Chapter 32: The High Stakes of Pride
The living room smelled like weed and cheap beer and the particular musk of too many bodies crammed into too small a space. Leonid's friends had descended around nine, bearing joints and soju and the kind of raucous energy that only came from men who'd known each other since before they had anything worth losing. They sprawled across the black leather couches like they owned the place, controllers in hand, the television screen flickering with the garish colors of some racing game Jensen had never bothered to learn.
Jensen sat curled into Leonid's side, his legs tucked beneath him, one hand resting possessively on Leonid's thigh. He wasn't playing. He never played. But he liked the weight of Leonid's arm around his shoulders, the way Leonid's thumb traced absent circles on his bicep even while his attention was fixed on the screen.
The haze was thick enough to cut with a knife. Jensen had declined the joint when it made its way to him—he had a board meeting tomorrow, and he'd learned long ago that his tolerance for substances was embarrassingly low. Leonid had accepted it with a grin, taking a long drag before passing it on, and Jensen had watched the smoke curl from his lips with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
"You're going to be useless tomorrow," Jensen had murmured against Leonid's ear.
Leonid had just laughed, low and loose, and pulled Jensen closer. "Worth it."
That had been two hours ago. Now Leonid was thoroughly, magnificently high, his movements slow and syrupy, his laughter coming easily at jokes that weren't even funny. His eyes were glassy and half-lidded, his grin perpetually crooked, and he kept forgetting what he was doing mid-race, his car careening off the track while his friends howled with laughter.
Jensen should have found it endearing. He did, mostly. But there was an edge creeping into his mood, a sharpness that had nothing to do with the smoke clouding the air and everything to do with the way one of Leonid's friends kept looking at him.
The friend's name was Minho, a stocky guy with a patchy beard and a laugh like a seal barking. He'd been Leonid's roommate back in their dorm days, and he'd never quite gotten over the fact that Leonid had somehow landed the richest kid in Seoul. He kept making comments—not outright hostile, but pointed. Little digs about "high society" and "trust fund babies" that Jensen pretended not to hear.
Jensen had dealt with worse. He'd been dealing with worse his entire life, had developed a thick skin precisely for these situations, had learned to smile through the microaggressions and the envy disguised as humor. It was fine. He was fine.
Then Minho, mid-laugh at something on the screen, turned his head and squinted at Jensen through the haze. His pupils were pinpricks, his movements loose and uncoordinated.
"Damn, Leonid," he slurred, gesturing vaguely in Jensen's direction with his beer bottle. "You sure you got a boyfriend? Looks more like a pretty little girlfriend to me."
The room went quiet. Not fully—the game still blared from the speakers, and someone's phone buzzed with a notification—but the kind of quiet that settles over a space when everyone collectively holds their breath.
Jensen felt his entire body go still. The warmth that had been pooling in his chest, the contentment he'd been nursing like a drink, iced over in an instant.
Leonid chuckled. The sound was loose, unthinking, his arm tightening around Jensen's shoulders like he was pulling him closer for a joke. "Yeah, yeah, fuck off, Minho. You're just jealous you can't get anyone to look at you twice."
It was a deflection. A joke. The kind of casual dismissal that men traded back and forth like currency. Jensen knew this. He knew Leonid hadn't meant anything by it, that he was high and relaxed and not thinking, that in the haze of smoke and laughter he'd simply responded the way he always did to his friends' teasing.
But the laughter that rippled through the room felt like it was pointed at Jensen. And the word—girlfriend—hung in the air like a sour note.
Jensen extracted himself from Leonid's side with careful, deliberate movements. He didn't look at anyone. He didn't say anything. He just stood, smoothed down his shirt, and walked toward the bedroom.
Behind him, he heard Leonid's voice, slightly muffled, slightly confused. "Jensen? Where you going?"
"Bathroom," Jensen said, his voice flat. "Keep playing."
The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
He stood in the middle of the room, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. The word echoed in his skull, over and over, each repetition another twist of the knife.
Girlfriend. Pretty little girlfriend.
He knew he was beautiful. He'd known it his whole life, had been told it by strangers and friends and family, had seen the way people's eyes tracked him when he walked into a room. His mother had always called him her "delicate flower," his father had always pushed him toward sports and discipline to "toughen him up."
He was used to it. He'd made peace with his face, with his small waist and his full lips and the way his features could be read as feminine if someone squinted hard enough.
But from Leonid's friends? In Leonid's presence? With Leonid laughing along?
The door creaked open behind him.
Jensen didn't turn around. He heard Leonid's footsteps—slow, uncoordinated, the shuffle of someone whose motor skills were currently swimming through molasses.
"Baby?" Leonid's voice was soft, questioning. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine. You seem—" Leonid paused, searching for the word. "Tense."
"Go back to your friends."
"Nah." The footsteps continued, closer now. "I wanna make sure you're good."
Jensen felt Leonid's arms wrap around him from behind, warm and heavy, his chin dropping onto Jensen's shoulder. His breath was warm against Jensen's ear, tinged with smoke and the faint sweetness of the soju he'd been drinking.
"You're so pretty when you're upset," Leonid murmured, his words slurring slightly. "Like a painting or something."
Jensen's entire body went rigid.
"Don't," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Don't what?"
"Don't call me pretty. Don't—" Jensen's voice cracked. He hated that it cracked. He yanked himself out of Leonid's embrace, spinning to face him. "You think that's funny? What Minho said?"
Leonid blinked at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. He looked like a lost puppy, all glassy eyes and slack jaw and tousled curls. "What? No. I mean—" He laughed, that loose, unthinking laugh that Jensen usually loved. "It was just a joke, baby. Minho's an idiot. You know that."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was. He's just—he's high, Jensen. We're all high. It didn't mean anything."
"You laughed."
Leonid's smile faltered. He swayed slightly on his feet, reaching out to steady himself against the doorframe. "I mean—yeah, I laughed. It was—I mean, it was kind of funny, right? You curled up all small and—"
"Small?" Jensen's voice rose, sharp and cutting. "You think I'm small?"
"No, I—" Leonid ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to keep up with the conversation through the fog of weed. "I don't mean like that. I mean like—you're just—you're compact, baby. It's not a bad thing."
Jensen's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palms, grounding him in the familiar sting of pain.
"I'm not your girlfriend," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm your boyfriend. And I will not be mocked in my own home."
"Nobody's mocking you—"
"Your friend called me a girl. In front of everyone. And you laughed."
Leonid's face crumpled, the first real sign that he was starting to understand the depth of Jensen's hurt. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, clearly intending to pull Jensen into a hug.
"I'm sorry, princess," he slurred. "I didn't mean to laugh. You know I love you. You know I think you're—"
Jensen shoved him.
It wasn't a hard shove—Jensen was smaller than Leonid, and Leonid was braced enough that he barely stumbled. But the intent was clear. Jensen's eyes were blazing, dark and fierce, his chest heaving with barely contained emotion.
"Don't call me that either."
Leonid stared at him, something clearing in his gaze. "Princess?"
"Princess. Pretty. Girlfriend. Any of it." Jensen's voice trembled. "Do you even see me, Leonid? Or are you just seeing what you want to see?"
The question hung in the air between them, sharp and painful. Leonid's mouth opened, then closed. He swayed again, reaching out to brace himself against the bed frame.
"I see you," he said finally, his voice rough. "I see all of you. The parts you show everyone and the parts you only show me. And I love every single one of them."
"You laughed at me."
"Because I'm an idiot." Leonid took a step forward, then another. "Because I'm high and I'm stupid and sometimes I don't think before I react. But I never—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I never meant to make you feel like I don't take you seriously. I do. You're the most serious person I know."
Jensen's chest heaved. He wanted to stay angry. He wanted to hold onto the fury like a shield, to keep it burning hot and bright so it could protect him from the vulnerability threatening to swallow him whole.
But Leonid was looking at him with those dark eyes, and there was something so painfully sincere in his expression, even through the haze of the high.
"You hurt me," Jensen said, his voice breaking on the last word.
Leonid closed the distance between them, his arms wrapping around Jensen with clumsy, desperate tenderness. Jensen stiffened for a moment, then wilted, burying his face in Leonid's neck and inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and cologne and something indefinably Leonid.
"I know," Leonid murmured against his hair. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."
"You laughed at me."
"And I'll never do it again. I'll tell Minho to shut his fucking mouth. I'll—" Leonid pulled back slightly, cupping Jensen's face in his hands. "I'll tell them you're all man, baby. I'll tell them you fuck me so hard I forget my own name."
A sound escaped Jensen's throat—half laugh, half sob. He shook his head, pressing his forehead against Leonid's. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm high."
"You're both."
Leonid grinned, that crooked, lopsided grin that always made Jensen's heart stutter. "Can I make it up to you? Please? I'll do anything you want."
Jensen's throat tightened. He looked at Leonid—at the flushed cheeks, the glassy eyes, the slightly parted lips—and felt the anger drain out of him, replaced by something far more dangerous.
"Anything?" he asked, his voice low.
"Anything."
Jensen's hands fisted in Leonid's shirt. He pulled him forward, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that was less about passion and more about claiming. Leonid made a sound against his lips—surprised, pleased—and his hands dropped to Jensen's waist, pulling him closer.
They stumbled backward together, the edge of the bed catching the backs of Jensen's knees. He fell onto the mattress, pulling Leonid down with him, their bodies pressing together in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands.
Leonid's fingers fumbled at Jensen's buttons, clumsy and uncoordinated. He cursed under his breath, struggling with the small circles of plastic, and Jensen laughed breathlessly against his mouth.
"Let me," he murmured, swatting Leonid's hands away.
Leonid flopped back onto the pillows, watching Jensen through heavy-lidded eyes. "You're so beautiful."
"Don't."
"I'm serious." Leonid reached up, tracing the line of Jensen's jaw with his fingertips. "You're beautiful. But you're not my girlfriend. You're my boyfriend. My partner. My—" He paused, searching for the word. "My everything."
Jensen's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.
"Shut up," he said, his voice thick.
"Make me."
Jensen leaned down, capturing Leonid's lips again. The kiss was softer this time, slower, a careful rebuilding of what had been broken. Jensen's hands worked methodically at Leonid's shirt buttons, exposing the pale skin of his chest inch by inch.
Leonid's fingers found Jensen's belt, tugging at the leather with clumsy urgency. Jensen helped him, shucking off his own shirt and tossing it aside, then reaching down to free Leonid from his jeans.
"God," Leonid breathed, his head falling back against the pillows. "You're so hot when you're mad."
"Then I must be absolutely scorching right now."
Leonid laughed—a real laugh, warm and genuine—and Jensen felt the last of his anger dissolve. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Leonid's throat, feeling the pulse beating rapid beneath his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Leonid murmured again, his hands threading through Jensen's hair. "For making you feel small. You're the biggest person I know. In all the ways that matter."
Jensen's throat constricted. He pressed his face into the curve of Leonid's neck, breathing him in.
"Just don't do it again," he whispered.
"I won't. I promise."
The world narrowed to the heat of their bodies, the press of skin against skin, the whispered reassurances and the slow, deliberate rhythm of their lovemaking. Leonid was clumsy and uncoordinated from the weed, but he was also tender in a way he rarely allowed himself to be, his hands gentle as they traced Jensen's curves, his mouth soft as it moved against Jensen's skin.
They came together slowly, a quiet communion rather than a frantic coupling. When it was over, Leonid pulled Jensen against his chest, wrapping around him like a shield.
"I love you," he murmured, his voice already thick with approaching sleep. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
Jensen pressed a kiss to Leonid's collarbone. "I love you too."
"We'll talk to Minho tomorrow. I'll make him apologize."
"Don't bother. He was high. He didn't mean anything."
"He still made you cry."
"I didn't cry."
"You got close."
Jensen was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Just hold me."
Leonid's arms tightened around him. Outside, the sounds of the living room filtered through the door—muffled laughter, the blare of the game, someone yelling about a cheap shot. It felt far away, like a different world.
They lay there in the quiet, tangled together, the only sound the soft rhythm of their breathing. And slowly, the tension drained from Jensen's body, replaced by something warm and safe.
"Princess?" Leonid murmured, his voice barely audible.
"What?"
"I love you. All of you. Every complicated, beautiful, terrifying part."
Jensen's eyes burned again. He blinked, and this time a single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek to disappear into Leonid's skin.
"I know," he whispered. "I love you too."
Leonid's hand found his, their fingers interlacing. And they lay there, holding each other, while the night deepened around them and the world outside faded to nothing.