Archive of Our Own

Stasis burns.

It is agonizing and he is aware of the agony, while at the same time being numb to the sensation. Pain sears in the back of his mind, every nerve alight, but he doesn’t feel it. It is unnerving and it is terrifying, but his head is as foggy as his cage and he feels untouched by anything and everything.

Yeosang sees Wooyoung on the outskirts, the density of the fog not enough to negate the familiarity of his gait as he circles a cautious perimeter around the glass prison.

He sees a Guardian, movements mechanical as they walk the same path.

He’s not certain how long passes between his two visitors.

He’s not certain as to how long has passed since he arrived here. His body is his own, he can blink and he can raise his hand to touch the glass keeping him confined, but time does not deign to acknowledge his presence, and he is not sure if he exists as more than a statue in an empty art gallery.

The fog presses in on him further, displaced and cloying.

Yeosang is aware of a familiar black shape in front of him, but it is only muscle memory that has him lifting a hand in synchronization with the figure before him, the feel of his teammate’s fingers warm under his own, the aura of the Cromer pulsing over his palm.

The Cromer dispels the fog within the cage and within Yeosang’s own thoughts, everything - Yunho on the outskirts of the gallery - growing crystalline - his movements graceful - and sharp - as he draws the Guardian’s attention away - and moving too fast - the gut-deep tug as the Cromer moves him - as Yeosang becomes hyper-aware - the sun searing against his skin - of his body - the asphalt knocking the wind out of him - and he gathers himself - the sound of warfare familiar - enough to be alert for the battle– 

–until pain explodes across his temple and his vision goes gray.

He’s barely cognizant, moments flashing with the pounding throb of his head, scarcely aware of the Cromer destroyed, of Seonghwa’s concerned and expressive face above him, of the sun on the horizon blinding him as he looks to it. 

Another hand, drawing him up, and–

He arrives at the warehouse, the familiar sterile scent the first thing that makes him feel grounded amid the whirlwind of the past few minutes or hours or days or weeks– 

He staggers under the warring panic and relief, his back hitting the wall. He remains on his feet for a moment, maybe more – he counts a dozen heart beats, but his heart is racing and he can’t properly tell time – before he slides down to the ground.

Jongho is by his side in an instant, eyes wide above his mask and eyebrows nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. Another instant, and he’s gone.

A part of Yeosang’s mind wonders if Jongho was even there at all. His head is throbbing, he doesn’t fully understand how he got back here, and panic pulses through him, his mind full of frantic thoughts of if he is even here at all, if this is a hallucination, or if even the cage had been one; if he is even real– 

Hongjoong kneels beside him. “Report,” he says, voice low and grounding.

Yeosang pulls himself to the present, to where he is in this moment, and he realizes that he’s trembling, that his teeth are chattering too hard to reply. He’s not certain if it’s residual terror or residual chill. 

The terror should not be there – there are many things that unite the eight of their team, a shared foundation between them being the refusal to be weak.

And yet Yeosang is.

His teeth continue to chatter, body wracked with shivers, and there’s bile and shame rising in his throat. There has to be some point to his capture, there has to be some value, some point; there has to be something he can tell the team – but there is nothing he can provide about the Guardian, if it were one Guardian or more; with the pounding of his head and his spotty memory, he can barely recall Yunho or Seonghwa– 

Small moments replay themselves, and certainty floods Yeosang, that it wasn’t Yunho in the gallery, it wasn’t Seonghwa aiding his escape.

Not their Yunho, not their Seonghwa.

Yeosang looks to his captain, and he reports, “The pirates will work with us.”

Amazement and wonder fill Hongjoong’s eyes, and a quicksilver smile flits across his face, before he is solemn and inscrutable once more. “Rest,” he says, somewhere between order and praise.

Yeosang nearly laughs. He feels like he could sleep for a week. He feels like his nerves are too frantic to sleep. He feels overwhelmed by the vast spaciousness around him, but claustrophobic by the proximity without glass - he feels like a simple touch would be enough to undo him, simultaneously too little contact and too much contact.

He is no longer trapped, but part of him feels trapped, and it unnerves him, how acutely he feels it, how acutely he feels everything that had been numbed while in stasis.

He needs to rest.

Hongjoong is still beside him, his even gaze trained on Yeosang.

In order to rest, Yeosang needs to pick himself up off the ground. He pulls himself together, pulls himself shakily to his feet.

Hongjoong mirrors his movements; he doesn’t look pleased, but the tension around his eyes fades.

Yeosang forces himself to breathe, to properly regain his bearings. His tunnel vision fades and his vision re-centers, allowing him to be aware of his surroundings, of Mingi and Yunho facing away as sentinels, of Seonghwa and Jongho and San unabashedly watching them.

Hongjoong gives one nod, takes one step back, then turns on his heel and strides off.

San is beside him in the next instant, reaching for him.

Yeosang hadn’t seen him move, and he jerks away, nearly tripping, back against the wall and feeling cornered, feeling trapped.

San frowns, hand falling back.

Throat constricting, Yeosang manages to snarl out, “Do not touch me.”

San’s eyes flash, and he crowds up against Yeosang, only very barely not touching him. “Do not,” he echoes, voice dark, “think yourself able to order me.”

Yeosang does not think himself able to order San.

There are so few certainties in their lives, but Yeosang is not prone to physical violence, and there is no way he would be able to overpower San in any meaningful way. He does not have the same thrum of blood lust nor does he carry himself as a harbinger of vengeance. He is not labeled as a demon by enemies and allies alike.

Yeosang can fight, as they all can fight. But he lacks self-defense skills enough where he was captured so easily.

San could easily overpower him. It has been a background comfort, to have even a small degree of certainty in a chaotic and uncertain world.

For the first time, though, the comfort is overshadowed by Yeosang becoming aware of the inverse - that he can be easily overpowered.

He can be and he has been–

–and Yeosang has never feared San, but the chill of fog has clung to him and he is terrified of being trapped - again, he would be trapped again - and his mind screams too close too close too close not safe not safe not safe–

“San,” Hongjoong says, voice like a whip. He sounds near, as though had known Yeosang would require being saved yet again. “Stand down.”

San steps back, gaze dark as he does so.

Yeosang does not stop trembling.

Not as Seonghwa steps beside him (the elder’s presence once soothing, but lacking any comfort after his unwitting experience with the elder’s doppelganger) and accompanies him up to the bedrooms in the loft of the warehouse; not as he fumbles to untie his shoelaces and wastes not a moment bothering with any other clothing; not as he’s greeted with cold sheets; not as he claws his way out of his own mind; not as exhaustion finally overtakes him and quiets his mind.

He is roused awake with a gentle hand, and he returns to consciousness gently, becoming aware of the familiar softness of his bed, the familiar breathing of his teammate, the familiar weight of his woolen uniform jacket.

Yeosang frowns, uncertain as to why he hadn’t changed into his sleeping clothes before he had gone to bed–

Reality strikes him, and he roughly jerks fully awake, sitting up and looking around. He makes himself unclench his hands from his bedspread. He is in his bed. Yunho is sitting in the chair beside his bed, watching him cautiously. Yunho is his teammate. Yeosang is safe. The part of him that insisting otherwise is wrong.

“You’ve been out for twelve hours,” Yunho informs him quietly. “The Captain instructed me to wake you. You need to eat.”

Yeosang nods. A stab of hunger goes through him, followed by a queasiness at the thought of actually eating. Sustenance is foreign; just like touch, just like time, Yeosang has been starved of it. He needs it just as much as he’s repelled by it. It will be an adjustment - unpleasant, but it is nothing Yeosang has control over.

Yunho turns to grab a tray from the desk behind him. “Wooyoung is still on a mission,” he says. “Soup is something Mingi and I can make, though.”

The soup is lukewarm and watery, and there’s a welcome familiarity in the scarce ingredients. There’s a comfort in Wooyoung being away, too – Yeosang doesn’t know how he would be able to stomach the richness of his cooking, nor the richness of his presence.

While Wooyoung has called Yeosang oblivious on multiple occasions, Yeosang is not oblivious to the irony of their situation. 

Yeosang will fight for art, for dance, for music, and he will fight for freedom of human expression.

And yet Yeosang has shied away from it and will continue to.

The eight of them are strong. They are a team.

Being anything more than teammates with any of them would only weaken the group in the long run. Yeosang’s capture has shown that they are not invulnerable.

He was taken and can be taken again– 

“How’s your head?”

Yeosang blinks.

Yunho waves a hand by his own temple. “You were bleeding. We applied a salve.”

Yeosang touches his temple, just above his birthmark. While tender to the touch, it is not throbbing, he is no longer in pain. The area is flaky to the touch, but it’s not dried blood. “We?” Yeosang repeats.

It draws a sheepish smile from Yunho. “Jongho.”

Yeosang nods. “Where is he?” Including himself, he’s able to account for half their team.

“Your head?” Yunho prompts. When faced with deflection or distraction, he has always done the best at staying on point.

“Better,” Yeosang says. “Jongho?”

“On perimeter watch.”

“The Captain?”

“On a mission.”

“Seonghwa is with him.”

It’s not a question – Seonghwa’s place at Hongjoong’s side has not been a question, not for a very long time – but Yunho still nods in acknowledgement.

That accounts for most of the team, then.

Yeosang forces down a spoonful of the soup.

Yunho turns his head and stares at the door for an insultingly long time, then looks back at Yeosang expectantly.

Somehow, Yeosang manages not to roll his eyes. He takes another labored bite of soup. Although he keeps his eyes on his meal, he can feel Yunho’s own boring into him.

Yunho’s voice is quiet, scarcely enough to make it the few feet between them. “He has been standing watch.” Something about it seems reproachful.

Yeosang doesn’t acknowledge it.

The eight of them are strong. They are a team.

Yeosang and San have cultivated a relationship that bears no impact on the team. The ground between them lacks any reliability or stability, defined and redefined each time they fall into bed by how rough San’s hands are, by how long Yeosang fights back before he submits, by how much of a shadow Wooyoung casts. Yeosang knows he is scarcely more than a pawn in whatever mind games and foreplay that San and Wooyoung engage in.

It is not without its own appeal, in San working extra hard to draw noises out of Yeosang when they’re in Yeosang’s bed and San knows Wooyoung is in the next room over. A shared thrill in San whispering how Wooyoung’s body responds under his hands while touching Yeosang’s. Mutual satisfaction in San fucking Yeosang and wondering how Wooyoung would enjoy the view, offering to invite Wooyoung to watch, licking the blood away as Yeosang bites into his lip as he comes.

Yeosang even allows himself to enjoy the game outside their bedrooms, sometimes. To enjoy Wooyoung tracing his thumb over the scab on Yeosang’s lip, enjoy how San smolders as he watches the interaction.

Not for the first time, though, Yeosang has no desire to play along. He has turned down San’s advances previously. His teammate had feigned a pout, but retreated. San may be standing watch outside Yeosang’s room, he may be acting in prelude to more, but he will retreat.

They sit in silence as Yeosang finishes his half-portion of soup.

“We saved you hot water,” Yunho says, as he takes away the tray.

Yeosang closes his eyes against the wave of fondness he feels for his team. He’s nearly overwhelmed by the relief that ebbs in after.

“Can you walk?” Yunho asks, and it’s not unkind.

It’s not unwarranted, either, as Yeosang nearly sways on his feet when he stands. The headrush is nowhere near the most disorienting thing he’s had to deal with recently, though, and he pushes through it, crossing the room to his trunk and gathering a change of clothes.

The warehouse is four floors tall, rooms built up on two parallel sides. They keep the ground floor empty and abandoned looking. The second and third floors are for storage, and each floor has a pair of catwalks to bridge the two sides. The fourth floor has their rooms. There’s a bathroom on each side, but it’s the bathroom on the side opposite of Yeosang’s room that has a shower as well.

Yunho shadows him as they walk down the stairs, across the third floor catwalk, and back up the opposite stairs. 

They reach the bathroom door.

Yunho appears as if he wants to say something, but he ultimately refrains, just nodding and continuing the next door over to his own room.

The bathroom is cramped, a toilet and a sink and a shower, and it smells faintly of their communal body wash.

It’s familiar and it’s comforting, and Yeosang starts to feel human as he strips off his uniform, dumping it on the floor with his change of clothes. He leans into the shower to turn on the stream of water, waiting for the water to heat up only as long as it takes him to relieve himself before he’s stepping into the shower stall and shutting the glass door behind him.

The first few moments are blissful. He stands, head bowed, staring unseeing at the opposite wall, and he starts to feel warm. To feel like himself again.

He closes his eyes, turning to face the spray, and washes the remainder of the salve away, then spends a few luxurious still moments absorbing the heat. He navigates the tubes of communal shampoo and body wash with his eyes closed, not wanting to move too far from the stream. He loses himself in routine motions as he showers. 

He doesn’t think about how there is grit in his hair remaining from a battle he can’t remember, but how he was otherwise physically unharmed during his capture. He quiets his thoughts, and focuses on the sound of the running water. A selfish part of himself wants to stay in the shower longer, see how long he can bask in the warmth, but he doesn’t want to waste heat or waste water.

He opens his eyes.

And he’s met with fog.

For a long moment, he feels lost and disoriented, his body numb.

The shower stall has steamed.

But it looks like fog, and presses against him like fog, and panic bursts in his chest– 

His hand finds the dial and jerks it to go as cold as it can, trading the sharp shock of panic for the sharper shock of ice water blasting against his skin. 

It spurs him into finally moving, and he’s shoving the door open.

He’s shivering hard as he steps out, barely able to feel as he dries himself, as he pulls on a baggy shirt, as he nearly loses his balance as he puts on his pair of sleep pants. He braces himself against the wall as he pulls on his socks with shaking hands.

Cold rarely touches him – the sleeves of his shirt do not reach his elbows, and the fabric of both it and his pants are thin.

His socks are thin, and when he carelessly stumbles into a puddle of water, the damp cold feels real in a way that has him sinking to his knees, curling in on himself. 

While it had been so much worse than anything Yeosang could imagine, he had hoped that he could treat his imprisonment as if it were a night terror. That as he woke up, the tendrils of fear would lessen more and more. That he could shower and wash away any remnants of panic, that he could have reset himself to focus on the present.

He couldn’t.

He hasn’t.

His heart thuds painfully in his chest, sounding loud in the silence.

He needs to recover from this, but time feels like it’s slipping away from him again–

The door opens.

A long moment passes, any remaining heat escaping, before the door closes with a loud click.

Yeosang remains on the floor, shivering, frozen to the spot.

Socked feet appear before him. Knees soon after, touching down scarce inches before Yeosang’s own. There are thin white stripes along the outside of the black pants, confirming who it is even before he speaks.

“Let me touch you.”

It is so wildly outside the range of what Yeosang expected that it startles him out of his thoughts and draws his gaze up to San. After a few seconds, it occurs to him that San is waiting on him for a response. He clenches his jaw in reply.

San matches his quiet, but displeasure is evident in his unyielding gaze.

They stare each other down until Yeosang gasps as another shiver runs through his body.

San draws back, but only far as necessary to take off his outer shirt. It leaves him in a sleeveless shirt.

Yeosang somehow manages to feel colder, seeing San with fully bare arms. He doesn’t fight the offer, reaching out to take the shirt with a shaking hand, the cold exasperating his hand tremor. It is borderline humiliating, the way he struggles to get his arms through the sleeves, how he manages the first button only to fumble repeatedly with the second.

After a few seconds, San’s hands enter his field of vision.

He doesn’t flinch away, just warily stares down at San’s hands, large and steady and waiting.

“Let me…”

This, Yeosang allows. He drops his own hands to his side, nods, and watches.

San moves slowly as he starts buttoning up the shirt. It could either be consideration for Yeosang’s skittish nature, or for San’s own pleasure of seeing Yeosang in his clothes. 

Yeosang can’t tell, he can’t read San, his mind is trying to draw his attention to something important– 

San finishes up the last button, snug under his chin. His hands linger for a long moment before they pull away.

–ah.

San has not touched Yeosang. 

His fingers had brushed against Yeosang’s torso, but each movement had been clinical, a barrier of clothing between them when touch was unavoidable.

Not touching in the way that San had asked.

Not touching in the way that San had wanted.

Wants still, based on the way he’s staring down at Yeosang, knuckles white as he keeps his hands in his lap.

There is an odd intimacy in the lack of physicality, in San keeping his hands to himself. It feels precious. It makes something deep in him ache. 

Yeosang has lost track of the game between them. He leans forward into San’s space, dropping his forehead against San’s shoulder, trying to ground himself in San’s presence. Instead, he feels San’s heartbeat pick up under his cheek. He feels his own heartbeat pick up in response. Yeosang isn’t aware of what he wants, just that want burns just underneath his skin.

Long moments stretch by.

“I can warm you better in my bed. Let me.”

A shiver runs through him. “Please.”

San’s hands are on him, then, grip tight on the collar of his shirt. “You said not to touch you,” he murmurs. One hand goes to Yeosang’s chin, tipping his head back to meet his piercing gaze. “Take it back.”

Yeosang’s breath hitches. It is the first time he’s ever heard San beg. “Touch me,” he says. It’s high and desperate and he grabs San’s shirt, fists curling and uncurling. “Please."

San’s mouth burns against his. He kisses as fiercely as he fights, quick and unrelenting and unpredictable, alternating long and deep kisses with short, chaste pecks. He pulls back to brush a kiss against his cheek, to kiss up his jaw.

“Please,” Yeosang whispers. “Please.”

A wicked smirk flicks across San’s face, before leaning in to press a quick against his lips and then standing up. He reaches down to grip the nape of Yeosang’s neck, hauling him to his feet. His hands gently cup his face even as he ravages Yeosang’s mouth.

Yeosang digs his fingers against San’s back, trying to steady himself. San moves to match him in response, an arm around Yeosang’s lower back, a hand around the back of his neck. For the first time among their many times, Yeosang doesn’t feel caged in. Yeosang suppresses the urge to whimper. When San tugs on him, he goes easily.

San walks them two doors over, reaching behind himself to fumble with the door knob and none too gently kicking the door fully open, then reaching behind himself to slam it closed.

Yeosang pulls back with a start at the noise.

San takes the opportunity of their brief separation to pull his shirt over his head, to step back and shuck off his pants. Another step back into Yeosang’s space, and his deft fingers move to unbutton San’s own shirt, shoving it off him. The cold settles on his skin as San strips him with a ruthless efficiency.

There’s a long moment where Yeosang stands bared, shivering from the chill of the air.

Another moment, and he shivers from San’s heated stare. 

San grabs his hands, pressing a kiss to each fingertip as he walks them the remaining few steps to the bed. Yeosang has just enough time to notice that the covers have already been pulled back before he’s being shoved down to meet them.

The sheets are cold, and an inhumane howl tears its way out of Yeosang as his back hits them, trembling hands scrambling against San’s chest as he instinctively tries to fight his way away from the cold.

San shushes him, leaning in to swallow Yeosang’s whimpers. It starts gentle but that doesn’t last, his kisses soon becoming hard and domineering, leaving Yeosang breathless, lungs and panic both unable to breathe as San bears down on him.

When he is finally given a reprieve to catch his breath, his thoughts are slow as he returns to himself. The sheets have warmed beneath him. San is on top of him, panting as he nuzzles against Yeosang’s neck, a mantle of blankets falling over his shoulders, his body warm as he hovers above Yeosang.

“Are you with me?” San murmurs against his ear.

Yeosang lets out a shaky exhale and nods.

San hums, pleased, and scrapes his teeth against the shell of his ear. “Am I with you?” he asks, even quieter.

In response, Yeosang turns to meet San’s gaze. He slowly tips his head back, staring San down until the last moment, then closing his eyes as he bares his throat.

There’s a quiet growl, and then San’s mouth is against his neck, lips and tongue covering every inch of skin.

Yeosang does his best not to seek comfort from others, but he takes comfort in the familiar sensation of San worshiping his body. 

San disappears under the covers as he kisses his way down Yeosang’s body.

Yeosang shivers at the loss of San’s body heat, and then at the touch of San’s fingers tracing along his hip bone, tongue and teeth following their path. When San takes his length in mouth, Yeosang forces himself not to buck up and chase the heat. Despite the skill of San’s tongue, the warmth of San’s mouth around him starts to feel more and more distant when so much of him is cold. He reaches down, threading his fingers in San’s hair, tugging gently until San’s mouth slides off him, tugging again until San starts climbing up Yeosang’s body.

San is frowning as he reappears, something between concern and frustration. He settles between the cradle of Yeosang’s hips, opening his mouth to talk, but is cut off as Yeosang moans.

Though San is still in his underwear for some reason, his arousal is firm against Yeosang’s own, and the friction has Yeosang breathing heavier. “Touch me,” he rasps.

San stares down at him for a long moment, and then he crashes down against Yeosang.

Yeosang can’t help but grimace at the salty taste of himself on San’s tongue, but San is kissing him too deeply to give him a chance to complain. The kiss is followed by another and another, and Yeosang’s thoughts go fuzzy, heat sweeping through him and causing him to arch up against San. He reaches down, starts shoving at San’s underwear.

There’s some shuffling, and San muttering to himself, before he’s hovering above Yeosang again. He plants his forearms on either side of Yeosang’s head, as he lowers himself on top of Yeosang, bodies touching from chest to hip. Keeping his gaze locked with Yeosang, he rolls his hips.

Yeosang whines, long and loud. Were he not desperate to stay under the covers, he would cover his eyes with his arm to avoid the way San is smirking down at him.

“I’d fuck you,” San starts, crude words and casual tone drawing a quiet moan from Yeosang, “but I don’t think I could bear to leave you long enough to get supplies.” He rocks against Yeosang, drawing another moan out of him, and his smirk widens. “This good?”

Yeosang spreads his thighs wider in response.

San leans down to capture his mouth in a kiss. His body is warm and growing warmer as he begins to grind down against Yeosang.

Yeosang sighs out through his nose and lets himself lie there, using and being used by San, canting his hips up to chase after pressure, being pulled in a kiss that is teeth and tongue and dizzying.

Yeosang pulls back, tips his head back, takes in sharp bursts of air - the room has warmed around them, and it makes Yeosang throb with arousal.

After chasing Yeosang for a quick kiss, San’s hand wraps around his neck, fingers curling to turn Yeosang to look at him. His thumb sweeps wide arcs over Yeosang’s thundering pulse, then he leans in to match it with his tongue, teeth joining in a moment later.

Yeosang keens at the first nip against his neck.

San smiles against the bite, briefly, and then it’s an onslaught as he trails nipping bites across his collarbones, sucking clusters of bruises into the skin around the bites.

After a hard suck against the junction of his neck, Yeosang’s gaze flutters down to San, and their gazes lock. San’s eyes are wide and wild, pupils blown out and a flush high on his cheeks, and the arousal in his expression so evident that it’s enough to send Yeosang over, his body going taut and his mind going blank as he comes.

San shifts, bracing himself on one arm again, allowing his other hand to go down to stroke Yeosang through his orgasm, pulling a high whine out of him. He’s following soon after, hips moving erratically as he chases his release, licking into Yeosang’s mouth as he whimpers at the overstimulation.

Yeosang lays, sated, lets his breathing slow and even out. 

San slides out of the bed, darting to pick up a discarded piece of clothing just out of reach, then returns, just as warm as he had been. He cleans them up.

It’s an act that usually prompts Yeosang to leave, but San settles down on Yeosang’s right, between him and the wall, and curls around him, legs intertwining, his hand curling possessively over Yeosang’s hip. Yeosang sighs, but makes no move to get up, which garners a pleased noise from San, who presses his nose against Yeosang’s neck. 

Yeosang feels himself doze off, even as he tells himself that he needs to get up and return to his own bed to sleep. But San is touching him, and Yeosang is enjoying it far more than he would admit to. It’s calming, listening to the still noises of the warehouse, the background voices and doors opening and closing.

San’s grip tightens as loud footsteps approach, Yeosang going tense as the door slams open.

Wooyoung appears in the doorway, still in hat and mask and boots, chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze locks onto Yeosang, roving over his face.

Yeosang feels himself relax.

“You’ll let the cold in,” San says, tone matching.

Wooyoung closes the door and makes his way over, hat and mask quickly discarded. He’s beside the bed, towering, and then leaning down to press his forehead against Yeosang’s.

Yeosang breathes him in.

Then gasps as San’s fingernails skim low over his stomach.

Yeosang opens his eyes, sees Wooyoung do the same, Wooyoung’s gaze turning to San accusingly.

“We’re busy,” San says, and rolls on top of Yeosang. He presses a kiss to the hollow of Yeosang’s throat, and starts tonguing along his collarbone.

Yeosang sighs out, both at the pleasure of San’s mouth and at the dark look Wooyoung is giving San. He sets his hand on San’s shoulder, intending to push him off.

Instead, San grabs his wrist, and bites down on the soft skin above his veins.

Yeosang keens, eyes fluttering closed.

San soothes the area with his tongue, then keeps biting up his forearm, scraping his teeth against the inside of his elbow. “You’re still here,” he says, and it’s almost petulant. Yeosang reopens his eyes, sees San giving Wooyoung a challenging look, before returning to lavish against Yeosang’s skin for another few long moments. “Was there a reason you interrupted us…?”

Wooyoung sits on the edge of the bed, reaches over and pet San’s hair. “Is it an interruption if you’ve planned for it?”

It’s comforting, how feeling out of place feels so natural. Yeosang is accustomed to their bickering, knows it’ll soon be time to leave them to each other.

San slants a smirk up at Wooyoung, as he leans down and presses a kiss to a bruised bite on Yeosang’s collarbone. “Did I?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“You stole the blankets from my bed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“You did.”

“You should still apologize for not knocking,” San says, nuzzling his nose against Yeosang’s neck.

Yeosang pushes San away, and pushes himself to sitting. “You didn’t knock earlier,” he idly remarks.

“I knocked,” San says. There’s an intensity to his voice, not soft enough to be concern, not sharp enough to be an accusation, as he continues, “You didn’t answer.”

Yeosang doesn’t reply. His thoughts start straying towards his meltdown in the bathroom, to wonder about how long he had really been there, to wonder– He shouldn’t have brought it up. He’ll return to the memory, he knows, but he shouldn’t be thinking about it here. He shouldn’t still be here. He glances to Wooyoung, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “Move,” he says. It feels like the wrong thing to say, his mouth going dry as Wooyoung stares at him impassively.

San sits up behind him. Accusation is sharp in his voice as he asks, “Going somewhere?”

“Yes.” He makes to stand up.

Wooyoung presses his hand against Yeosang’s chest. “No.”

“And I say no. You’re outvoted,” San tells him, pressing a quick kiss to the soft skin behind his ear, then wrapping his second arm around Yeosang and laying them both back down. “Why are you still wearing your clothes?”

Wooyoung is still a very long moment, looking back and forth between San and Yeosang, before he shifts his weight to start toeing off his shoes. His dark hair hangs and covers his eyes, but Yeosang doesn’t doubt that he’s glancing at them as he discards each piece of clothing. His movements are slow, as if allowing ample time for rejection.

It’s what Yeosang would be doing.

Yeosang’s heartbeat picks up. He has completely and utterly lost track of the game, to the point where he doesn’t even know if there is a game anymore. He knows he could say don’t touch me and they wouldn’t touch him. He knows he could say let me go and they would let him go.

He doesn’t know why he’s not saying it.

He has an inkling, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

Just as he refuses to acknowledge his disappointment that Wooyoung moves to the bed before taking off his underwear.

Wooyoung slips underneath the covers, and reaches to pull them all the way back up. He takes care to tuck them under Yeosang’s chin.

Yeosang hadn’t been aware he’d been trembling again.

The bed is too small for the three of them, but Yeosang doesn’t think it’s necessity as the reason that Wooyoung presses in fully against him, as close as they can be with Yeosang’s arms in the way. Wooyoung maneuvers so he can set his chin atop Yeosang’s head. San is pressed too close against Yeosang’s back to allow Wooyoung to hug him, and instead Wooyoung runs his hand from Yeosang’s elbow up to gently curl around his shoulder.

Yeosang can’t help the shivers that break out over his skin, the tremble that takes hold of him and doesn’t let go.

Wooyoung sighs, pressing in even closer, fingers digging into Yeosang’s shoulder. San frees a hand to smooth his hand over Yeosang’s stomach, then palms him from hip to flank.

“Are you okay?”

Yeosang laughs. Sharp and enunciated and breathless, he laughs. He hates Wooyoung for a delirious moment, hates him for asking even though they all know the answer.

But Wooyoung is relentless, and if Yeosang doesn’t reply, he’ll move onto other questions, each cutting more and more into answers Yeosang doesn’t want to give. “It was cold,” he manages to say.

Wooyoung’s grip tightens, and he molds them even closer together. His support is unwavering and unquestionable. For all the questions that linger between them, the questions defining their touches, their gazes, the steadfast presence is unable to be questioned.

His presence wrapped around him is a comfort Yeosang has often sought after, but never sought out. He screws his eyes closed, swallows past the lump in his throat. “It was so cold.”

San presses a gentle kiss to the back of Yeosang’s neck. “Tell us how to warm you up,” San says. It’s not an order, like so many words he’s said against the back of Yeosang’s neck have been. It’s plaintive, a plea.

Before today, Yeosang has never heard San beg. Has never heard San plead. It throws Yeosang off, and he tries to rationalize it away of any meaning.

San squeezes Yeosang’s hip. “Now is not the time to play guessing games,” he says, misinterpreting Yeosang’s silence. “I can kiss you.” He emphasizes with another kiss to his neck. “Wooyoung can kiss you.” Another kiss, this one to his jaw. “We can touch you in whatever way you want to be touched. But you need to tell us. Please. Please.”

Yeosang writhes in his grasp, turns around and kisses him, desperate for him to stop talking, to stop making his heart race.

He didn’t account for having his back to Wooyoung, though. For Wooyoung’s hand to settle on his waist. For Wooyoung’s mouth to brush against his ear. “San can fuck you.” He moves his hand down to Yeosang’s hip. “I can fuck you.” His voice has gone low and husky, words and intent both something long buried between the two of them. “We would do whatever you want.” It makes his next words pierce Yeosang’s heart. “Why don’t you trust us?”

Yeosang freezes.

San stills, drawing back, looking between the two of them, and if Yeosang didn’t know any better, he would say San looked heartbroken.

Yeosang looks away. He should have left after San and Wooyoung started bickering. He should have left after San cleaned the two of them up. He should have done something to avoid being put in this situation. 

(He should have avoided being captured.)

Yeosang has worked hard to cultivate a relationship with San that is defined by their time in bed, by what their bodies can do to each other and do together. It’s physical.

The fact that Yeosang let himself get attached, to allow himself to feel comfort in his time with San has been a mistake.

There’s no way San can feel even remotely similar, because that escalates Yeosang’s mistake into something worse, something more dangerous.

Yeosang sits up. “I should go.”

Before he can move, though, Wooyoung has sat up next to him, and he takes Yeosang’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, staring at him as if he sees through him. “If you run away from me one more time, I don’t know if I will be able to forgive you for it.”

There is no point in trying to lie to Wooyoung, so Yeosang allows himself to say, “I’m ruining everything.” Over the sound of Wooyoung scoffing, he repeats, “I should go.”

“What have you ruined?” San asks.

Yeosang shakes his head, freeing himself from Wooyoung’s touch. It’s not something he can articulate. That this had been a nice pleasant game, and everything was going along smoothly, until Yeosang got captured, and now he is making every single wrong move. “We don’t do this,” Yeosang says, 

“We don’t do what?” Wooyoung asks.

“Get involved.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure we’ve been involved for a while now.”

Yeosang shakes his head. San is one of their best fighters, but Wooyoung is the best at this - at verbal sparring, at being quick-witted, at baiting with pointed questions and pointed comments and not showing his teeth until he’s already gone for the jugular. Yeosang feels like he’s baring his throat as he answers, “We’re a team. We’re part of a team. We can’t be more than that.”

San has sat up, and he sets his chin on Yeosang’s shoulder. “Why not?”

Wooyoung has a smug look in his eye, a pleased tug to the corner of his lips, and Yeosang wants to shove him off the bed. Yeosang wants to accuse him of not taking this seriously, to accuse him and San of not taking this seriously. “The team comes first.”

San nods, while Wooyoung agrees, “They do.”

“We can’t be more than that, because we can’t mean more to each other.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“Are you not?” Yeosang shoots back.

“I’m terrified,” Wooyoung replies immediately, though neither his tone nor posture back up his claim. “But I’m not letting that get in the way.”

Yeosang scowls. “You’re oversimplifying it.”

“Because you’re overcomplicating it.”

“I’m being rational and objective,” Yeosang snaps. “We have dedicated our lives to the team and to the movement and to the fight. We have been in battle before and we will be in battle again. We are not safe. We are not invulnerable.”

Wooyoung is staring at him with that too-knowing gaze again. “It could have been any of us sent on that scouting mission.”

Yeosang wants to get up and walk away and never have this conversation. Instead, he keeps himself still and prepares to bleed.

Wooyoung continues staring at him. “It could have been any of us.”

“But it was me.”

It’s not a revelation, not any new information. Yeosang was captured. Wooyoung and San knew this, the entire team knew this. Yeosang has no new information for them - though he should have had something more to report, should have something more to give - but he keeps talking.

“The Guardian didn’t do anything.” They had discussed the possibility of capture before - had an open and honest discussion of potential torture to endure. This had possibly felt worse. “They just kept me.” A useless, pretty trinket in an empty art gallery. “I don’t know why.” He doesn’t know what benefit the Guardian could have gained from Yeosang’s imprisonment, only knows that he would have been an unwilling party to aiding the Guardian. Part of Yeosang had hoped that it would be freeing to finally talk about it. It’s not. He feels no sense of freedom or relief or catharsis. Just the same shame. “The Guardian needed a weak link. And it was me.”

Wooyoung cradles his face gently in hand. “They needed someone we would be weakened without. It could have been any of us.” He sweeps his thumbs over Yeosang’s wet cheeks - when had he started crying? - as he says, “You are not a weak link.”

“I am.”

Wooyoung closes the space between them, forehead dipped against Yeosang’s own. “You’re not,” he assures, quietly. He leans in further.

It’s the first time they’ve kissed in years, and it’s fierce and tender, and Yeosang feels the tears slip down his face.

When Wooyoung pulls back, it’s to press kisses along his tear tracks, then mouth along Yeosang’s jaw, up to his ear. “We are not invulnerable,” he murmurs. “But you are safe.”

Yeosang tenses at the words. He hates himself for dropping his guard, for not expecting Wooyoung to keep cutting to his insecurities.

San presses up flush against his back, arms wrapping around him. “And you’re never going to be taken away again,” he says, mouth at Yeosang’s ear, a perfect mirror to Wooyoung. His voice is just as quiet as Wooyoung’s, but there’s a dark undertone to it as he asks, “And do you know why that is?” San noses under his jaw, behind his ear. “It’s because you belong to me, and I am never going to let you go.” He accentuates his comment with a sharp bite against Yeosang’s neck, then sucking a deep mark against the skin.

“You don’t own me,” Yeosang snaps, trying to writhe out of his grasp.

“I know,” San coos into his ear. “And yet you belong to me.”

Yeosang hates the way his breath catches at the intensity in his statement. 

“Us,” Wooyoung corrects. The look in his eyes is one that always makes Yeosang look away. Wooyoung doesn’t allow it this time, hands cupping Yeosang’s face and telling him, “You belong to us.” And then he’s kissing Yeosang again.

San’s chin settles on his shoulder, and Yeosang flushes at the idea that San is watching while Wooyoung kisses him. While Wooyoung keeps his hands on Yeosang’s face, keeping him in place, San’s hands wander all over Yeosang’s body. “You belong here,” he murmurs, running his palms down Yeosang’s chest. “In my bed.” He wraps a hand around Yeosang’s length, stroking him gently. “Under my hands.”

Yeosang gasps into Wooyoung’s mouth.

Wooyoung pulls away, pressing his mouth to San’s shoulder in either a kiss or a bite. “Our,” he corrects. 

San ignores him, lips pressing to Yeosang’s neck as he continues, “Under my body.” And he shoves Yeosang down to lay on his back.

“You already had your turn,” Wooyoung says, pouting.

San knee-walks until he’s between Yeosang’s legs. “I didn’t want to move to get supplies.”

“You already had your chance,” Wooyoung corrects.

“I didn’t want to leave him alone and risk him getting cold.”

“It’s only a few steps over to your trunk, unless you’ve moved your supplies?”

San continues to ignore Wooyoung, hand returning to stroke Yeosang. “It’s gotten warmer,” he remarks. The blankets have been shoved halfway down the bed through the course of them moving around. Yeosang stares up at San as San stares down at him, hand on him, all while talking about him like he’s not there. “If he’s still cold, I was thinking he could use you to warm his cock.”

Yeosang glances over, and sees that Wooyoung’s eyes have completely glazed over.

San smirks at him. “Supplies are still in the trunk. It’s only a few steps away.”

Wooyoung reaches over to shove at San, but he climbs out of the bed and takes the few steps over to San’s truck, rummaging through it.

“Now that he’s gone…” San says, and he leans down to kiss Yeosang in a series of short, chaste kisses. “I want to fuck you,” he says, mouth brushing against Yeosang’s as he speaks.

Yeosang barely holds back a moan as he nods.

San kisses him again, longer, but just as chaste. He pulls back and nips at Yeosang’s bottom lip. “I want to fuck you while you fuck Wooyoung.”

Yeosang moans, and he’s embarrassed by how loud it is. He looks away from San, and sees Wooyoung standing by the bed, staring down at him. His gaze flickers over Wooyoung’s body, and he frowns. “Why are you still wearing your underwear?”

San chuckles, laying himself partially on top of Yeosang, partially on his own side, attention solely on Wooyoung. “He likes being watched.”

“You like watching,” Wooyoung shoots back. He hooks his thumbs under his briefs and starts pulling them down, his movements slow.

Yeosang is going to have to revisit quite a few moments, to see what else he may have misread or misinterpreted. It’s going to have to be in a while though, because his thoughts short out as he watches Wooyoung bare himself.

By merit of being a team, by merit of living together, they have all seen each other in various states of undress before. Before Yeosang and Wooyoung were with the team, they had shared intimate moments, but there had always been a countdown for how long they were able to be together.

Wooyoung’s naked body is not new, but it is a revelation.

He’s smirking as he pours a generous amount of lube onto three fingers, then tosses the bottle to San. “Try to have the prep done before we’ve both already come.”

San huffs. Yeosang hasn’t taken his eyes off Wooyoung, but he can hear the snap of the lube bottle. “I’m not slow, you’re just impatient.”

“You are slow,” Wooyoung insists, and Yeosang secretly agrees. He sets a foot up on the bed frame, giving himself easier access, while also giving a better view. “But I am also impatient.”

San presses a finger against Yeosang’s rim just as Wooyoung does the same to himself.

“Fuck,” Yeosang grits out. He closes his eyes, knowing this will be over very quickly otherwise. He still lets out a whine as San presses up into Yeosang, which San is quick to swallow with a kiss.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “We’ll take good care of you.” He works slow, gently pumping his finger in and out. His second finger strokes along his rim. “Promise.”

“I know.”

San kisses his neck, and presses his second finger in.

The stretch stings, and Yeosang repeats, “I know.” He swallows. As San starts moving his hand faster, he murmurs, “I trust you.”

San groans as if it were punched out of him.

“Move over,” Wooyoung says, an urgent note to his voice. “Now.”

Yeosang whimpers as San pulls his fingers out, and then again as San manhandles him up off the bed, chest firm against Yeosang’s back, while Wooyoung takes his place. He makes a show of getting himself comfortable, and then makes grabby hands at Yeosang.

San huffs, then shoves Yeosang down.

Yeosang is barely able to catch himself, bracing against a forearm as he stares down at Wooyoung.

Wooyoung looks up at him. “Hi.”

Yeosang smiles. “Hi.”

Wooyoung reaches up, fingers tracing the features of Yeosang’s face, his expression unbearably fond. The next moment he’s reaching down and tearing open a condom foil. 

San takes the moment to start rubbing at Yeosang’s rim again, and Yeosang’s head tips down against Wooyoung’s shoulder, choking on either a laugh or a moan. His movements are slow and thorough as he presses in a third finger.

Wooyoung, meanwhile, works quick and sure as he rolls the condom on Yeosang. He drizzles more lube onto his fingers, warming it between his fingers, and then looks up at San from underneath his lashes. “I only grabbed one condom,” he says, as he starts to spread the lube over Yeosang’s condom. Unapologetically, he adds, “It’s only a few steps away.”

San curls his fingers within Yeosang. He drapes himself over Yeosang’s back, and licks at the shell of his ear. “I have no desire to step away,” he murmurs. He gives a few experimental thrusts, and smirks as Yeosang clenches around him, wailing as San presses against his prostate. “I can either get you off like this–” and he hits the same spot “–or I can fuck you without the condom.”

It takes Yeosang a few seconds to catch his breath. He grinds his hips back against San’s fingers. “Fuck me. Please.”

“Me first,” Wooyoung says. He pulls at Yeosang’s hair until he turns to face him, and he pulls him into a hungry kiss. “Please.”

Yeosang nods. He rolls his shoulder, and San takes the hint to draw back, allowing Yeosang to sit back on his haunches. San stays kneeling behind him, left hand on his hip, the thumb of his right hand sliding up and down his side. He lets himself enjoy the soft touches, while he admires the view of Wooyoung spread out before him, eyes roaming over every inch of flushed skin.

“There will be plenty of time to admire him properly,” San tells him. “I know he’ll enjoy it, too. But I think he wants you to fuck him right now.”

In response, Wooyoung lifts his knees up to his chest.

Yeosang forgets how to breathe for a second, but then he’s shuffling forward, lowering his hips to the cradle of Wooyoung’s own. He looks down, reaches a hand down to hold himself steady as he lines himself up with Wooyoung’s loosened rim. His other hand reaches forward to trace a featherlight circle around his hole.

Wooyoung wails loudly in response, then reaches down to swat Yeosang’s hand away. “Fuck me,” he says. “Now.”

After a quick glance down, Yeosang guides himself so that his head slips past the rim. Wooyoung moans and clenches around him, hips moving in circles to try and draw more of Yeosang in. Yeosang just lowers himself slowly over Wooyoung, bracing his arms on either side of his head. Wooyoung stares at him, and Yeosang meets his gaze, staring him down as he snaps his hips, bottoming out in one thrust.

It’s obscene, the way Wooyoung’s mouth falls open, the moan that spills from it, the sharp arch of his back, the cant of hips, the flutter of his eyelashes as he tries to keep his eyes open. There’s another moan, with his next thrust, and then another. Each noise Wooyoung makes is louder than the last, unabashed moans and whines falling from his mouth at each thrust. He babbles, too, so good and right there, until his words get more urgent, “I’m gonna– I’m gonna– slow down, San needs to–”

Yeosang grinds into Wooyoung, then stills. He looks over his shoulder at San.

San is sitting back on his haunches, lazily stroking himself, a hungry look in his eye.

“Enjoy the view later, fuck us now,” Wooyoung demands.

San rolls his eyes, but he looks fond as he closes the distance between them. He manhandles Yeosang, shoving his legs wider, pressing down against his lower back to change the angle of his hips. Wooyoung whimpers loud enough to mask Yeosang’s own moan. 

After a long few seconds, Yeosang turns to look back at San again.

San leans in and kisses him, then tugs his hair to turn his head to face Wooyoung. Wooyoung obliges, mouth open and panting as he kisses Yeosang. San presses a kiss to the back of Yeosang’s neck, then starts trailing them down his spine. “You need to relax.”

Yeosang doesn’t think he’s exactly able to relax, with Wooyoung squirming his hips against Yeosang’s and desperately kissing him, with San’s hands running up and down his hips and flank. He tries to think of how to say that this is pleasant, but not relaxing, but San keeps speaking.

“You said you trusted us,” he murmurs. “We’re going to take care of you.” He presses a kiss against Yeosang’s tailbone. “Let go.”

Instead of immediately arguing, Yeosang listens to him, setting his forehead against Wooyoung’s shoulder and taking a deep breath. San murmurs encouragement, Wooyoung runs fingers through Yeosang’s hair, and Yeosang relaxes between them.

San fingers him again briefly, and then he’s spreading Yeosang’s cheeks, his length pressing against his rim. 

Yeosang tenses again at the first touch, but he nods. Then moans, as San presses in slowly. 

Things don’t last after that.

San sets a brutal pace. Yeosang tries to match it, but San just drapes himself over Yeosang’s back, and repeats, “Let go.” And so Yeosang lets himself go pliant, lets San fuck him into Wooyoung, lets Wooyoung pant against his mouth in approval. There’s hands on his hips and hands on his shoulders and Yeosang can’t count the points of contact between them. 

“I’m–” Yeosang starts, head bowed between his shoulders, trying to catch his breath.

Wooyoung clenches around him. “Ours,” he murmurs, eyes closed and tone reverent.

A shudder runs through Yeosang’s body, heat coiling low in his gut, and he muffles his moan against Wooyoung’s throat. San snaps his hips so hard that Yeosang’s arms give out, and he crashes against Wooyoung. “I’m close.”

San slows his grinding against Yeosang. “You’re ours.”

It burns through him, driving him to the precipice. He squirms, gasping against Wooyoung’s skin, trying to get the leverage to move his hips.

San bites up Yeosang’s jaw. His voice is dark as he whispers, “Say it.”

Yeosang swallows, mouth struggling to form words, mind numb from blistering pleasure, before he gasps out, “I’m yours.”

Wooyoung comes with a cry, clenching down on him, thighs squeezing tight against his hips. He pulls Yeosang into a clumsy kiss, licking into his mouth, swallowing Yeosang’s moan as he comes a few seconds later.

“Ours,” San repeats. “You’re ours, you belong here, you’re ours, you’re–” And his body goes taut.

Yours, Yeosang thinks, as his mind goes post-orgasm hazy. He’s distantly aware as his body is pushed and shoved, other bodies moving around him, gentle hands rolling the condom off him, gentler hands cleaning him off. He could assist, but neither San nor Wooyoung make any demands of him, and so Yeosang lets himself start to doze off.

It’s peaceful.

Until Wooyoung lets out a squeaky laugh.

The sound always makes Yeosang’s heart feel warm, while also causing him a certain degree of apprehension. He blinks himself awake, and follows Wooyoung’s gaze. He frowns, looking up at San. “Is that my shirt?”

“Is it?” San intones, not bothering to feign innocence. He finishes wiping himself down and tosses the shirt across the room.

Yeosang watches as it lands. He turns to San, opening his mouth to protest, but San flops down to lay on top of him, gently knocking the air out of him. Yeosang continues watching as San reaches for a blanket, pulling it up to their waists, and nuzzling against Yeosang’s neck.

Wooyoung is still giggling when the door opens.

“I’d meant to ask if you had seen either Yeosang or Wooyoung,” Hongjoong starts, prompting Yeosang to fling his arm over his face, “but I should have known you would have whisked them both away.” A beat of silence. “Debrief is in ten minutes.”

“Are you going to warm the library before we get there?” Wooyoung asks.

Another beat of silence, presumably as Hongjoong stares Wooyoung down. “Don’t be late.”

And then he’s gone.

“So,” Wooyoung starts after a few seconds, “are you going to demand the Captain apologize for not knocking?”

“No, he won’t,” Yeosang mutters, as he makes himself sit up.

“Going somewhere?” San asks, reaching to press his hand against Yeosang’s chest, while Wooyoung asks, incredulously, “Why are you always trying to leave?”

“I can’t wear my shirt,” Yeosang says, gesturing to the far corner where San threw it.

San presses a kiss against his bicep. “You can use one of mine.”

Yeosang stares down at him, then sighs. “You used my shirt to clean us so that I would have to wear one of yours,” he surmises.

“Maybe.” He tugs Yeosang back down into the bed. “You look good in my clothing.”

Yeosang doesn’t point out that they usually wear uniforms, which are identical by design, and when they don’t, most of their clothing is indistinguishable from each others’.

“He looks good in everything,” Wooyoung says, cuddling against Yeosang’s other side. “And in nothing.”

Yeosang rolls his eyes.

“True,” San allows. He mouths at Yeosang’s neck. “I want him in clothing around others, though. No one else gets to see him without clothes.”

“Just us,” Wooyoung agrees, and draws him into a kiss.

When Wooyoung pulls back, Yeosang opens his mouth to point out they need to get going, soon, but San swoops in and kisses him next.

They alternate, barely giving Yeosang enough time to catch his breath, and after three or four kisses, Yeosang’s reminder slips his mind.

They’re late.

Hongjoong, mercifully, doesn’t say anything.

Yunho, gleefully, does. Jongho joins in, once his shock has passed. Mingi is too busy laughing at them to join in on the teasing.

Hongjoong, unmercifully, does nothing to stop them.

Yeosang sighs. They’re waiting on Seonghwa to return from perimeter watch, and there’s an unpleasant debrief to be had. For now, though, he tucks his head against San’s neck, slips his hand inside of Wooyoung’s, seeking and allowing himself comfort.