Chapter 5: The Morning After the Wall
The slam of the hotel room door reverberated through Donghae’s bones. He didn’t move. He stayed exactly where Hyukjae had shoved him, propped up on his elbows, the imprint of Hyukjae’s body heat slowly leaching from his chest into the cold, empty air.
You’re disgusting.
The words weren’t new. He’d heard them before, spat through bloodied lips in locker rooms, hissed across the ice. But this was different. This wasn’t the hot, clean fury of competition. This was something cold and final, laced with a revulsion that felt like a physical blow.
The room was too bright. Morning light cut through the gaps in the blinds, striping the rumpled bed and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the space where Hyukjae had just been. Donghae looked at the empty side of the bed, at the indent on the pillow. He slowly brought a hand up and pressed his palm flat against the center of his chest, as if he could hold the ghost of the weight there.
Hyukjae had been a warm, heavy line against him all night. A quiet, trusting anchor. Donghae had lain awake for hours, afraid to breathe too deeply, terrified of breaking the spell. He’d stared at the ceiling, feeling the steady thump of Hyukjae’s heart through his own skin, and he’d thought, stupidly, This is it. This is the start.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. A start of what? Of Hyukjae waking up and looking at him like he was something foul he’d found clinging to his skin?
“You came to me,” he whispered to the silent room. His voice sounded strange. Defeated.
The celebration replayed in jagged fragments. The win in Daegu had been brutal, a narrow one-goal margin secured by a last-minute slap shot from—of course—Hyukjae. The team had descended on a noisy bar full of glaring lights and sticky floors. Hyukjae, usually so restrained, had drunk with a focused, grim determination, as if trying to drown something specific. Donghae had watched him, a familiar ache in his throat. He’d switched to water after two beers, a silent sentry.
He’d half-carried him back to the room, Hyukjae’s arm slung over his shoulders, his breath hot and sweet with whiskey against Donghae’s neck. “S’hot,” Hyukjae had slurred, fighting his own jersey in the elevator. “Sleep like this. Always do.”
In the room, Donghae had helped him, his fingers clumsy on the hem of Hyukjae’s shirt. He’d tried not to look, but he’d seen the taut plane of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips above his shorts. He’d pulled the covers over him, a pointless gesture of care. Then he’d stripped off his own shirt, too warm from the effort, and slid in on his side, facing away, giving him all the space in the world.
And then, sometime in the deep blue hour before dawn, the migration. The careful pillow wall was a forgotten relic. He’d felt the mattress dip, the tentative shift of weight, and then Hyukjae was there, his forehead coming to rest against Donghae’s shoulder blade with a soft, unconscious sigh. Donghae had frozen. Slowly, so slowly, he’d rolled onto his back. Hyukjae had followed, arm sliding across his waist, face nuzzling into the hollow of his throat. Donghae had stared at the ceiling, his heart a wild, trapped thing. He’d dared, after an eternity, to let his hand come up and rest, feather-light, on the knobs of Hyukjae’s spine. A claiming. A prayer.
Now, the prayer felt like a curse.
He finally pushed himself up. The room was a museum of their failure. Two empty whiskey mini-bottles from the minibar on the desk. A discarded towel. The stark, accusing line of light between the curtains.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from his driver, confirming pickup. Another from his mother, a photo of a new painting for the penthouse. The normalcy of it was grotesque. He dressed mechanically, his movements precise and empty. The soft cotton of his shirt felt like a costume.
As he zipped his duffel, his eyes caught a glint of silver under Hyukjae’s nightstand. He knelt. It was Hyukjae’s academy ring, the one he never took off, stamped with the team crest. It must have slipped from his finger last night. Donghae picked it up. It was warm from the room, the metal worn smooth on the inside. He curled his fist around it, the edges biting into his palm.
He had a choice. He could leave it at the front desk. He could mail it. He could pocket it as a trophy of a battle he’d clearly lost.
The door whooshed open again.
Hyukjae stood there, fully dressed now, hair damp and wild as if he’d tried to scrub the night off his skin. His chest was heaving. He must have gotten to the lobby, maybe even to the bus, before realizing the ring was gone. His eyes went straight to Donghae’s clenched fist.
“Give it to me,” he said, his voice scraped raw.
Donghae didn’t open his hand. “You left in a hurry.”
“I said give it.” Hyukjae took a step into the room, but it was a step with less conviction than before. The performative rage was cracking, showing the shaky foundation beneath. He looked exhausted.
“You called me disgusting,” Donghae said, not moving. He kept his voice flat. “For letting you sleep. For not pushing you onto the floor.”
“You wanted it.”
“Yeah,” Donghae admitted, the truth leaving him like a surrender. “I wanted it. I wanted you to come to me. I’ve wanted it since I saw you snap that guy’s stick in the finals last year. But I didn’t make it happen, Hyukjae. You did. You, drunk and honest.”
Hyukjae flinched as if struck. He looked away, his jaw working. The fight was draining out of him, leaving something more vulnerable and far more dangerous in its place. “I don’t… do that,” he muttered, more to himself than to Donghae.
“Do what? Need someone?” Donghae stood, taking a cautious step forward. He opened his hand, the ring gleaming on his palm. “It’s just a ring. But you came back for it.”
“It’s mine.”
“I know what’s yours.” Donghae’s gaze held his. “You keep your things locked down so tight you’re choking on them. Your captaincy. Your sister. This.” He didn’t gesture between them. He didn’t have to. “You’d rather hate me than admit anything else could be there. Because hate is safe. Hate you can control.”
“Shut up,” Hyukjae whispered, but there was no force behind it.
“You kissed my chest last night,” Donghae said, the memory softening his voice. “Right here.” He touched a spot just above his heart. “Just once, in your sleep. I didn’t imagine it.”
Hyukjae’s eyes widened, a flash of pure, unguarded terror. That was the real violation. Not the touch, but the loss of control, the subconscious betrayal of his own body. It was the strawberry milk, the finger through the pillows, all over again—proof of a want he refused to name.
He snatched the ring from Donghae’s hand, their fingers brushing. A static jolt. Hyukjae recoiled, shoving the ring onto his finger as if sealing a wound.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said, the words a weak incantation.
“Okay,” Donghae said softly. He shouldered his duffel bag. The hollow ache was still there, but it was changing, hardening into something like resolve. He walked past Hyukjae toward the door. This time, he was the one leaving.
He paused in the doorway, not looking back. “The bus leaves in twenty. Coach will bench us both if we’re late.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut with a softer, more final sound.
Hyukjae stood alone in the silent, sunlit room. He looked at the bed, the covers still tangled from where they had lain. He raised his hand, staring at the ring on his finger, then pressed the knuckles hard against his mouth. He could still smell Donghae on the sheets. On himself.
You kissed my chest last night.
A sound escaped him—a raw, choked thing that was neither a sob nor a curse, but something painfully in between. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, back against the plaster, and let his head fall into his hands. The victory from last night felt like ash. The only thing that felt real was the brand of a kiss he couldn’t remember giving, and the terrifying, echoing silence of Donghae not following him.