Kim doesn’t know what to do. He has no idea.
They aren’t even that close–he can’t remember how they know each other, can’t recall their introduction or their first meeting. Min has always been an unknown acquaintance. An acquaintance that he never consciously seeks out, so tonight’s meeting was a fluke. They don’t spend a lot of time with each other besides a couple of words at a chance meeting in the streets. They aren’t close at all, but a few drinks have spilled every secret behind those soft candy lips, closing around Kim’s name in a way that set fire to his skin.
They’d stumbled in through the door, automatic light blinding and itchy. They couldn’t kiss very well for lack of aim. In fact, they couldn’t do much more beyond just holding onto each other’s shoulders. They had no bravery beyond hanging off each other and panting against heaving chests, because any more may have been like pressing brands onto themselves. Any more sliding of heated palms along pulsing arms would’ve burst them open, scattering the pieces everywhere.
Min adamantly hooked his fingers in Kim’s belt loops and led them away. His nudging was gentle at first, but his insistence grew when the other made no move to follow. There was a lot of courage to be mustered just so a man could follow. One’s bones had to be made of valor to hold onto those swaying hips, to crane up and taste those bitten lips, to mirror that teasing smile. And Kim did it. He found the ball of boldness in him to do it. He threw off his shirt and he followed.
But that was then. Now Kim doesn’t have a clue.
Now the mattress mocks him as he kneels between spread and trembling thighs. Now the curtains shake their heads at him as he squeezes flesh and sucks in circles everywhere his mouth can reach. The sheets give way under his touch as it advances over a sighing waist, a whining hipbone, the back of a choking knee. The room itself seems to taunt him for his inaction, while he stares at a pliant and malleable mass of heat waiting to be taken.
He could take Min now, in his drunk stupor and his mumbling incoherencies. He could go on tracing his tongue over the other’s shirtless torso, lick up his sweat and his heat and his perfection. He could rip off the rest of the guy’s clothes and see, finally see everything that had been hidden from his eyes–all the secrets would be revealed, then. Not just the I’ve wanted yous and the I’ve been thinking about yous muttered against the fifth empty bottle of soju.
He could have Min, really. He could steal him. He could crack him open like a safe and take everything he found. He could have Min in any way he wanted. But what was the point?
“Nnn… t-that was why… I followed you that time…” Kim didn’t even attempt to understand what the hell Min was talking about. The intoxicated speech is slurred and meaningless.
Kim could have Min if he wanted, but he didn’t like the idea. That the other wouldn’t recollect any of it the next day, was unacceptable to him. There’d be unexplained bruises and confusing soreness and distorted memories and… and it just wouldn’t be right. It’d be pathetic and wrong. No, Kim can have Min if he so wished but he wishes for more.
He wants to fuck Min when he is fully conscious, and fully willing. He wants Min to stare into his eyes, moan into his mouth, arch into his stomach and beg against his tongue. He wants to be inside the guy when he’s bent forward, ass in the air, fingers clawing at blankets, voice losing momentum with every thrust. He wants Min against a wall, against a door, against the tiles of the shower. He wants Min across a table that’s too narrow, so his head hangs off the other end. He wants Min twisted for a kiss while his leg is in the air and his arm is coiled around the back of Kim’s neck. He wants Min leaning against the dresser so he can see them in the mirror. He wants Min gasping and keening and pleading deeper, please deeper while they hold onto each other for balance. He wants Min when he’s sure he’ll remember–remember how it smelled, how it tasted, how it sounded. He wants Min to have it at the front of his mind, all the damn time; wants him squirming in the middle of the day just thinking about it, excusing himself to safety because it got too much. He wants Min to be heavy and dripping with unbearable craving because Kim wants to give him everything he can.
He doesn’t like this moment; he wants the lights on. He wants clarity. He wants a picture. Hell, if he can have it, he wants a video. He wants it all, but he doesn’t want it like this.
Kim doesn’t want to be some ugly stain on Min’s memory. A smear that won’t come off, like stained white linen. He doesn’t want to be the asshole who just tried to get off for one night. He doesn’t want to use Min. He wants to savour him. He wants to take his time reducing Min to a melting, unsteady, eager stretch of limbs. He wants to systematically break every inhibition in Min by letting him lead the way, letting him hook his fingers into belt loops, letting him pull both of them down and prop both of them up. Kim wants Min to want him back. He wants Min to ask for it. He wants Min to sit next to him on the subway and whisper it in his ear. He wants Min to slide into his lap while people are watching and undulate with the pressure in his stomach. He wants Min to stay. He wants Min to open himself up to make place for Kim, a place where he can settle in and wear the warmth like a shield. Kim wants to be everything, wants to be the only thing Min ever knows or cares about.
So as he absent-mindedly slides his hands up shivering legs, reaching a shuddering crotch, he stops. Because Kim doesn’t know what to do. The other pulls at him, pulls at words and sentences, pulls at feelings that are still fledglings and can’t yet take off into the midnight air by themselves. He stops and he watches, searing it into the back of his eyelids: this scene, this moment, this little inch before ecstasy touches the tip of his tongue. And he pulls away.
Min whines a little, but when the blankets cover him, he immediately drops into slumber. Kim watches for a while before leaving the room.
