
high before stripping him of that dearly beloved safe place he had put his mind
into, his touch deserting the indigent body of the smaller a lifetime too early
for Sicheng's liking. When Sicheng looked up, Taeyong's head was hanging low;
he had taken a step back, arms resting by his sides, unmoving, and suddenly the
bliss morphed into something so alarmingly familiar, Sicheng wanted to scream.
 
Guilt.
 
 Shame.
 
And without as much as a final remark, Taeyong turned around and left, gut-
wrenching silence draping the boy's mind in a bitingly cold solitude.
 
 
 
 
"Dr. Lee is sick today, so your treatment will have to be discontinued until he
feels better."
 
Sicheng's insides twisted painfully. Not like he wasn't expecting that at least
a little bit. And yet hearing the actual statement roll off the nurse's tongue
in a broken, yet intelligible Chinese was all the more excruciating, because
oh. So it did, in fact, happen.
 
Maybe some twisted part of Sicheng's mind had painted those few minutes of
utter rapture, blissfulness of yet uncharted waters that splayed across the
vast amplitudes of the ocean that was Sicheng's imagination and maybe, maybe,
he could've forgiven himself for entertaining those filthy desires if only they
didn't surpass the confines of his head. But no, it was very real. The faint
violets on his jaw were. The slight cold he caught himself was. And the memory
of Taeyong's face, close up, his fingers touching there, all too vivid to
convince himself he had been dreaming maybe. It dawned on Sicheng; Taeyong
hadn't kissed him. And with that last drop of self-pity and self-loathing he
could persuade himself to strongly believe that he was, in fact, still
undesirable and very much alone.
 
But after a day or two of drowning in the miserable state of his existence,
Sicheng let his gaze wander to the wall clock above the door.
 
And he resolved, maybe it was time to venture on uncharted territory.
 
 
Surprisingly enough, it was easy to find someone to talk to. Someone other than
Taeyong, for that matter. Just a few rooms down the hall, resided a boy by the
name of Yuta, and as it turned out, an immense amount of situational
similarities linked the two cases and Sicheng was euphoric when Yuta had
invited him to hang out in his room the next afternoon. Surely, the language
barrier was devastating at some instant, especially considering Yuta was
actually from Japan and very resemblant to Sicheng's case, trapped in here as
to hide his paranoia from the hungry eyes of the public media. That alone, made
Sicheng feel a connection to the boy, and the two instantly engaged in a
jumbled, when yet light-hearted conversation which (as Sicheng wished to
assume) gladdened the other just as much as it did him, because whose smile was
so bright, so incredibly wide and contagious, it simply didn't need any form of
translation to convey the message. Nonetheless, Sicheng's heart ached. The pang
growing as soon as he stepped back into the confines of his own room and the
walls were towering, making the space seem all the more hollow and cooping
without the certitude that Taeyong would eventually come back and tell him it
would be fine, it would be ok, he wasn't to blame, wasn't to blame for feeling
what he felt, desiring what he desired with every living fiber of his body. But
Taeyong wouldn't be there to moderate the clinical vibe, and so Sicheng was
left to fend for himself and fill the hole that the older had rifted into his
ribcage, making the air so much harder to properly filter through his lungs.
 
Sicheng didn't want to use Yuta. But he didn't feel like giving himself the
choice; to say nothing of what great company Yuta turned out to be.
 
When Sicheng knocked on the door to the older boy's premises, little did he
expect to be pulled into an amicable hug once it swung open, the Japanese's
shining ivories on full display.
 
"Siching!"
 
"It's Sicheng actually–" the other corrected, just to be cut off by a sudden
pull at his wrist as to drag his frozen limbs past the doorstep and into the
room. The layout was almost the same as the one of Sicheng's own; if not an
exact replica, apart from a few photographs here and there, flowers, a
muchcomfier looking chair and a neat row of colorful miniature action figures
decorating the surface area of the very same commode that fitted out Sicheng's
room. It looked almost homey.
 
"For how long have you been here?"
 
Yuta's eyebrows perked up at that.
 
 Oh right.
 
Sicheng formulated the question anew; this time piecing together the bits of
Korean he knew to make out something that was close to the meaning of the
prior. Yuta shrugged his shoulders.
 
"I think I lost track of time. Gets harder to count the days the longer you
stay."
 
Understanding about half of that, Sicheng nodded sympathetically. The vibe that
Yuta gave off was so different from Taeyong's; he felt on the same level, could
empathize, in a far more effortless way. He didn't have a hard time trying to
get his head around what Yuta meant – apart from the language barrier – and
while it was different from what Sicheng was used to, he welcomed the brisk,
informal atmosphere that came so naturally with the other around.
 
Although, admittedly anything that helped him escape the isolated stuffiness
that was his room was a welcome change. If he had to be quite frank.
 
"I was really surprised when you approached me, actually," Sicheng flinched
slightly when the other tore him out of thought by raising his voice. "I've
seen you around for quite some time and yet the only person I see you with is
the doc."
 
Yuta flopped down on his own bed and rolled to the side as to support his head
with his elbow whilst keeping his eyes on Sicheng who suddenly felt at a
complete loss of words; he damned the odd hue that was fanning out over the
expanse of his cheeks as he tried to appear unaware, mustering the Japanese
with perked up brows and confounded vision. Yuta's eyes widened.
 
"Holy. Don't tell me you have the hots for your shrink!"
 
Completely caught off guard by the other's forwardness, Sicheng choked on his
breath, all senses in property of behaving and registering the newly given
circumstance on immediate full alert.
 
"W– No!" Sicheng tried to wipe the alarmed expression off his visage, albeit
without luck. "I don't have– that!"
 
An amused grin stretched across the expanse of the other's lips.
 
"Acceptance is the first step to recovery, my friend."
That Sicheng didn't understand entirely; whereby it didn't stop him from
clawing back, never mind that the crack in his voice and his unyielding stance
had already given him away for good. "It's not like this! He has given me
support from first day, I'm just thankful!" he countered, shooting a defensive
glare in the direction of the Japanese boy who was just way too amused for
Sicheng's liking. "I just don't have anyone but him."
 
"See, that's why you should do it like me," the smug expression on Yuta's
facies didn't falter as he averted his gaze from the flustered Chinese. "Don't
get attached to people who are simply doing their job. I know I'm here because
I'm nuts, and it's my psychiatrist's responsibility to fix that loose wire in
my head. No surpassing that professional relationship. Although, speaking in
all honesty, just like, from me to you," his eyes flitted to pin themselves
back onto Sicheng, the glint in their reflection bearing a mischievous
undercurrent. "Dr. Lee is a straight ten out of ten. No wonder that you're
whipped."
 
The crimson that tinted the younger's cheeks intensified and spread towards his
ears, his glimpse no longer capable of bearing to look at the other boy. He
knew he was being obvious. But that someone who was basically a stranger to him
managed to sift out what he hadn't even gotten himself to admit in a matter of
mere seconds was alarming to Sicheng, a massive knot tying his throat shut so
he couldn't even rush back to answer for his stance.
 
He figured he might be beyond a point of desperate reasoning.
 
"He's very kind with me," Sicheng fiddled with the hem of his long-sleeve. "I
mean, he was."
 
"Dude,"
 
"Hm?"
 
"Wouldn't it be weird if he got too nice with you anyway?"
 
Sicheng didn't understand. He tilted his head slightly to the side and Yuta sat
up.
 
"I mean, wouldn't his colleges start asking questions if the pretty one with
the obvious heart eyes got all the special treatment? That's just my guess."
 
As the notion started to dwell on Sicheng, Yuta availed the beat to elaborate.
 
"It was already kinda weird to me how close you guys seemed just after a mere
week of your arrival. The man's got a reputation to guard after all, god forbid
someone finds out he's been screwing someone who he's pledged to protect this
entire time. The consequences would be," he wiggled his eyebrows. "Drastic."
 
Sicheng pushed out an indignant huff. "We're not–!"
 
"Pshh, I know." Yuta exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, the expression that settled
on his facies subsequently being an outright mystery to Sicheng. "I'm just
saying that's what he might be trying to avoid. I mean look at you, you're
basically bite-sized."
 
"Bite ... sized ...?"
 
"Look, it'd make so much sense!"
 
Now Yuta seemed downright passionate about the matter, and Sicheng realized
that the was still stiffly standing midst the room as all the events of the
past month or so started to unveil at baffling velocity, much too rapidly for
his own liking before he could bring himself to hinder the other from
theorizing any further.
 
"Yuta, let's just–"
 
"Hey, be honest with me," he paused till Sicheng's glimpse came upon the
inquisitive, whereas scheming look he eyed him with. "Would you let him screw
you?"
 
Sicheng would've gasped if he hadn't already undergone those past minutes of
intense scrutinization of those darkest nooks of mind he had vainly been
attempting to disguise. Instead, he muttered out an almost incoherent "I–I
don't know, I mean I," as he shifted from one foot to the other, gaze
beseeching mercy, or aiming at the exit, rather. The last thing he needed to
revisualize that very instant was Taeyong, in the courtyard, and his hands, ...
 
"...oh my god, you totally would!"
 
"Shut up!"
 
"Oh my god!"
 
Sicheng internally cursed, infuriated at how transparent and defenseless he
felt under Yuta's unrelenting interrogation. Worse still for the Chinese, Yuta
was immenselyentertained by the other's distress. Sicheng genuinely relished
Yuta's company. But his own vulnerability made him want to vanish off the face
of the earth.
 
"That's so scandalous! Scandalous I say!" he rolled on his back, broad smile on
full display.
 
"Yuta, stop!"
 
"We need to do something about this. Youneed to do something about this."
 
Abruptly, the older leapt off his bed, both arms ascending to rest upon
Sicheng's shoulders which had tensed up severely in course of their
conversation, his mien seized by something that screamed unwavering conviction
as he raised voice with an undoubtedly hectoring, firm tonality.
 
"I, Nakamoto Yuta, am going to help you, Dong Sicheng, hook yourself Dr. Too-
good-looking-for-that-goddamn-ugly-ass-job with only the help of your natural
when yet questionable charms and just a tinge of classic Nakamoto naughty," he
paused for dramatic effect. "And if it's the last thing I do."
 
"Dr. ... what?"
 
Maybe venturing on new territory wasn't such a brilliant idea after all.
 
 
Either that or it was justwhat he needed.
 
 
 
 
It was a Tuesday morning that Dr. Too-good-looking-for-that-goddamn-ugly-ass-
job returned to work. Sicheng marked the day in his journal the very second he
heard that low-pitched, languorous voice resonate through the
uncharacteristically busy hallway, quickly taking note of how Taeyong's
presence carried a spirited vibe into the grayness of the place, something that
just seemed to come naturally with some people; including Yuta as he lastly
resolved. Besides that, Yuta had this incredible gift of pushing people out of
their comfort zone, out of that shy, rueful stance that Sicheng had always
sported by default, whether he was actually fond of his reticence or not. But
Yuta's sudden entering into his life was certainly a blessing; whereas Sicheng
didn't know if he'd actually be able to carry through with any of the things he
learned from the older, by far more experienced boy. Most of the time, Sicheng
simply tried to laugh off some of the Japanese's lunatic suggestions instead of
purporting that he'd be poised to implement such daring notion; he was still
bashful as ever, deep down, still counting sheep as to find a peaceful shuteye
and clutching a stuffed animal for comfort.
 
No, Sicheng wasn't a nympho, which Yuta had so proudly showcased himself as.
Sicheng was simply ... fond. And maybe a little bit desperate for more.
Whatever that phrase entailed.
 
Whether it was learning the man's minutest tics and morning habits, or
memorizing that burning touch of his.
 
 
While Sicheng attempted to brace himself for whichever demeanor Taeyong could
possibly counter him with (some of those including Taeyong bluntly bad-mouthing
him, although Sicheng was fully aware he was far from the type to do that), he
didn't register the faint noise of a curt knock against his door. The second
time it sounded, Sicheng jerked visibly, soft voice barely heaving to call out
and grant entrance.
 
"Good morning, Sicheng."
 
Sicheng briefly bit his bottom lip.
 
"Good morning, Dr. Lee."
 
A smile curled at the corners of the man's lips; too commonplace, along with
the exceptionally nonchalant way he took seat and skimmed his notes as if not a
day had passed, as if nights didn't exist and Sicheng wasn't so conspicuously
submissive that it hurt. Sicheng sat up a tad bit further. He won't have that.
Yuta had accepted that promise.
 
"Where were you?"
 
"Just feeling a little under the weather," he raised his regard to flash the
boy another smile. "A mild cold. Not enough to tie me to the bed, yet
apparently enough to endanger an entire facility."
 
He chuckled at that. Sicheng struggled with feeling slightly wounded.
 
"So how have you been feeling lately?"
 
 Hurt. Pathetic. Abandoned.
 
"I met another patient. We get along very well." Sicheng watched Taeyong's mien
closely, anticipating to draw the merest shift in expression out of the older.
 
"That's great, Sicheng. I'm glad to hear you've been socializing during my
absence!" Taeyong sounded encouraging. "That's definitely a step forward."
 
Sicheng's head fell low for a moment as he sucked in a deep breath. Either
Taeyong pretended not to notice or he remained oblivious before he settled the
clipboard on his lap, about to commence with the session when the boy finally
gathered his words.
 
"Hyung, do you hate me?"
 
Taeyong froze.
 
Not only was Sicheng looking at him with wide, sorrowful eyes, eyelashes
fluttering in such delicate manner and lips curled into a subtle and yet so
outrageouslyendearing pout, but the boy's words, uttered with such brittle and
soft chime, as if he was to break from the tensity in Taeyong's guise alone,
were spoken in none other than the man's own mother tongue, Korean. It
certainly wasn't flawless, but the slight stutter and minor imperfections in
those few phrases merely added to the devastating air and Taeyong felt his
disguise crumbling at such alarming velocity, he forcefully clawed at his
clipboard.
 
"W-What would make you think that, Sicheng?" he finally responded in Chinese,
attempting to muster a smile which ended up looking anything but natural there
he instantly averted his gaze, dreading what might transpire if he was to keep
his regard on the younger.
 
Which merely resulted in him missing how Sicheng tacitly shuffled nearer, legs
now dangling over the edge of the mattress and hands by his sides, torso
leaning forward the slightest as he eyed the older with the same adrift mien.
 
"I've been trying to figure out what I did wrong to make hyung be so cold to me
..."
 
Korean again. Sicheng instantly caught an evident unwieldiness draping the
older's bearing.
 
"You," Taeyong struggled to come upon the right words. "You did nothing wrong."
 
Taeyong visibly startled when Sicheng's leg came to brush against his own, his
vision darting upward in a flash as to ascertain the flurrying proximity, not
to mention the boyish manner in which Sicheng lingered on his bed, innocently
swaying one of his legs back and forth as the other was propped to support his
head. It was tilted sideways, just slightly, and his glimpse was quizzical,
enchanting at that, and it left Taeyong speechless for an instant longer than
he could afford in his situation. The boy was a threat. Had always been.
 
He had to get out.
 
"Hyung isn't feeling so well."
 
Taeyong lifted himself up from his chair, ready to make another abrupt exit
before Sicheng's flimsy, lamenting tonality rung in his ears anew and he found
himself halting in his tracks.
 
"I don't want hyungto feel bad because of me," he sniffled, burying his facies
in the comfort of his folded arms which were resting atop his newly joined
knees. "I want to be good for him. I want to make him feel good like he makes
me feel good. I want to–"
 
 "Stop it!"
 
Sicheng was slow off the mark to discern that he was being pulled up by the
collar of his oversized shirt, hands instantly reaching to grasp at the
taller's wrist as he pushed out a surprised whimper.
 
He certainly had pushed some buttons; but were they the right ones? Because
Taeyong's eyes were gleaming with something rogue, something frightening,
something so feral, that for a moment, Sicheng found himself back at home, all
those weeks of attempted healing, vanished without a trace and leaving behind
an infringing tinge of forlornness that made the man's grip seem all the more
crushing, and Sicheng felt like suffocating, that so-called safe place spalling
across the last of his defenses.
 
But no.
 
He was stronger than that.
 
With a voice, barely above a whisper, Sicheng cried out. "H-Hyung .."
 
"What do you want," he growled, in his mother language, at last.
 
Sicheng swallowed.
 
"I want to be yours."
 
The man's features softened ever so slightly, whereas his grip remained tight.
 
"And why would that be."
 
"You make me feel normal."
 
Sicheng's eyes pleaded and Taeyong paused, taking in the entire context of
those words which somehow weighted so heavy on his shoulders. Finally, he spoke
up.
 
"As your psychiatrist I probably shouldn't say this," his hold on Sicheng's
shirt almost completely loosened, and Sicheng forgot to catch his breath, too
diverted by attempting to decipher the expression that played on the older's
features. "But nothing about you is normal."
 
Sicheng was on the point of accepting that he had just been severely wounded,
when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, an innominate sensation percolated
within the depths of his gut and his lips found themselves captured in a firm
lip lock, his system suddenly short on oxygen as he tried to process what, how,
when, why. It was like the switch he had so desperately been trying to find had
finally been turned, and yet he was overwhelmed, losing himself in the
boundless ground of the moment as if he was on rapid free fall when Taeyong's
hand flitted from his collar to the side of his neck, the large hand cupping
part of the boy's defined cheek. He perceived a low rumble, something he didn't
fully register to be real words before the man's lips detached from his own few
beats later.
 
"Open your mouth."
 
Sicheng shuddered.
 
Obediently, the boy's lips parted the next moment Taeyong's found them anew,
and he acutely recognized the intensity of his very own heartbeat in every
fiber of his quivering body, incapable of making even the smallest movement
apart from the gentle press of his lips as he tried to respond to the kiss,
barely making impact whereas Taeyong was laying claim on all dominance.
Taeyong's tongue found way into his mouth, and Sicheng knew he was way too far
gone to maintain the lead in this situation. Sicheng felt exposed in the way
the older man's wet muscle explored his insides; as if he was mapping them,
claiming every yet so minor sweet drop of youth and patch of skin as his own,
and Sicheng loved it, the feel of being taken, being claimed.
 
He breathed out a weak moan, and Taeyong was inexorable.
 
When they parted, Taeyong took a step back and without further ado, seized the
thin fabric of Sicheng's shirt and neatly tore it in half with one swift, yet
firm motion. Sicheng felt so immensely flustered, fragile, small, indescribably
excited at the older's bluntness; it was new territory. Never had Sicheng had
the sense that he might be desired. And yet Taeyong's eyes were roaming his
exposed torso in such ravenous manner, barely concealing the way he sucked in a
sharp breath, tempering unholy cogitation.
 
 A threat.
 
"You want to make hyung feel good?"
 
Sicheng nodded at that; a little bit too eagerly one may hasten to add, before
the younger felt himself being tugged downwards, soft knees hitting the cold,
pitiless flooring.
 
"Then be a good boy for me."
 
At one swift haul, the man's boxers were pulled down just enough for the
remarkable length to spring free. Sicheng was oblivious of how his own tongue
glided over the superficies of his plush bottom lip and his glimpse darted up
to the other's visage.
 
He'd be good.
 
No, he'd be the best.
 
A timid hand raised to wrap itself around the shaft before he leaned forward,
bashfully poking the tip of his tongue past the seal of his lips to plant a
delicate, almost kittenish lick along the underside of the tip, the evident
twitch in his palm spurring him to firmly press the whole expanse of the hot
muscle against it before his lips completely enveloped the tip. Yuta had
somewhat prepared him for this, disclosed the disturbing and sloppy details of
the "Art of Giving Head" to Sicheng despite primary protests; needless to say
he considered himself more than thankful at this point. Sicheng startled when
fingers threaded through his hair and Taeyong pushed forward, the length
sinking to the back of the younger's throat and Sicheng had to suppress a gag,
vainly, as tears start to prickle in the nooks of his eyes, a helpless glimpse
coming to rest upon the man's facies which was quintessentially predatory.
 
Sicheng whined.
 
Nothing came out.
 
The unoccupied of Taeyong's hands gently wiped at the boy's cheek, catching an
individual bead running down its side in a fond gesture before he gave him an
encouraging smile, far too mellow looking for the given circumstance. But for
all that enough to endow Sicheng's spirit with new wings.
 
Sicheng tried his hardest to keep his regard on Taeyong as the older started
pounding into his tiny mouth, vision blurry, the view nevertheless worth the
struggle. Taeyong's face exclaimed pure bliss, eyebrows contracting every time
he hit the rear of his patient's throat, and Sicheng was just so goddamneager,
continuously commencing further attempts to ramp up indulgence in his
floundering form by enthusiastically fielding his tongue whenever provided an
opportunity. Grip remaining tight on Sicheng's locks, Taeyong forcefully pulled
the boy on and off his member, fucking into him relentlessly till the tears
downright poured down the seamless canvas of skin, Sicheng desperately clawing
at the man's thighs to steady himself as the repeated sound of gagging feebly
resounded within the walls of Sicheng's hospital room.
 
Eventually, Sicheng felt the clutch on his hair seize and he readied himself to
the best of his ability, inhaling deeply before Taeyong released his load with
only his tip engulfed in the wet heat of the younger's mouth, loose lips
keeping the shaft in place till the last of the warm, sticky substance oozed
onto the tip of his abused tongue.
 
Taeyong thumbed at the smaller's cheeks. The boy looked like a mess. A fair and
beautiful mess. Fondly, he patted the soft locks before those wide eyes darted
up to look at him, watery but so profoundly affectionate, it made Taeyong's
heart ache. A mixture of spit and semen dribbled down the dainty chin and
Taeyong reached to wipe at it, the soiled thumb pressing past plush couplets so
Sicheng could savor the very last drop of the older man.
 
 
"You're hyung's now."
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     curse me for this on tumblr @1aeil
     also tag yourself i'm yuta
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Taeyong has to decide whether he wants to seal his deal with
     damnation or turn around and leave before damage can be done. Turns
     out he has to make up his mind earlier than expected.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The oldest of Sicheng's brothers had chosen a late twilight for his unheralded
visiting, and Sicheng wasn't sure whether he was entitled to feel everything
apart from grateful, despite the very much apparent fact that he'd never dare
arise suspicion regarding the matter in the first place. And yet, Sicheng
struggled to imitate a smile when Zheng invited himself into his premises, much
like his father, without as much as a knock prior.
 
"Sicheng, my little bro!"
 
His mesomorphic frame was shrouded in a long, monochrome coat, smile brilliant
and fair, in stark contrast to weary eyes that he had been sporting all year.
Subtract the smile and append a few wrinkles, and one might've labeled him an
exact replication of their father. Sicheng shuddered at the notion. Taking seat
at the edge of Sicheng's bed, Zheng let his gaze roam over the wan ambiance
before it settled on the younger's guise, canvassing vision seeking stir in
those dim, nevertheless coruscating eyes.
 
"How is treatment progressing? Are they being nice to you, little one?"
 
"I told you to stop calling me that," Sicheng countered with a mild smile, and
his brother casted out a low chuckle. "I'm doing ... alright?"
 
"How come you sound so unconvinced?"
 
"I'm not unconvinced," he hasted to reply.
 
One corner of Zheng's lips curled upward at that, and Sicheng pushed out a
soft, indignant huff, before he reminded himself to promptly return to a more
demure stance, heaving out a tame tonality.
 
"I've been doing really well. I feel like taking me here was a good choice."
 
He worried on his bottom lip. Zheng nodded his head, musingly.
 
"Mom told us about the traumatic experience thing," his gaze remained fastened
to Sicheng's, who quickly averted. "It must've been hard for you, living with
this, without being able to tell anyone." The younger failed to discern how a
gentle palm settled on his covered thigh. Zheng sighed. "I just want you to
know that I'm here now. And I won't leave any time soon. I promise."
 
Sicheng's glimpse lifted to be met with an apologetic mien.
 
"Zheng,"
 
"No, Sicheng. I'm sorry I wasn't there. As your big brother it's my
responsibility to take care of you and guide you, but I've lost my sense for
what's really important. Which is you."
 
"Don't ... don't you have a family to take care of?"
 
Yet again, Zheng returned with a pony smile.
 
"You're family too, dummy."
 
His hand knocked against Sicheng's thigh, and the latter jerked, all of the
sudden conscious of the fact it's been placed there. His pulse wavered
strangely, and he looked back at Zheng, who either pretended to not having
taken note, or was simply oblivious to the boy's sudden state of unease.
 
"I suppose," he reverted to biting his bottom lip, attempting to cast off a
foreign hunch.
 
"I'm telling you, mom can't wait to have you back home so she can tell everyone
how brave you've been."
 
Brows perking up in infantine manner, Sicheng's eyes widened with wonderment.
"Brave?"
 
Zheng nodded solemnly.
 
"Don't you know? You're her precious gem. Our family's most valuable
possession. How could she not be excited?"
 
Sicheng couldn't help but bow his head, smiling to himself at the notion of his
mother awaiting his return. In the past week he hadn't even gotten round to
ring her as frequently, considering his sessions had started to string out
again and he simply couldn't abide the lies, couldn't mire that speckless
tongue of his. At least not before her very eyes. However, out of all the
things he had left behind at that place which scarcely bid charity, his mother
had been the only he had regretted the absence of, nightly trains of thought
redeploying him into terms of warmth and tendresse, soft hands and mellow
chimes, radiant images. Before tomorrows mattered.
 
"We all miss you very dearly, Sicheng, ..."
 
 Even Father?
 
The boy wondered, still absorbed in thought.
 
"... I miss you."
 
His ears perked at that, vision whipping upward within the stretch of an
instant.
 
 
The air was ... disconcerting.
 
There was something so profoundly illegible about the older's mien that threw
Sicheng off, his gaze tracing the point where his brother's regard seemed to
have zoned into.
 
His eyes landed on his thigh, where the other's palm hadn't stirred from its
position.
 
The echoes in his mind cried havoc.
 
 
A beat of silence.
 
 
"Anyway," his brother finally heaved out, and Sicheng unwittingly let out a
tremendous waft of air he didn't know he had been holding. "I meant to tell you
that I'll be in the country for a while. Business matters."
 
That curve, benign albeit blatantly distant returned to his lips and Sicheng
didn't venture to look away when he felt the older's thumb massage gentle
circles into his skin.
 
 This wasn't weird. This wasn't weird. This wasn't weird.
 
"W-What about your wife is she–"
 
"Ah, Chunhua," he heaved an abstracted sigh and Sicheng was so immenselyintent
on trying not to pin too much meaning behind it, terrified of the vibes that
accompanied the frenzied queries in his head. "I'm afraid pregnancy doesn't
agree with her temper." he chuckled. "But still,"
 
At seemingly boundless last, he rose from his seat and made for the door in an
ungirt, laggard stride and once faced with it, his regard remigrated to
Sicheng's hopefully imperceptibly overawed guise with vacant countenance.
 
"A man's got to do what a man has got to do, doesn't he, little bro?"
 
He flashed one last of those brilliant smiles.
 
"Take care, little one. I'll be back soon."
 
 
Just why did Sicheng wish to cram eternities into a phrase so curt, and
minuscule; as soon.
 
 
 
 
"Sicheng."
 
In reply, a soft murmur drew past the boy's lips.
 
"Sicheng."
 
Then, an infirm groan.
 
Something shook him awake and the Chinese's long-lashed lids tardily fluttered
open, against all remonstration on behalf of his fatigued shape. In dense
darkness he beheld a guise; so sinister whereas mystical, so intimate whereas
so bitterly foreign. The further Sicheng's eyes adjusted to the gloom, the
clearer he descried something so very ominous about the man's gaze, and yet
Sicheng didn't perceive the minutest tang of fear, didn't budge, didn't shift
away. He merely goggled the other with tender eyes before leaning upward,
planting a chaste kiss onto those outlawed lips.
 
"You had a visitor."
 
His voice weighted gravely.
 
"My brother said he'd stay in Korea for a while."
 
Silence fell upon them. Taeyong appeared to ponder.
 
"I thought you two aren't this close."
 
Sicheng didn't know if he could allow himself to light upon a jealous vein
tinging those words, notwithstanding that the notion of such actuality stirred
riant commotions within the puniest corners of his narrow frame, and the lack
of illumination effectively concealed the faint wisp of a reddish hue that
bloomed on the apples of his cheeks.
 
"We aren't ... anymore."
 
The boy's pate shifted in his pillow, regard tramping off to another dimension
of wildly straying ideas and daunting potential for another trip down memory
lane. However, at the perfect nick of time before his mind brought off chasing
thoughts that reached to this present day, Sicheng perceived a soft waft of air
tickling the shell of his ear and his heart convulsed violently in his chest
when the other presence heaved something barely above a low-pitched whisper.
 
"Just remember who you belong to."
 
A mere bystander of the subsequent deeds, he felt a cunning hand swiftly making
its way underneath the thin material of his sleeping garment, rough palms
running over and caressing the expanse of smooth skin, palpating his ribs, the
taut muscles of his stomach which he had acquired from the years of extensive
practice in the art of Chinese dance, his chest. The man brushed a thumb over
one of his patient's sensitive nipples in a defying gesture, and the younger
breathed out a fragile moan.
 
Sicheng was so small underneath the touch and Taeyong was so awfully sensible
of the fact that he adored it. That he adored Sicheng, adored him in ways that
were objectionable beyond any calculable measure, so acutely, he was deadly
resolute he was to end up in hell eventually. But as long as the younger was
lying there, the beautiful bone structure illuminated by nothing but the faint
gleam of the moonlight that faintly filtered through the panes, lips parted,
lean frame writhing with short strokes bliss, and eyes, those eyes whose
reflection bore nothing but sheer and utmost adoration when they looked up at
Taeyong as if he was the actual sun; as long as he could steal away those bits
of heaven which had somehow been put into his ignoble palms by some ill-
natured, divine force, he'd indulge in this limbo between heaven and sin. A
place where Sicheng's slender arms would wind around his neck to pull him close
and dip his conscience into a deeper shade of immorality.
 
Taeyong capitulated to the unspoken laws of nature and Sicheng came apart.
 
A knee pressed against the younger's groin and the moan that ensued did
thingsto the older man. He pulled Sicheng's tee up to his armpits as to tilt
down and pepper brief, feather-like kisses across the wavering chest, which
heaved with every riven breath the other would draw out, laborious and audible.
By now, Sicheng was vaguely aware at what intangible pace the man's gestures
shifted in nature; gentle and playful one instant, ruthless and staggering the
very next, and he couldn't bring himself to hate either. Not when he
practically asked for every yet so minor drop of attention the other was
willing to devote to him.
 
Sicheng elicited a quiet whimper when Taeyong's tongue started working on his
nipple, and slender digits came to thread themselves between the man's brunatre
locks, cautiously digging into his scalp as hands gradually and imperceptibly
tugged at the boy's boxer shorts, finding hold on Sicheng's weeping length.
Sicheng barely suppressed a moan.
 
"Shh," Taeyong hushed, detaching his lips from the tender skin. "We can't have
them thinking you're enjoying yourself in this place, now can we?"
 
An almost inconspicuous, teasing undercurrent went with that query and Sicheng
wanted to frown, maybe remark something in return. But his thoughts were
traveling hosts of miles a second and not a single syllable that would escape
his quavering lips thereupon, resembled anything near coherent when Taeyong's
hand squeezed his shaft, thumb provokingly depressing against the exceedingly
sensitive tip. Taeyong's other hand came to pry upon those plush couplets and
he indulged himself in letting two fingers push past the pretty seal, the
younger's pate tilted back into the comfort of his pillow, eyes pressing shut,
jaw slack.
 
Taeyong jerked Sicheng at excruciatingly dragging rate, whilst his fingers
remained latched to his lips, waiting till eager tongue wreathed round them
with avid spirit and the imagery of it all was too sinful, too filthy in
contrast to the boy's angelic bearing. Once imbrued with saliva, the hand made
way between smooth thighs, which Sicheng knew how to spread oh so obediently
and Taeyong leaned down, muting anemic whimpering with the lock of his lips as
the tip of his first finger thoughtfully circled at the perpetual clenching and
unclenching of the boy's rim before he steadily pushed in, the tugs on the
smaller's length coming to a curt halt. Sicheng writhed softly, clenching
around the digit. He should be used to this by now. But really, he couldn't
possibly get used to any of it. Taeyong barely missed a beat before he
initiated movement, tongue appeasing the pang with gentle kisses, thorough and
outright addicting. Sicheng wondered what experiences the man had acquired on
his thirty-three years on earth, how he acquired them, where, when, with who.
Did they make his heart run riot, like he did with his? Was he as bashful, as
spellbound, intoxicated by inclination as Sicheng? Did he love them? Cling to
their every word?
 
Did they see the same stars in those dangerously captivating eyes?
 
Sicheng heaved out a sigh of contentedness when the ache eased off by a tad,
warm pleasure splaying atop the sting like viscous liquid when the pad of the
man's fingertip curled against a very particular nerve and Taeyong's lips drew
patterns on his jaw, the gracile line of his neck, out for display, biding to
be claimed, mapped, marked. Taeyong continued stimulating that very spot and
for a moment Sicheng could note the perceptible presence of a stare, despite
shut eyes. Because undoubtedly everything about Taeyong burnedwhen it came in
contact with his skin, as if it was to remind him how wrong this was, and as a
matter of fact, the man's very gaze was no exception, when it dwelled and
monitored the minutest twitch in Sicheng's visage as he fucked an additional
finger into the coiling heat. Sicheng wanted to tell him, yearned to let him
know "it's ok", "it's alright, you can use me", eager to be corrupted till he'd
lose all recollection of the daunting subsistence of home, because this. This
was home. A feeling, a brief overpowering by absolute bliss and a suffocating
heat that made his toes curl, a whisper. His whisper, and his lips on the
sweat-beaded superfice of his forehead.
 
His touch.
 
 
And every heartbeat felt like it served purpose.
 
 
Taeyong withdrew his fingers after a particularly hard thrust that had Sicheng
choking on his saliva, proceeding to unbutton his own shirt and letting it
laxly drape the sturdy expanse of his shoulders before he trailed a path of wet
kisses along the boy's chest, stomach, the playful tip of a tongue dipping
slightly into Sicheng's tight navel whereon he casted his glance upwards to
spot the latter biting down a smile.
 
Cute.
 
Ultimately ridding the younger of his pants, Taeyong's hands found grasp in
those silky thighs and pushed them forward with a tinge of force; Sicheng
feeling denuded as ever, the strait pucker on full display and clenching at the
nothingness that had replaced sweet friction instants ago. His skin perceivably
shivered at the chilly sensation of air being blown against the sensitive rim,
still moist, exposed, and the older planted unhurried kisses along his inner
thighs, sometimes barely avoiding the tight ring of muscles making the boy's
breath hitch as he clenched at the sheets, knuckles adopting its very color
when Taeyong finally laid his tongue flat against the puncture.
 
Sicheng whined. He didn't dare ask the older to hurry up, even if he the ache
was excruciating and the pace razing. Or maybe he simply couldn't, tongue too
occupied tying itself into insoluble knots and his vocabulary depleting to
adrift moans when the slick muscle started prodding his insides, tardily, and
all the more frustrating as the fill never quite felt like enough, mere
taunting without the aim of actually driving the boy over the edge, letting him
brush it, reach out for it, in vain. The man's tongue skillfully stretched him
open, watery sounds adding to the faint noise of needy whimpers. Sicheng grew
impatient to an unbearable degree and his face contorted, frantically pressing
his cheek into the pillow before breathing out.
 
"Tae–"
 
A wee pool of saliva gathered at his rim once Taeyong withdrew. He hiked upward
between the boy's legs to meet Sicheng in a wet lip lock, and Sicheng moaned
into his mouth, dainty digits coming to dig into the man's shoulders, wanting
to draw him nearer, feel him more acutely, hinder the high from slipping past
his fingers and dissolving into the thin air before he could winkle the
outright most out of it.
 
"Ready?"
 
Sicheng's lids unclasped.
 
Taeyong was looking down at him, and the boy hadn't even taken note of how the
man's length had aligned with his entrance, carefully sliding up and down
between slicked up cheeks, wet and messy from the remnants of saliva that oozed
past the petite ring of muscles. Taeyong's eyes bore a quizzical sentiment, and
somehow, for that very brief yet all the more peerless instant, something of
such precarious and diffident nature took up the overall expanse of the man's
countenance. And it was that moment, that it seemed as if not a year severed
their blighted souls, that Sicheng found himself in position to take charge,
maybe for once, and possibly never again. Flinging his arms around the the
older's neck, Sicheng tugged the man closer until their bodies aligned
seamlessly, his face coming to rest against the crook of Taeyong's neck before
he tilted his pate upward as to acquaint his lips with the shell of the
doctor's ear, a sweet sonority slinking his way in form of a hushed whisper.
 
"Use me."
 
And there wasn't even a beat before Taeyong eased inside, groaning, as if he
had been hungering for that very cue.
 
This wasn't their first time. No, by no means should one pass over the first
episode that Taeyong snuck underneath Sicheng's comforter as soon as the moon
bid the sun goodbye, that Sicheng was stretched, and filled, and taken with
every ounce of his hormonal bearing raving and reveling, yearning and griping
whatever came his way. But something was so very different about this
particular time around; and while Sicheng couldn't quite put a finger on what
it was exactly, that evident something that malevolently toyed with the man's
seemingly raging cogitations, Sicheng embraced the fact that it made the other
more vulnerable. Because as much as Sicheng had become addicted to the man's
strong and dominant vein that came so naturally in their dynamic, he
subconsciously longed for that much more profound insight, died to solve the
riddles that played in Taeyong's eyes that somehow still locked away an immense
quantity of personhoodfor Sicheng to explore and hold in veneration. So when
Taeyong caved deeper into the suction, hands on either side of Sicheng's head
as he hovered atop the smaller, stance weak from the sudden bursts of pleasure
that stirred the very endings of his nerves and firing through his limbs at a
velocity they threatened to give in, Sicheng's eyes remained as widely open as
he could manage under the circumstance, indulging himself in both the spectacle
of Taeyong's focused mien and the feeling of being torn and coincidentally
filled to the absolute brim. It was blissful, and ecstatic, and Sicheng wanted
to wind himself around the older, pull him closer, push him deeper.
 
"M-Move."
 
Something in Taeyong's expression stirred, visibly caught off guard by yet
another display of that unusual strain of straightforwardness and for a whole
moment he didn't say anything, didn't move. Not until a sound closely
resembling a whine pushed itself out of some abstruse, corded nook of Sicheng's
throat and the other slid almost completely out of the younger before plunging
back in with shocking precision.
 
Yet from then on, not one motion had even the remotest semblance to the latter
trait.
 
Taeyong repeatedly reintroduced himself into the constricting heat, essentially
ramming and barely aiming the thrusts, avid and vigorous, thoroughgoing that it
left Sicheng at a loss of words and his deliverance was limited down to an
incomprehensible mayhem of syllables and adrift whimpers. His knuckles turned
white from the adamant manner in which he clutched the twisted sheets beneath,
brows contracting, and bed spouting continual sounds of protest as it shook
with every assiduous stab of hips. The underside of Sicheng's thighs adopted an
angry hue, redness blooming from the repeated slap of skin against skin, flesh
bruising against flesh when one of Taeyong's hands abruptly seized a leg,
pinning it slightly forward as to bury himself deeper inside the younger, thumb
painfully digging into the silken derma and Sicheng tried his hardest to stifle
the cries.
 
He was being wrecked. Wrecked thoroughly and maybe beyond a chance of recovery,
if Sicheng was to judge on site. But the pleasure, the delicious pleasure that
enfolded his every limb, put mind and solid into a state of unmitigated
integrity and contentedness, a floating space of nothingness that introduced to
infinities that reached far beyond what he'd allow himself to imagine in his
wildest dreams, an ardency; an ardency so insufferable that it evoked the
unyielding wish for release and if Taeyong didn't already look like his sole
savior then, there was a blinding glory about his sweaty and absolutely
ruthless bearing now.
 
Taeyong picked up the speed. Sicheng was gone.
 
The grunts that hustled past the man's lips were hurried, his jaw angrily
clenching before he leaned down as to press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the
boy's exposed neck, probably sucking a hickey into existence, possibly two.
Sicheng desperatelyneeded to touch himself whereas he proximity to his own
release edged rapidly, however, Taeyong failed to spare regard whilst all too
lost in the daze of his very own approaching climax, not until Sicheng raised a
shaky hand to wrap it around one of the older's wrists, a pleading look seeping
through half-lidded eyes and Taeyong quickly grasped the message,
unceremoniously closing his hand around the weeping shaft and jerking it with
quick and avid strokes.
 
Mere seconds later, Sicheng's abdomen adorned itself with the splay of viscid
white ribbons.
 
Adamantly chasing release, Taeyong quickly pulled out and repositioned himself
in front of the boy's plush lips, pushing past with raw conviction and fucking
himself into the lax cavity, until he too, came undone and loads of white
warmth percolated in the boy's mouth and throat. Sicheng knew well enough to
swallow, and once he did, he uncontrollably gasped for air, pinched yet
immensely titillated from the overbearing aftershock of his orgasm and his back
spasmed, just the slightest, before the weight on top of him shifted and yet
again he could find himself floating. Gratified. Happy?
 
Taeyong's lips came upon his and they kissed; long and unhurriedly, tender and
slow. When the older collapsed to the boy's side, Sicheng took it upon himself
to lock his limbs around his and nestled his head atop those broad shoulders,
the position so exceedingly peaceful. He felt complete. At ease. Tired. Before
Sicheng could give into the creeping wish to drop off just like this, he
murmured out a last concluding promise.
 
 
"I'm yours," he sighed tiredly, albeit with a strange sense of contentment.
"Always yours."
 
As if the circumstance inquired after confirmation. Taeyong heaved a sigh.
 
 
 
 
 Just like with every streak of seemingly ethereal happiness, the light of
fortune has the property of lapsing at abrupt instant. To no surprise did
Sicheng awake the next day without the convenience of having another solid next
to him to leech warmth from, and after he readied himself for the day, washing
up, getting dressed, trying to conceal the stupidly evident limp in his walk,
he made his way to the common room where he and Yuta had arranged to meet at
noon a day prior. He got one of the nurses to make him a cup of hot chocolate,
and settled in one of the grayly upholstered lounge chairs at the corner of the
common room, burning the tip of his tongue in the premature nipping on the
steaming beverage. There was still plenty of time before Yuta would accompany
him, so Sicheng passed the minutes flipping through one of the books that he
had picked up from the shelf across the room, one loaded with images
considering that he still struggled with the language and his brain was yet to
fully wake up in order to process more complex Korean than the simple wording
he found in the outdated children's book he held in his hands. He sat in a
lotus position, knees resting against the armrests of the chair as he carefully
regarded the images, unconcerned and with a natural pout on reddish lips, not
heedful enough to register a tall figure approaching until its shadow casted
over one of the pages, Sicheng startling and quickly snapping his head upward.
He slightly shook his head as to get the raven bangs to fall out of his field
of vision.
 
"Zheng?"
 
The older greeted him with a cordial smile.
 
"What are you–"
 
"I brought you pancakes," the man held up a paper bag, before plopping it onto
the coffee table to Sicheng's side. "Of course, they don't come close to
mother's standards, but I made sure the place has good reviews. You should eat
them."
 
Sicheng looked at him, wide-eyed. The last time his brother had gotten
something for him must've been years ago. "Uh, thanks." He stumbled dumbly, not
knowing what to say. His brother carried an odd air with him, something Sicheng
knew, but never quite got accustomed to. Maybe that was it; being exposed to
his brother's kind vein so frequently in such short span of time. Sicheng bit
down on his bottom lip. Zheng took seat in the chair to his right, shrugging
off his coat and putting it over the armrest.
 
"I called the hospital to make sure you're awake. I didn't want to wake you,"
he offered a glaring smile. "Considering my brother is a little dormouse, isn't
he?"
 
Sicheng's teeth sank further into his lip and he nodded, bowing his head to
look at his ankles. Yet again, he couldn't help but discern an odd hunch of
unease sprawling at the bottom of his stomach, a heat he would've accredited to
the intake of hot chocolate if it wasn't so belligerently burning the walls of
his interior.
 
"Don't you have work?" Sicheng heaved out, trying to sound as if genuinely
concerned his brother might be missing out on something because of him. Not
that that wasn't the truth. It just wasn't entirelythe truth.
 
"Advantage of being your own boss is that you appoint your own vacations.
Besides, I have someone important to look after, the circumstance is
appropriate."
 
 Like I was important when they abandoned me here?
 
"I want to take care of you, Sicheng. From now on, you can lean on me. I'll
finally be the big brother you deserve, and more."
 
 And more?
 
"If there's anything I can do to help you heal faster, you should not hesitate
to tell me. All I want for you is to get back home, so we can be a family
again. A real family, like back when we spent our summers here. Do you
remember, Sicheng? When you wanted me to give you a piggyback ride through the
garden and I told you not unless you kiss my feet?"
 
 I did end up kissing them.
 
"You were such a happy child. I wonder what happened along the way, where we
went so wrong. Ah," he shook his head. "I just wish I could get you out of here
right now."
 
 
Every word bit, bit bloody wounds into his smarting flesh until they spluttered
red and layered the cogitations that whirred through his mind with a dim
filter. He couldn't put a finger on why he felt so acutely, why his brother's
relations put him in a state of such internal bedlam, he wanted to scream for
it to stop. The greatest irony yet had to be that he could clearly recall
himself despairingly wishing for his brother to tend to him on such profound
level, wished to stir a caring sentiment in whose distant eyes, all those times
when he had been told off or countered with scorn, pleading bearing and runny
vision yearning appeasement even in its minutest forms, crying out in voiceless
screams. Back then, it had been time for him to grown up. But something didn't
let him, a force pushing him back to his knees as if it coerced him to remain
speckless and small, as if someone was to trap him in the form of a clueless
toddler who simply wasn't meantto grow past the dainty and shallow, improvident
and undoubtedly obedient, because that's who he was and this was his place.
Kissing someone else's feet in order to get what he wanted.
 
"What if I like it here?" Sicheng muttered out, barely taking note of the fact
that he actually voiced something aloud.
 
"Don't be ridiculous," he replied with an airy laugh, his palm coming to knock
against Sicheng's knee, the latter twitching upon contact. "Everyone is waiting
for you to come home. Furthermore, I really feel like being selfish now. I want
you for myself for once. You know, spend some quality time with my little
brother. It's long overdue and I want to make up for the time I missed out. But
that's hard when you're tied to this place ... come home, Sicheng." he leaned
closer, head tilting to the side by a tad whilst playing an almost pitiful mien
on his weary, nevertheless handsome features. "Come home."
 
The younger's eyes were wide open, and while he tried hard not to look
incredulously, he couldn't conceal a pungent tinge of puzzlement.
 
Just why was there such a sudden strain for him to return, why was he suddenly
treated with such relevance, why was his brother so painfully adamant on having
him near?The questions swam around the murk of his frenzied mind and it was a
challenge to not get distracted by the overbearing amount of heat that prickled
under the patch of skin where the older had placed his hand, the touch feeling
foreign, out of place. He tried for a reaction, some sort of reply that could
possibly reject any invitation for resumption of the conversation without
sounding conspicuous, however, silence appeared sufficient enough to bid
welcome for the other to take hold of Sicheng's unoccupied hand, pulling it to
his much thinner lips to press a gentle peck to its very back, Sicheng's
glimpse stark on the clutch around his wrist and yet again, he could hear
distant alarm bells go off.
 
 This wasn't weird. This shouldn't be weird.
 
He raised his regard to meet his brother's when he suddenly felt something warm
and wet press against the small expanse of skin.
 
 
His surroundings came to halt.
 
Sicheng shuddered.
 
 
Zheng was looking at him, a permeating stare drilling holes into the soft ebony
of his eyes.
 
His hand still covered the older's mouth.
 
And then, he felt it again.
 
The boy couldn't get his eyes to pull away from the unyielding lock, feeling as
if he was to undergo a disconcerting punishment if he as much as disrespected
the other by drawing his attention away which he was so evidently demanding to
retain. Open-mouthed kisses splayed over the silky skin and again, Sicheng
couldn't help but shiver, so desperate to avert his gaze to look at everything,
anything but those alien eyes, anything to distract him from the parching
sensation that gnawed against the back of his hand, wrist snared in the ever
tightening grip around it as to keep it in place. Seconds turned into an awful
stretch of hours in his mind, and he unconsciously bit the inside of his cheek,
probably making it bleed judging from the faint smack of metal against the
rigid tongue.
 
 Why did no one notice? Why did no one say anything?
 
He would've internally cursed the clinic for being so godforsaken, despite
always having welcomed the peaceful solitude, especially at mornings like
these. Last time he had checked, there was merely a nurse, sitting behind an
elevated counter, too distracted by what seemed to be paperwork to grant him
the redemption of her regard and the alarm bells grew louder, begging for heed
through the thickness of the silence between the occasional feeble sound of
papers flipping, a stapler, a cough.
 
Then, footsteps. Firm. Resolute.
 
Finally, Sicheng's eyes detached and his hand fell to the armrest, the
footsteps gradually approaching and coming to halt not too far from their
situation before the boy could engage in learning who he was to thank; a voice
raising from the stifling silence.
 
"Sicheng. You're up."
 
Sicheng faked a smile, but Taeyong saw right through it.
 
"Mhm."
 
Taeyong's gaze clicked to the man seated in the other chair. "I don't think
we've met."
 
Something about the air changed immediately. There was an ever growing presence
of tension in the room, even the nurse seeming to have become aware of as she
peeked her head over the counter just enough to catch a glimpse of the scene,
her attendance however long dismissed by everyone involved. Taeyong towered,
his physiognomy giving away that he was awarehe had been interrupting something
and Zheng countered with an equally hectoring bearing, eyes narrowing in the
stretch of an instant before he lifted himself off his seat, his size
overpowering Taeyong's by barely a few inches. Taeyong didn't seem to cower the
slightest.
 
Zheng extended a hand towards the doctor, the politeness in his tonality tinged
with the ever so evident undercurrent of possessiveness.
 
"Dong Zheng, pleased to make your acquaintance," he flashed one of those
brilliant smiles, the vibe bearing nothing even closely resembling to
authenticity. "And you are?"
 
Taeyong accepted the handshake, grip so tight that Sicheng could make out a
slight twitch of discomfort from the other and he pulled his legs even closer
to his already curled up frame. "Lee Taeyong, consulting psychiatrist. The
pleasure is all mine."
 
Sicheng swallowed thickly.
 
 This was bad.
 
Zheng pushed out an airy laugh, their hands still firmly locked and not a drop
laxer. "How convenient! I wanted to discuss with you how my brother's treatment
is progressing," he leaned closer by a tad. "Considering he's been here for
such a long time now he should already be in his final stages of recovery, now
shouldn't he?"
 
There was a iciness that laced his words and venom that seeped through the gaps
in between and Sicheng couldn't decide if he preferred bone-crushing silence or
stabbing conversation. But again, Taeyong's stance didn't falter in the
slightest.
 
"One should not rush a patient's healing process if it's expected to have
permanent effect, sir. Sicheng is doing incredibly well for his position, I
don't think anyone in this department who can declare themselves a competent
medical practitioner would be foolish enough to prioritize the period of time
it takes the patient to advance with treatment. I wouldn't suggest–"
 
"Oh, I don't doubt that Sicheng is doing his best," Zheng cut the older off,
something noxious playing on his features as his smile contorted into something
twisted, almost ugly in contrast to that habitual winner smile. "In fact, what
I'd much rather doubt is your competence. How can I be sure that my beloved
brother is being provided with the best possible treatment? That his efforts to
find proper recovery aren't running to waste because some self-assured, self-
proclaimed specialist is simply lacking the proficiency to help?"
 
Taeyong's eyes narrowed. Sicheng was alarmed, watching the disaster unfold in
front of his eyes.
 
"No need to become disrespectful, sir."
 
"Don't get me wrong," Zheng continued, obviously not contemplating to let
Taeyong continue. "It's just that I don't know you. How could I trust you
without any tangible proof? I'm merely a concerned brother, looking out for the
one dear to me. I feel that it's appropriate for me to become suspicious if
after multiple weeks of treatment there's still no evidence of any significant
progress."
 
Wanting to combust right on spot, Sicheng drank in a grand amount of the static
air, forgetting to exhale as he internally scolded himself for putting Taeyong
in such a position. It was his fault, all his fault. All his fault for not
being convincing enough. All his fault that Taeyong had to lie, had to stand up
for him, had to have this conversation, had to endanger his reputation like
that. All his fault that he didn't know how to stand up for himself. All his
fault for craving something so outlawed.
 
He screwed his eyes shut, lacking the potency to further observe the
happenings, and his ears muffled the voices that continued to ring, tenseness
growing by the second.
 
"Sicheng is doing a lot of progress, much more than I presumed him to make in
this span of time–"
 
"So you would agree with me?"
 
"Excuse me, sir?"
 
"Sicheng isn't the problem, it's you?"
 
"There isn't a problem," now Taeyong's voice bordered to flagrant irritation,
and Sicheng could practically envision him pushing up his glasses in an act of
trying to reclaim composure. "The treatment is proceeding as it should, at an
appropriate pace. I wouldn't consider it smart to change his setting just yet
as he only just managed to settle in comfortably, which is a great advantage if
we want to be successful with our aim. With all due respect, sir, believe me
when I say this," Taeyong took hardly a step closer, now mimicking his
opponent's self-assured glimpse all whilst maintaining a professional and
earnest mien. "I care about Sicheng's recovery just as much as you do. My
patients are my responsibility, their wellbeing is my priority. You have
nothing to worry about."
 
And yet again, Sicheng perceived an apparent shift in the air that surrounded
them, although he couldn't quite discern the various sentiments that charged
the atmosphere. But Sicheng feared all the more, feared that he might've
triggered something he couldn't fix and eventually he opened his eyes and
steered his glimpse to Taeyong who was counter-intuitively already looking his
way; their little exchange patently catching the attention of Zheng who
immediately threw a glance over his shoulder, Sicheng reflexively cowering and
backtracking his regard to let it slump to his feet.
 
Then, it struck him.
 
 
What if he knew?
 
 
Horror settled in Sicheng's bones and he was too deflected with desperately
attempting to controvert the immediate stream of harrowing possibilities that
might materialize if his assumptions proved to be correct, tremor in his limbs,
stasis in his lungs. He didn't catch his brother turning back to meet Taeyong's
eyes, not the brief exchange of hushed menace that slunk past toxic lips only
for the doctor to catch, he couldn't know, only predict, only assume, when
suddenly yet noninvolved voice rose amongst the others; making Sicheng's heart
twist with a strong sentiment of utmost gratitude.
 
 
"Did someone die or has it always been this bleak in here?" Yuta's voice chimed
with the usual jest, and Sicheng thanked the heavens for his companion's
timing.
 
Both adults snapped their heads towards the Japanese male.
 
"Patient Nakamoto, choice of w–"
 
"Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah," Yuta rolled his eyes with such exaggeration, one
might've accredited him ten years less than his actual age. "I'm just here to
pick up my date, doc." He turned his regard to Sicheng, a knowing grin playing
on his bright and fetching futures (probably because he was very much aware
what such statement triggered amongst the present parties). "Sicheng, you
ready?"
 
Sicheng had never nodded so avidly, hands coming to the armrests to quickly
push him off his position on the chair before he scurried over to the other's
side, arms linking upon offering. His gaze remained plastered to the flooring.
 
"Sorry to steal the show, boys," Part of Sicheng wanted to clasp a hand in
front of Yuta's mouth, another part couldn't be more grateful. "Me and my date
will be off to a romantic lunch now. But don't be too disappointed; it's not
like any of you had a single chance against me to begin with."
 
"Enough, Yuta."
 
Taeyong gave Yuta a lookand Yuta knew well enough to comply; Zheng too occupied
with eyeing Yuta with bewildered expression to note the exchange.
 
"Gentlemen," Yuta excused himself with a dramatic bow, removing Sicheng and
himself from the site and steering the two of them towards his hospital room.
 
Sicheng ventured on throwing one last glance over his shoulder.
 
He met Taeyong's eyes for a brief, excruciating instant, the older excusing
himself as well thereupon. Zheng on the other hand, lingered, eyes trained to a
particular spot and when Sicheng pursued the tracks, his gaze curtly landed
upon the unmoved paper bag that remained situated on the coffee table next to
the chair he had priorly occupied. The lump in his gut stirred.
 
Something told him he shouldn't feel guilty.
 
 
But he did.
 
 
 
 
"He doesn't know."
 
"He knows."

"Doesn't."
 
"But I'm telling you, he does!"
 
Sicheng was currently hiking circles around his friend's room, the other's eyes
trailing his every footfall.
 
"There's no way he does."
 
"He practically strangled Taeyong with his eyes. I saw! You weren't there, but
I saw!"
 
"So what if he did, what can he actually do."
 
Sicheng started to grow irritated with the so very apparent fact that he was
the only one consumed by utter maddening panic. The events of just a few
moments ago had finally caught up to him, now that the air finally flowed and
the static didn't cord his throat with gut-wrenching anxiety. At least not as
severely as at the face of occurrences.
 
"What can he do?" Sicheng stopped in his tracks, a disturbing mixture of
disbelief and shock seizing his aghast facies. "What can he do!?" He repeated
for dramatic effect, or to gather his thoughts, he wasn't sure. "He could, I
don't know, tell my father, or worse, he could just, immediately come and get
me, and then, then I'd be at his place and, and ... no!"
 
His voice wavered acutely, Yuta's expression finally passing over to genuine
alertness as against the unaccustomed collectedness he kept fastened to his
lips ever since they entered his room, Sicheng's anxious vein quickly overawing
the trained silence they had adhered to on their way. No, Yuta wasn't the
serious type. But he certainly knew when to shut up and listen, even though
Sicheng would do anything to tear his thoughts far away from the obscure place
they had nestled into against all his efforts to hold them off. They had no
business in there. Just like his brother had no business disrupting the
blissful quiet he had been trying to preserve so desperately. 
 
"Right now he doesn't have a reason to take you away from here, at least
nothing solid. If he actually cares about you he wouldn't–"
 
"But that's the point! He doesn't care!"
 
"You sure though?"
 
"I am."
 
"Well, but didn't he come to visit to check after you?"
 
"Not because he cares."
 
"Because of what then?"
 
Sicheng frowned, head sinking. "I don't know." He genuinely didn't. Or maybe
his subconscious had been very much aware, yet didn't want to refer to it for
good.
 
"Sicheng," His head snapped upward, unwitting that he had been lost in thought
until the other male spoke up, slowly lifting himself off the edge of the bed
and walking towards the Chinese. "Is there anything you would ... want or need
to tell me?"
 
The look on the other's facies had something piercing, rinsed with a frank
sentiment of solicitude that made Sicheng's heart ache; he took a step back.
No.There wasn't really anything he had to tell him. After all, nothing out of
the ordinary had happened, had there? His brother had a pregnant wife, a
sprouting fortune, and two healthy legs to stand on apart from a splendid
appearance. All of Sicheng's unuttered worries were misguided; they had to be.
He had nothing to offer. Nothing his brother could possibly want from him.
 
Nothing Sicheng might fear the loss of.
 
So when Yuta placed a comforting hand on Sicheng's unaccustomedly tense
shoulder, the boy's earnest eyes speaking volumes of implied queries that
Sicheng had no intention of voluntarily deciphering, he simply shook his head,
a meek "No." rolling off his burning tongue.
 
 
 
 
An choked off moan bubbled past the boy's lips when he awakened with the
wettish press of warm flesh against the inside of his left thigh, the touch
dangerously near the setout of his cock. He stirred. The sensation didn't go
away. He let it plough ahead, barely registering that dreams were long
outdistanced, completely out of reach, and automatically reached dainty digits
underneath the almost suffocating layer of covers as to thread them with a
brunette head of hair between his legs, eager mouth now vehemently sucking at
the sensitive skin. Sicheng's eyes tore open when he felt teeth join in.
 
"Ah, Taeyong," he yanked at the strands, albeit weakly, whilst his other hand
came to rest upon his mouth to muffle the increasing pitch of moans. However,
the movements remained avid, unstirred by meek cries of protest as the intruder
proceeded to mark up the seamless expanse of skin, demeanor bordering to
downright possessiveness in the way he clutched at the younger's legs, forcing
them apart with conviction. He writhed, trying to flee the touch, wriggling,
kicking, pulling at the silky locks, the grip merely intensifying along with
the zeal of his tongue, sucking faster, biting harder, and the boy's face
contorted ever so slightly, sounds of discomfort now slipping into the airless
atmosphere.
 
 
And then, Sicheng saw it, right there in front of his inner eye; dreadful
possibility.
 
 
"Taeyong!?"
 
Finally, the figure stilled and the covers raised. It was quite the spectacle,
ruffled hair, puffed lips, scorching ebonies that bore a sense of fright, much
resembling a deer caught in the headlights as the back of his hand messily
swiped at his mouth, shameful regard dashing miles an hour before pinning
itself back to the boy who merely countered with cowed poise.
 
Taeyong.
 
Sicheng breathed a sigh of relief.
 
 Taeyong.
 
 
They sat in silence for a couple of beats until the older sat himself up
further, gaze far afield as he heaved a particularly rueful tonality.
 
"I'm sorry."
 
Mimicking his movements, Sicheng gradually built himself up with the support of
his arms till he sat face to face with the older, a timid hand coming to rest
upon the man's sharp jaw, speechless, yet so utterly fond in the way he let the
smooth pad of his thumb swipe over the uptight bone, skin growing warmer under
the gentle contingence. The man's eyes clenched shut.
 
"Hyung," Sicheng breathed out, breaking the quiet.
 
All that Sicheng desired was a flimsy ray of light to illuminate leastwise the
minutest fraction of the older's shuttered mind, to grant him insight, clarity,
comprehensionof what was playing down whilst his typically so self-assured,
bordering intimidating facies continued leaking these little slips of
insecurity, traceable in his eyes, that frown, that heart-breaking frown that
Sicheng found far too endearing for his own good. It felt intimate. Hardly ever
did he obtain such insight, rarely was he able to indulge himself in actively
entertaining the notion of Taeyong breaking underneath the hard shell of
authority and control, the soft edges merely seeping through when he'd
allowthem to. It was sort of self-evident; until it wasn't, and Sicheng had
subconsciously been on constant lookout for a crack in the seamless canvas, so
he could nestle inside, maybe catch a glimpse of what's underneath, drink it in
till Taeyong would fill the gaps again. But Sicheng was fine with that, most of
the time. It was a chase, of sorts, and it kept him busy, was his priority aim.
He figured, it would be fine like that.
 
He didn't take into consideration that Taeyong might be needing him to do that
at a point so soon though. The phrase seemed to trigger something in the older,
gaze fastening to an indefinite spot below. He looked almost boyish, crouched
like that, with the blanket laid out over those broad shoulders, sorry eyes,
messy hair; endearing. Not thirty plus and stressed out. Sicheng felt at a loss
of words, unfamiliar with the circumstance, so he tried for what he knew once
again.
 
"Hyung," Again. "Hyung, what's–"
 
"I'm really sorry, Sicheng," he repeated himself, too, cutting the younger off.
Sicheng fell quiet, feeling that the other might continue if he just gave him
the space to do so. Acquiring no reaction, he pushed on.
 
"Sorry about...?"
 
"Giving in. Spurring this on. Spoiling you, letting my rotten self touch you
like this. It's wrong," he finally unclosed his lids. "You deserve better."
 
Sicheng's respiration faltered, suddenly finding it hard to look the other in
the eyes.
 
"I wish I could give you more and I'm afraid that," he halted for a brief
second, seemingly rearranging the words in his head. "That what I have to give
is not enough to make this worth it, make it worth ruining you like this, you
came here to get fixed and look at me now, being selfish enough to think that
you're,"
 
He paused.
 
"Think that I'm what."
 
"Mine."
 
Sicheng's heart seized in his chest. The tone of the conversation was too
serious for him to feel so completely enamored at that. He fought the hue that
bloomed on the tip of his ears with conviction.
 
"First of all, I didn't come here to get fixed," Sicheng took up a resolute
tonality, a rare sense of self-confidence mirroring in his poise as he built
himself up. "I was put here. I didn't have a choice, I didn't assume there's
anything to fix about me to begin with, I simply assumed that that's just me
and that it will most likely stay that way. It's like I knew that to be a
fact." He briefly bit into this bottom lip. "Then ... you were there and for
the first time I felt like I am relevant enough to be heard out. Icame after
you after that. It was mewho asked for your attention when you were just doing
your job, it was me who asked to be yours. I want to be yours, I want it so
badly that I feel embarrassed. I want it so badly that I don't want to go home
and I don't even know what home is anymore. Maybe you see it as a curse,
Taeyong," he looked deeply into the other's eyes, profundity growing by the
instant. "But this is the best thing that's ever happened to me and I don't
have anything else."
 
That confession patently catching the older flat-footed, he inspected Sicheng's
mien with an astonished cue in his regard.
 
He knew he meant somethingto the boy. Characterized what he saw in those
lovelorn eyes as some sort of unsound crush, a hormonal fever, a mood; well
aware of Sicheng's situation and how his emotions could be easily misguided,
blinded by the lack of sympathy and respect within his domestic setting, yes,
Taeyong was painfullyaware that he was exploiting a fragile soul at its most
vulnerable stance and he felt absolutely atrocious, nevertheless terribly
infatuated with those soft eyes and the vibrant, complex wit behind them. He
was stupid, so immensely stupid, even more so having in contemplation how he
actively chose to bemuse his mind with that very stupidity he found so
alluring. And he was scared, terrified, of the consequences.
 
Possibly and much probably like never before in his life.
 
However, Sicheng was facing him, a security lacing his voice that made him
waver, possibly, maybe, being with Sicheng would be his redemption just like it
was his curse, maybe he could fix something, anythingwhilst busy with the act
of planting explosive traps all around his conscience in a subconscious, self-
destructive constant that had replaced every rational notion in that havoc of a
mind. If he couldn't save himself, couldn't respect himself or his position any
further, then who else would he pay the compliment of passing everything he had
to give on to? He never doubted Sicheng would be worthy of his love; merely
feared that he wasn't worthy of sullying such speckless skin with something as
corrupt as an aged man's love. If he had been wise enough, he would've taken
it, locked it up in some deep, inaccessible nook of his mind and humped the
weight of it, like a chain around his very ankles, for the rest of his
subsistence until some divine spirit would've granted him exile for not giving
into those sick temptations. But he was beyond that line, crossed it when he
laid finger upon the boy and the last thing that he was to salvage in order to
shorten, or at least indulge himself in the suffering of damnation was Sicheng.
Sicheng's happiness, Sicheng's resort, security, Sicheng's every wish.
 
If Sicheng explicitly asked him to be his happiness, then who was he to deprive
him of it in the first place? More particularly, because it was all Taeyong had
wanted for him from the very first moment those eyes crinkled into luminescent
half-moons and Taeyong knewhis heart wasn't supposed to ache with fondness,
wasn't supposed to spur him on, wasn't supposed to knock the wind out of his
lungs with every melodic laughter the boy gifted him with on mornings that used
to be bitter like the nurse's sad attempt at making coffee. Reality was,
Taeyong was immensely stressed at the realization that they weren't the only
people to exist in this edenic hideout that they had created for themselves
throughout daily sessions and late night piacle, no, they weren't alone, never
were and there was the menacing possibility of being exposedand at last,
Taeyong would be faced with two choices; signing the contract or tearing it to
pieces.
 
 
Leaving it all behind or breaking what had been put into his unversed hands.
 
 
Sicheng was studying the older's mien intently, and eventually, Taeyong spoke
up.
 
"Tell me what you want me to do."
 
Sicheng was quick to reply.
 
"I want you to keep me."
 
"What does that mean for me?" Surely, Taeyong would've felt like a madman
watching himself lay his entire future into a boy's open palms, to do with it
as he considers fit. Maybe he simply wasn't himself anymore. Rational Taeyong
was far gone.
 
"I know that my judgement never meant a lot, but," The boy's voice faltered,
receding to a whisper as he let his gaze rove off. "But I think that means I
love you."
 
 
Taeyong would've laughed at that. Under different circumstance, maybe. Love. A
term most foreign to those who believe to be familiar with the sentiment, and
yet, whatever young, injudicious drive caused the boy to entertain such
battered, foul, whitewashed concept, Taeyong believed. He believed and let the
love course out of him in heavy downpour, air heavy with breathless moans as it
manifested in relentless thrusts and white liquid sunshine once the notion
seeped through his every limb, until he had made it a divine subsistence to
worship and praise; because when Sicheng clung to him, adrift and small,
fireworks on his tongue, haze thick in his heavy, when yet incessantly
beautiful eyes, Taeyong declared himself ready to fight war for this religion
that took form in skinny bones and crescent eyes.
 
 
Fucked in every sense of the word and drunk on cupid's viperous potion, it was
on them to find shelter before commencement of the upcoming storm, no matter
how vigorous the virtual walls of isolation may have appeared to be when
Taeyong indulged himself in cradling Sicheng with all his might.
 
 
 
 
Zheng wasn't one to admit defeat, and one may claim it's what had gotten him as
far as he was in the harsh climate of the capitalist business world. What he
was notorious for, however, was the way he coped with it by making others
suffer the consequences; habitually, his underlings. Occasionally, his wife.
Latterly, Sicheng, on his early visitation the very next day. Sicheng knew to
counter with caution, choosing his words with such diligent nature as if
drafting which type of torture would cause the least discomfort in relation to
what he knewhis brother was capable of. Surely, the older had been sporting a
particularly gentle vein, yet Sicheng wasn't too lightheaded to consider
himself safe solely based on a mood his brother seemed to be undergoing. No,
not in the least. Sicheng was on steady alert, too paranoid, too intimatewith
the very way the dominant side of his family conducted itself when they didn't
get what they wanted, or when something didn't precisely play out the way they
planned. Not that Sicheng could ever sympathize with their philosophy; but
after all, he was born and raised in the setting, ate from the same plates,
housed in the same rooms, drank from the same porcelain cups. The least he
could do was call himself aware.
 
He knew more than he would genuinely care for.
 
So when Zheng planted yet another paper bag with steaming contents on Sicheng's
nightstand, the younger was wise enough to put away the book in his hands and
whisper a meek "Thank you," before the bed dipped slightly with Zheng taking
seat by his side, a possessive clutch already fastened to his lower leg.
 
"How did you sleep?" He asked, a tight smile plastered to whose lips.
 
"Uhm, good," Sicheng muttered, lightly nodding his head along with the words.
 
"These are from another place. They'll be better than the last ones." His smile
moved closer and Sicheng ducked his head. "Try them."
 
Unease settling deep in his gut, the boy reached for the package with wary
digits and dropped it on his lap, carefully undoing the seal and averting his
facies when a gush of hot steam escapes the paper bag.
 
"Go ahead," Zheng pushed.
 
Sicheng worried on his bottom lip before sliding his dainty hand into the bag,
however, the instant he gets a hold of one of the pastry, he quickly withdraws
it with a feeble yelp; the tips of his fingers smarting with the sudden torrid
sensation, numbness overpowering the sensitive pads. Before Sicheng had the
chance to act on the abrupt happenings, Zheng claimed firm grasp around the
dainty wrist and drew it towards his lips, the clutch relentless, tight, and he
held the hand in place whilst oh so gently blowing onto the mounting sting.
 
"Sicheng, little one," He paused in the process, not releasing the hand from
its position. "Aren't you clumsy."
 
Sicheng didn't know he was holding his breath until it became unbearable, the
lack of oxygen kindling a booming clang in his head, the ache of it turning out
to be a lot less sufferable than the blisters in the making that adorned the
tips of his fingers.
 
But even when the blowing seemed redundant, started lacking effect, Zheng kept
him close, tooclose, and Sicheng would've raised his voice, but he wouldn't.
Wouldn't before Zheng would grant him permission to do so. Little did he know
opportunity after opportunity was slipping away with every passing second that
he let the other indulge in the silkiness of his skin, his uncontested
attention, the fragility in his bearing and, above all, his willingness.
Because with every lingering touch and every stir in that predatory conduct,
every excruciatingly drawn out instant that Sicheng sat unmoving, waiting for
all occurrence to terminate, there was more and more potential for the dreadful
to unfold.
 
 
And so it did.
 
 
"What is that."
 
His voice was firm, grave. Sicheng jerked slightly, glimpse panic-fuelled as he
traced the direction of his brother's uncharitable regard whereupon it lighted
on the hem of his collar.
 
His heart brusquely sunk into the grounds beneath.
 
Taeyong would always make sure that all the marks he'd leave on the younger
were concealed just beneath the hem of the customary hospital gown, and since
Sicheng would habitually drape his skinny frame in oversized sweaters by virtue
of the nonstop running air conditioning, there hadn't ever been bottom to fret
about the arousal of suspicion; but Zheng had scheduled his visit to a time
prior to the boy's awakening and therefore wasn't so clement as to allow the
other to go at his usual morning routine which, regrettably, included the
masking of potential slip-ups that Taeyong might've made during his all too
enthusiastic love-making.
 
So there he was.
 
Eyes wide and full of trepidation all whilst plastered onto that one purplish
patch of skin that would've flattered his collarbone on every other occasion;
except, for this one.
 
"I asked," He said, with more force this time, still clutching the boy's limp
wrist with a puissance that couldn't possibly bother Sicheng when he was so
preoccupied with silencing the sirens in his mind so that he could rapidly whip
out a sensible explanation that would evince his artlessness. "What is that?"
 
Yet, in vain.
 
"I–,"
 
In the stretch of an instant, the hand that previously laid upon the boy's
lower leg was now adamantly pulling down the thin fabric of that seamlessly
white gown, and from one moment to the other there was nothing left to hide.
There, just inches beneath the line of his collar, ducked out of commoners'
eyes, stashed away for good, was a masterpiece of purples and wine reds,
Taeyong's true, private canvas that Sicheng had been given the quest to
patronize and carry.
 
Watery pearls concentrated themselves at the corners of the teen's eyes, head
bowed, shamefully, defeated. He didn't want to learn what expression played on
the older's features, however, whose aghast vein quickly made itself
discernible in an unanticipatedly violent shove, at which Sicheng quickly found
himself pinned against the sheets with a pained cry; the packaging on his lap
falling over and onto the unloving flooring where the contents dramatically
made sally from its paper confines. Sicheng, on the contrary, was now coerced
to meet with a pair of menacing ebonies, and while he had undergone similar
crunch at a point prior to this one, this particular bearing bore nothing even
closely conforming the versant eyes and he ached to close his own, shut them so
he could bring the validity of the situation into question, hopefully undeck
some major mix-up that his psyche had made him believe as to toy with his
sanity, or maybe, maybeso he could eventually wake up to realize that he had,
in fact, been trapped in some oddly tangible nightmare.
 
But none of that transpired and Sicheng hushed entirely when those same
daunting eyes neared to alarming proximity till the other's face was merely
inches away from his own and he could sense a waft of air hit the superfice of
his quivering lips when Zheng heaved his voice to a growl.
 
"Who?"
 
Not receiving an immediate reply, he tightened his hold and heftily shook the
flimsy body.
 
"Who is it, Sicheng?!"
 
Quickly after, the gears started turning.
 
"Is it that doctor?"
 
Another shake.

"I asked if it's the doctor, Sicheng? Did he have his lips on you? Did he–,"
 
Suddenly, maniac laugh rang out, and Sicheng couldn't put a halt to the wetness
that prickled his eyes, dislimned his vision, made it hazy, irrecognizable
images throwing in vibrant dots of spark and he didn't know if he should
consider himself grateful or apprehend what the suspension of one of his senses
might entail for his safety. Because while all this time the anxiety and
premonition had merely smoldered within the pit of his stomach, it was now
overawing his entire being and he couldn't move, couldn't let out a sound apart
from a consistent whine that remained incarcerated into the constraints of his
corded neck.
 
"What did he do to you, huh?"
 
Sicheng could perceive a blaspheming smile in the other's tonality, and somehow
it managed to be even more appalling.
 
"Tell me, Sicheng," His lips brushed the boy's exposed neck and Sicheng
shivered in discomfort when that very diabolic grin manifested itself against
the surface of tremulous skin. "Come on. Tell me, little one!"
 
Now his fingers came to slip underneath the hem of the smaller's gown, forcibly
flitting up the denuded skin as if it had been his to claim all along, and he
roamed, and engrossed, and claimed, handled, and finally Sicheng could muster
something that closely resembled an agonized "Stop,".
 
However, his plead fell on deaf ears, if it didn't spur the other on just a tad
further.
 
"Did he touch you like this?"
 
Sicheng couldn't believe this was happening. Couldn't believe that, for once,
his gut hadn't deceived him. And it had to be regarding this very matter.
 
A matter so close to home.
 
 
Or so it appeared.
 
 
"Did he fuck your little boy cunt?"
 
Sicheng chocked on a sob and in a breath, the older had him turned around and
on his knees, side of his face met with the pillow whilst his wrists linked in
a forceful clutch behind his back.
 
"How often did he do it? Do you get off during your 'sessions'?"
 
A knee forcefully rammed itself between persistently tensed thighs, followed by
a devious hand which avidly prodded its middle finger against the ever so
tight, strained rim, sliding upwards, gripping the tender flesh of his bottom,
and Sicheng kicked, writhed, struggled, the fight in itself too late to be of
grand effect as he merely collapsed further under his brother's enormous size.
 
"You know, little one. I can see why he does it,"
 
Another sob.
 
"You're so pretty like this. Helpless."
 
A cry.
 
"Submissive."
 
He leaned forward, chest pressing flush against the younger's shoulders, breath
tickling the shell of whose ear as the fabric of his boxer shorts gradually
slid down his legs.
 
"What good old Lee failed to realize though,"
 
Sicheng perceived shuffling and proceeded to squeeze his eyes shut, priming for
the worst.
 
"You've already been mine before you could become anyone else's."
 
 
The instant he braced for the inevitable, stringing up his limbs, clenching his
jaw, blinding out the images, there was the distinctive sound of a blow, and
Sicheng couldn't help how his ears fell deaf to the happenings, in clear
supposition that his mind had blanked out completely.
 
But he was still there, breathing ragged with the continuous catch of broken
sobs as he fell idly to his side, foundering, shivering from the sudden lack of
hold, and just then, he allowed his lids to come undone, barely managing to
blink away the tears when the back of Taeyong's white coat emerged in his field
of vision, when yet he failed to infer what was occurring around him or why it
turned out that way to begin with.
 
Nonetheless, he knew he was to feel grateful.
 
Sicheng perceived hissing, further punches thrown, vitriolic curses, the
hurried footfalls of concerned nurses and quickly enough, Sicheng felt himself
be hoisted and tended to by a number of tender touches.
 
Yet before he could ascertain what lead the situation had taken up, he
discerned himself cloaked in the appeasing arms of murk, his solid welcoming
the hush of unconsciousness in the matter of no more than a few seconds.
 
 
 
 
Waking up came at a more dragging rate than the loss of consciousness did,
however, the ambience bore an energy that was by far more serene than the
situation he had last found himself in.
 
Casting aside the fact that the first sight he got to behold was one of such
gratifying character.
 
"Sicheng."
 
The corner's of the boy's lips slightly curled upwards.
 
"Taeyong," he murmured in reply.
 
"How are you feeling?"
 
The man's voice was subdued, weary almost, if not rather tinged with a mild
undercurrent of sadness. Now that Sicheng took note of it, he could clearly
observe the fatigue that somehow managed to pull the elder's handsome features
downward by a tad, eyes glassy, nonetheless imbued with that genuine spark of
endearment that Sicheng had come to admire so much, and that faint smile that
looked more pitiful than it did comforting. Not that it mattered. Furthermore,
he was still draped inside his professional gown, glasses, however, nowhere
within view.
 
"I'm ok, I think," he replied honestly. At last, he was yet to ascertain the
state of his emotions.
 
Sicheng turned to perceive his surroundings. He was in a hospital room,
however, it wasn't his own. The illumination within the room was dim, warm,
possibly irradiated by candles as opposed to the usual cold, clinical hospital
light that equipped every other space of the premises, and Sicheng welcomed the
homey vibes that came with the change in atmosphere. Taeyong was there. He'd be
fine.
 
After a few beats, Sicheng propped to sit up, and immediately Taeyong reached
forward to assist; as if the younger was an injured animal of sorts, too
bashful to enquire help and too frangible to move by itself.
 
"What happened?" The boy slumberously rubbed at one of his lids. "Where am I?"
 
"I let the nurses carry you to a spare room while I dealt with him."
 
Sicheng barely retarded himself from querying 'Deal with who?' after for once,
finally, properly registering what had transpired and he could acutely feel
himself slip into a curt state of jar, shock, tears dreading to fall anew, but
he successfully composed himself upon Taeyong's hand finding gentle hold of his
own. Neither were positive who they were attempting to comfort; themselves or
the other, but nonetheless the gesture provided a definite sense of security.
Which seemed like enough for the moment.
 
"Where is he?"
 
"I don't know."
 
Sicheng bowed his head.
 
"So he's still–,"
 
"Yes."
 
Silence.
 
"How did you know?" Sicheng carefully chose his words, not wanting to address
the subject directly in apprehension what it might inflict upon his sanity.
 
"A hunch," the doctor replied bitterly, gaze tramping off. "He's already given
himself away the day before. Telling me that you're his."
 
He sounded pained, and suddenly it appeared all too perspicuous why the latter
had been so avid to lay claim on him that very night.
 
The desperation.
 
The chut.
 
 
 "Look at me now, being selfish enough to think that you're,"
 
 "Think that I'm what."
 
 "Mine."
 
 
Sicheng let himself feel the other's hand in his own, clutched it with a
particular boldness that directed the older's attention back towards his
facies.
 
"What's going to happen?" He asked, despising and internally cursing the
puerile tonality that laced his voice.
 
"I don't want to burden you with this right now, you should rest–,"
 
"Taeyong," he tautened his tone. "What's going to happen?"
 
The older faced him with somewhat baffled, when yet earnest mien and Sicheng
admired how he still managed to appear absolutely poised despite downright
exuding the aura of a crestfallen soul. Sicheng had a hunch the other would've
pushed up his glasses at that very instant; if he had them sitting right atop
that defined nose bridge of his.
 
"Well," Taeyong started, gravely. "What he did promise me was that he'd be back
to get you–,"
 
"No."
 
Quickly cutting Sicheng off before the latter could spiral down into a fit of
utter maddening panic, Taeyong proceeded recounting.
 
"I told him that the Korean police department would certainly appreciate it if
he came back later so they could properly arrest him without the effort of
following him to his hotel, whereon he said that he'd gladly enlighten them in
his official statement about the shrink that's been screwing his underage
patient whilst pretending to treat him of 'some mental humbug' and that I'm
going to have a great time trying to win over all those witnesses that he's
apparently already in the process of buying up with that shit-ton of a fortune
that his greasy ass is mounted on, and that his, no, no, he said yourfather is
going to be very displeased with my services, which is the blandest consequence
that I should be hoping for, apart from the very self-evidentthat you will be
removed from the facility as soon as he gets a word with your father, and last
but not least," Ultimately, catching his breath after running on one exhale
throughout the entire speech, "I told him to go fuck himself in the arse
whereon he proceeded to leave the premises with a shiner, that was,
astonishingly enough, on my account."
 
In spite of the last clause soaring with a somewhat lighter tone, Taeyong sat
evidently defeated, mournful in every aspect of the word and if Sicheng wasn't
quintessentially tongueless himself upon processing the outcome of such somber
fate, he would've witted the internal disintegration that battered its cracks
into the seemingly incorruptible armor of the man's bearing, yet his smile
remained, tight, dejected, albeit candid as always when he monitored the
process of realization after realization seeping into the younger's mien at
agonizing rate.
 
There went Sicheng's safe place, his fortress, erected at the cost of his youth
and innocence and yet again, he found himself stark in face of those who had
thrown him over at the feet of blank, clinical nothingness to begin with,
sloughed their youngest off at first offer as to merely seize what he had
established at the very next. The walls that had threatened to crumble and
collapse atop of him had finally given in, and the anguish of being graved
underneath was more acute than Sicheng had estimated all those nights of
visioned terror, unconscious, unwitting of whatit was that he was to brace
himself for, unaware of what gaps to fill, what wing to ward, what to protect.
The fear was constantly present, without the luxury of a threat to pin it on,
merely a ghost, a presence without form and now it was coming for him and while
he felt prepared, in the oddest sense, he felt starkly wounded.
 
"What now?" Sicheng heaved, yet having to register that his voice was already
at the verge of cracking.
 
Taeyong's lips compressed, tightly, before he looked down, then up again,
countering the younger with a more hopeful front.
 
"I sealed my fate when I touched you, Sicheng," the words came out with a
difficulty that he likely wasn't conscious of. "Now it's on you to decide what
you want to do. If you want," he paused. "If you allowme; I will follow you.
Whatever it is that you conclude. And that is final."
 
Expression grave, yet with a solemnity that Sicheng couldn't disregard, the
man's position shifted till he was fully facing the younger as opposed to
having both feet static on the floor, closing both palms around those flimsy,
supple hands that felt as if they had never seen a day of work, devoid of the
prominent, rough characteristics of his very own and yet, somehow, it fit so
nicely anyway.
 
Sicheng saw hope in that.
 
As dismal, messy, irredeemable the situation, Sicheng saw feasibility, and with
that, he could work.
 
With that, he had to work.
 
 
"Take me away from here, Taeyong."
Chapter End Notes
     ooo shit. that was some fucked up stuff.
     just some last words to clear up the one or other thing here.
     this is fiction; in case somebody had any doubts about that. in real
     life, i would never romanticize a relationship between a minor and a
     fucking thirty year old. that's. no. the reason i left them on good
     terms is that after careful contemplation (which included the option
     of taeyong abandoning winwin because he realizes just how fucked up
     the entire concept is) i concluded that i want to go with a positive
     ending; again, positive in the fictional world only. glad we talked
     about this.
     second of all; if any line in this sparked the belief that there's
     anything remotely close to romantic going on between sicheng and
     zheng, my apologies, you're misguided. zheng is getting old, has a
     moody, pregnant wife sitting at home, waiting for him, and he's not
     having it. he's out of his game. his life is boring. everything is
     going his way. it's blah. so what's the closest to adventure within
     reach? his obedient lil bro of course. the one who he'd expect to
     kiss his feet upon request. so no romance. just assholery.
     jackassery. cockiness. that's all.
     now that we got that covered too, i hope you enjoyed!!!!
     sorry if the ending felt rather rushed, in all honesty, i really
     really really wanted to get this done and it already took me 7638276
     years so thanks to all those who kept up with my slow ass and. yeah.
     thank you for reading!!
      
     curse me for this on tumblr @1aeil
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