Chapter 26: Graduation Day Chaos
The spring air was thick with the smell of cut grass and impending rain. Hyukjae’s black graduation gown felt like a woolen sauna, the polyester lining sticking to his skin with every slight movement. He sat ramrod straight in the amphitheater bleacher, his cap a precarious insult atop his head. Below, the Silver Ice rink lay dormant, its frozen surface a ghost of the battles fought there.
Two rows down and slightly to the left, Donghae was a study in restless energy. He hadn’t stopped moving since they’d been seated. Adjusting his gown, waving at someone across the way, twisting in his seat. Every twist ended with his eyes finding Hyukjae. A quick flash of a grin, a slow, deliberate wink.
“He’s doing it again,” Hyohyeon whispered, not bothering to hide her glee. She was sandwiched between Hyukjae and a nervous biology major, looking ethereal in a simple dress, her graduation cap decorated with a single, delicate silver snowflake. “He’s looking at you like you’re the last cupcake at a birthday party and he’s a very determined five-year-old.”
“Shut up,” Hyukjae muttered, his jaw clenched. He stared fixedly at the wooden podium where the dean was droning on about futures and potential. His own future, now irrevocably tied to the man currently blowing him a subtle kiss, was a signed contract with the Seoul Titans tucked into the inside pocket of his gown. The reality of it was a live wire in his chest.
“I’m just saying. Most people try to be subtle at their own graduation.”
“He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
The dean’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Lee Donghae. Magna Cum Laude, School of Sports Science.”
A ripple of applause, louder than for the others. Donghae uncoiled himself from his seat, loping up the steps to the stage with that easy, media-trained grace. He accepted the diploma tube, shook the dean’s hand, then turned to face the gathered crowd. His eyes zeroed in. He didn’t smile. He raised his free hand, pointed a single, unshakable finger directly at Hyukjae, and mouthed three clear, unmistakable words to the suddenly hushed, then erupting, amphitheater.
I. Love. You.
The roar was instantaneous. Hoots, laughter, the sharp whistle of their former teammates. Hyukjae felt the heat explode from his neck to his hairline, a flush of pure, undiluted mortification. Hyohyeon dissolved into silent, shoulder-shaking giggles beside him. On stage, Donghae just winked again, sauntered off, and took his seat as if he’d merely commented on the weather.
The ceremony blurred into a hum of embarrassment. Hyukjae’s own name was called, his walk a stiff-legged march of defiance. He accepted his diploma, shook the dean’s hand, and stared a hole into the back of Donghae’s head the entire way back to his seat.
The after-party was in a rented hall downtown, streamers in Silver Ice’s crimson and silver already drooping in the humidity. Cheap champagne fizzed in plastic flutes. Hyukjae drained his third one in a single gulp, the sweet bubbles doing nothing to douse the fire in his veins. He watched Donghae holding court across the room, surrounded by grinning friends, accepting backslaps for his stunt.
“You’re gonna burst a blood vessel,” Hyohyeon said, appearing at his elbow with two fresh flutes. She traded his empty for a full one. “Or you’re gonna fuck him in the bathroom. I’m not sure which.”
“I’m going to murder him and hide the body under the rink.”
“You love him.”
“I hate him.”
“Same thing, with you.” She patted his arm. “Go claim your man, drama queen. He’s been eyeing you like a snack all night.”
The champagne was a warm, reckless tide in his stomach. The noise of the party pressed in, a discordant soundtrack to the possessive thrum in his blood. He saw a girl from the cheer squad touch Donghae’s arm, laughing at something he said. A purely irrational, volcanic jealousy erupted in Hyukjae’s chest. It wasn’t rational. It was absolute.
He set his flute down on a nearby table with a decisive click. He climbed onto the table itself. The chatter around him faltered, then died. A hundred faces turned up to look at him, standing unsteadily on the laminate, his graduation gown hanging open over his dress shirt.
Donghae looked over. His smile froze, then widened into something predatory and delighted. He pulled out his phone, aiming it upward.
Hyukjae pointed. His finger wavered only slightly. “THAT IDIOT!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the music. “LEE DONGHAE! I’M GONNA MARRY THAT IDIOT!”
The silence held for a beat, then the room exploded. Cheers, screams of laughter. Hyohyeon’s distinct, unladylike cackle rose above it all. Donghae was still filming, his brown eyes glowing with triumph.
“PUT A RING ON IT, HYUKJAE!” someone yelled.
“FUCK YEAH!” yelled another.
Hyukjae, his declaration hanging in the air, suddenly felt the wobble in his knees. The world tilted. Before he could topple, strong arms wrapped around his thighs and hoisted him off the table, slinging him over a broad shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The floor receded. The cheers grew louder.
“Put me down!” Hyukjae yelled, pounding a fist against Donghae’s back. “I need to propose properly! I have… I have a speech!”
“You’ve spoken enough, princess,” Donghae said, his voice vibrating through Hyukjae’s body. He carried him effortlessly through the parting crowd, one hand securely clamped on Hyukjae’s ass. “Time to go.”
The cool night air was a shock. Donghae loaded him into the passenger seat of his sports car, buckled him in like a child. Hyukjae mumbled about rings and traditions, his head lolling against the window as the city lights streaked by. He was half-conscious by the time they reached the penthouse, aware only of being carried again, the soft give of the mattress beneath him.
He woke sometime in the deep navy blue of pre-dawn. He was still in his unbuttoned gown and dress pants, his mouth tasting of stale champagne and regret. Donghae was asleep beside him, on top of the covers, still in his own clothes, one arm thrown possessively across Hyukjae’s chest.
The memory of the night rushed back in full, horrible, glorious detail. The pointing. The shouting. The declaration. A groan leaked from his lips.
Donghae’s eyes opened instantly. “Morning, fiancé,” he rasped, his voice sleep-rough and unbearably smug.
“I was drunk.”
“You were prophetic.” Donghae rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His fingers traced the line of Hyukjae’s jaw. “You shouted it. In front of everyone. It’s on my phone. I’ve already saved it to three cloud backups.”
Hyukjae closed his eyes. “Delete it.”
“Never.” Donghae’s touch drifted down Hyukjae’s throat, over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re mine. You finally said it out loud to the whole world.” His fingers worked the button of Hyukjae’s pants, then the zipper. “Now I’m going to remind you why.”
There was no tenderness now. This was pure reclamation. Donghae yanked the dress pants and briefs down Hyukjae’s hips, his hands rough. He shoved Hyukjae’s legs apart, settling between them. He produced a small bottle of lube from the bedside drawer, slicked his fingers with a cold, clinical squelch.
“Look at me,” Donghae ordered.
Hyukjae opened his eyes. Donghae’s expression was dark, intense, stripped of all its usual playful charm. He pushed two fingers inside Hyukjae without preamble, the stretch sharp and sudden. Hyukjae gasped, his back arching off the bed.
“You’re mine,” Donghae repeated, working his fingers in deep, scissoring them. The burn was edged with a dizzying pleasure. “You graduate, you get a contract, you stand on tables… you’re still mine.” He added a third finger, his gaze locked on where his hand was disappearing into Hyukjae’s body. “This is mine. This tight, fucking perfect heat. You clench around me when you come because I own that, too.”
Hyukjae could only pant, his cock leaking against his stomach, his hands fisted in the black sheets. The filthy, possessive words were a lightning strike to his already overloaded system.
Donghae withdrew his fingers. He freed his own cock, thick and flushed, and rubbed the leaking head against Hyukhae’s stretched, slick entrance. “Tell me.”
“Yours,” Hyukjae choked out, the last of his defiance crumbling.
Donghae drove into him in one brutal, shearing thrust. The air left Hyukjae’s lungs in a punched-out grunt. He was filled, utterly, a claiming so profound it felt like being rewritten from the inside. Donghae didn’t wait for him to adjust. He set a punishing, deep rhythm, each snap of his hips slamming the headboard into the wall with a solid thump.
“You wanna marry me?” Donghae growled, bending over him, his breath hot against Hyukjae’s ear. “This is what you get. Every day. This cock in you, reminding you who you belong to.” He bit down on Hyukjae’s earlobe, a sharp, possessive pain. “You take it so fucking well. Greedy for it.”
Hyukjae was unraveling, the overstimulation from the champagne and the emotion and now this raw, physical possession spiraling into a blinding need. He hooked his legs around Donghae’s back, pulling him in deeper. “Harder. Please, fuck, harder.”
Donghae obeyed, his thrusts becoming ragged, animalistic. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin, Donghae’s ragged curses, Hyukjae’s broken pleas. Donghae reached between them, his hand a tight, rough fist around Hyukjae’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much.
Hyukjae came with a shattered cry, his release striping his stomach and chest in hot, white pulses. His body clamped down vise-tight around Donghae’s cock, milking him. Donghae swore, his rhythm breaking apart, and he plunged deep one final time, flooding Hyukjae with his own release. He collapsed on top of him, both of them breathing in ragged, humid gasps.
Long minutes passed. The grey light of dawn properly filled the room. Donghae finally shifted, pulling out gently. He returned from the bathroom with a damp cloth, cleaning Hyukjae’s stomach with a care that contrasted violently with the previous hour. He disposed of the cloth, then crawled back into bed, pulling Hyukjae against him.
Hyukjae’s body felt liquefied, thoroughly used. His mind was quiet.
“My parents will want to start planning immediately,” Donghae murmured into his hair, his voice soft again. “My mother already has a binder, I think.”
The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, Hyukjae felt a strange, settled calm. He had shouted it to the world. He had signed the contract. There was no more border between their lives. The war was over. The merger was complete.
“Let her,” Hyukjae whispered, his eyes already closing. The last thing he felt was the press of Donghae’s lips against his temple, and the low, satisfied hum that vibrated through the body wrapped around his. The future was a blank sheet of ice, waiting for them to carve their path across it, together.