Chapter 6: Pond and Promises
The morning was so quiet Donghae could hear the blood singing in his own ears. He woke tangled in Hyukjae, their legs a complicated knot under the duvet, Hyukjae’s face mashed into the pillow beside him. The frantic charge of the studio, the stale anxiety of the cabin, it all felt like a poorly-lit film he’d watched years ago. Here, there was only the soft grey light and the deep, even sound of Hyukjae breathing. He watched the slow rise and fall of his back, the sharp line of a shoulder blade under smooth skin.He didn’t move.The luxury of stillness was almost dizzying.
Downstairs, the soft clatter of dishes eventually pulled them from bed. Hyukjae’s mother had laid out a simple breakfast of rice, banchan, and a steaming pot of seaweed soup. She fussed over them, pressing another piece of kimchi onto Donghae’s plate.“You look thin,” she said, her eyes sharp.
“He’s not thin, Eomma, he’s just not bloated from convenience store food for once,” Hyukjae said, kicking Donghae gently under the table.“Still.Eat.”
They ate. The conversation was easy, looping from memories of other visits to updates on cousins Donghae hadn’t seen in years.It was so ordinary it felt radical. No one mentioned schedules, comebacks, or flight times. The studio loop, that haunting melody, felt like a faint, nagging pulse in another room.Donghae could ignore it here.
After helping clear the plates, Hyukjae gestured toward the back sliding door.“Pond’s waiting. You promised it.”
The air outside was cool and carried the crisp, clean scent of turned earth and dying leaves. The garden was a tapestry of autumn decay and stubborn late blooms. And there, nestled against a low stone wall, was the pond. It was larger than Donghae remembered, a dark, placid eye reflecting the ginkgo tree’s fan-shaped leaves. The surface was peppered with lily pads, some already browning at the edges, and a skimmer of crimson maple leaves floated like abandoned boats. The filter unit hummed a low, struggling note at the far edge.
“See?” Hyukjae pointed to a swirl of debris near the filter intake.“Clogged. Eomma’s been complaining about the sound.”
Donghae rolled up the sleeves of his oldest, softest grey t-shirt.“Easy.” He toed off his shoes, socks following. The grass was wet and cold under his feet.He stepped onto the smooth stones lining the pond’s edge. The water was shockingly cold as he waded in, soaking his rolled-up sweatpants to the knee, then the thigh.The mud underneath was slick and yielding, oozing between his toes. His t-shirt clung to his stomach as the water reached his waist.
“It’s freezing, you idiot,” Hyukjae called from the bank, arms crossed.
“You’re just soft,” Donghae shot back, his voice surprisingly loud in the quiet garden. He pushed through the water, the resistance feeling good, real.He reached the filter, a black plastic box humming in protest. The intake was indeed choked with a wet, slimy mat of leaves and twigs. He began pulling them away, hand over hand, the water dripping from his elbows in cold streams.
He heard a splash behind him. Hyukjae had rolled his pants up to his calves and was wading in, his face a comical mask of distaste. “For the record, this is disgusting.”
“Noted.” Donghae tossed a handful of sodden leaves toward him. Hyukjae dodged, laughing, the sound bright in the still air.
They worked in a rhythm developed over two decades. Donghae cleared the bulk of the debris, handing back slimy wads to Hyukjae, who tossed them onto a growing pile on the bank. Their hands brushed underwater, fingers tangling in the cold, murky task. The sun climbed higher, warming the backs of their necks. A dragonfly, its body a brilliant blue needle, darted over the water. The only sounds were the sucking pull of mud, the plop of wet leaves, their own breathing.
Donghae was reaching deep into the filter cavity, his arm submerged to the shoulder, when he felt a strange, tickling pressure on his calf. He ignored it, focused on dislodging a stubborn branch.The pressure intensified, becoming a faint, persistent pinch. He straightened up, looking down into the murky water around his legs.
A dark, sinuous shape was attached to his calf, just below the knee. It was about the length of his thumb, bloated and black, undulating slightly with the water’s movement.
A jolt of pure, primal revulsion shot through him. He yelped, a high, undignified sound, and jerked his leg back.His foot slipped on the muddy bottom. He flailed, arms pinwheeling for a balance that wasn’t there, and fell backwards into the water with a tremendous splash.
The cold was a shock. He came up sputtering, only to crash into Hyukjae, who had surged forward to catch him. Hyukjae’s arms locked around him, holding him upright against his chest. Both of them were soaked now, water streaming from their hair, their clothes heavy and dr
eaving them both sputtering. Hyukjae was laughing, a full-bodied sound that shook through Donghae where they touched.
“You… you have a leech!” Donghae managed, shivering more from adrenaline than cold now.
“I see it, you baby,” Hyukjae said, his laughter softening into a warm chuckle. He didn’t let go. One hand came down, sliding over Donghae’s soaked hip to hold him steady.His other hand remained firmly anchored between Donghae’s shoulder blades. The pond water dripped from their chins, their noses nearly touching. Donghae could see every lash, every faint line at the corner of Hyukjae’s crinkled eyes. His own heartbeat was a wild, sloshing rhythm in his ears, matching the water lapping at their chests.Hyukjae’s gaze dropped to Donghae’s mouth. The amusement faded, replaced by something far more deliberate. He leaned in slowly, giving Donghae every chance to pull away.Donghae didn’t. The kiss was cold and wet at first, a clash of chilled lips.Then it deepened, warming instantly. Hyukjae tasted of pond water and the faint, clean bitterness of morning tea.It was ridiculous and perfect. Donghae’s hands came up, grasping the slick fabric of Hyukjae’s shirt, holding on as the world narrowed to this single, anchoring point.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing harder.Hyukjae rested his forehead against Donghae’s. “Let’s get this off you,” he murmured, his voice low.
He guided Donghae back to the stone ledge and made him sit.The water came up to Donghae’s waist. Hyukjae knelt in the pond beside his leg, the cold seemingly forgotten. He examined the leech, his expression one of focused distaste. “Don’t look.”
“Just get it off.”
Hyukjae wedged a thumbnail under the sucker’s edge and pried. It came away with a soft, sucking pop. He flicked the dark, wriggling thing far out into the center of the pond with a shudder. A thin trickle of blood welled from the tiny wound on Donghae’s calf. Hyukjae pressed the heel of his hand over it, the pressure firm and warm.“See?Not a baby. A field medic,” Donghae said, his voice unsteady.
“You’re both.” Hyukjae looked up at him, his eyes soft. He leaned forward and placed a single, dry kiss just above the red mark.The gesture was so tender it stole Donghae’s breath. Then Hyukjae stood, water sluicing from him.“Come on.We’re pruning. Let’s finish this masterpiece.”
They worked slower after that, with a new, palpable charge in the quiet between them. Every passing touch was amplified—a hand on the back for balance, fingers grazing as a clump of leaves was passed.The sun climbed higher, warming their soaked shoulders. They finally cleared the filter, its hum smoothing into a healthy, low purr. Wading out, they left dark footprints on the sun-bleached stones.
Back inside, they left a trail of water from the foyer to the bathroom. Hyukjae’s mother tsked and brought them thick, clean towels.“You two look like drowned kittens,” she said, but her eyes were affectionate. “Go shower. You’ll catch cold.”
Later, dressed in dry sweats and with their hair damp, they found her in the living room.She looked up from her tablet. “All that mud must have made you stiff.I’ve booked the masseurs. The good ones who come to the house.”
Donghae blinked. “Masseurs?”
“Two of them,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing.“To unknot you both. All that tension you carry in your necks from those long flights. It’s not good.” She gave Hyukjae a pointed look.“Especially you. You hold it all in your shoulders until you’re like a rock.”
An hour later, two professional-looking therapists arrived with folding tables, sheets, and the subtle, herbal scent of arnica and peppermint oil. They set up in the spacious, sunlit guest room.The routine was clinical and efficient. Donghae found himself lying face down on the padded table, the soft sheet tucked around his waist. The initial touch was assessing, firm.
Then the therapist found a knot buried deep in the muscle between his shoulder blade and spine, a hardened lump of accumulated stress he’d forgotten was there. As skilled fingers worked into the tissue, a wave of sharp, then melting relief washed through him. An involuntary sound escaped his lips—a long, low groan of pure release.
From the other table, Hyukjae’s head turned slightly. “You okay over there?”
“Mmmph,” Donghae managed, his face half-smushed into the headrest. The therapist’s thumb drove deeper, unknotting a cord of tension that felt years old.Another groan, softer this time, slipped out. It felt too good to stifle.
A few minutes later, both therapists excused themselves to fetch more hot towels from the kitchen.The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a sudden, charged silence. The only sounds were the faint birdsong from the garden and the rustle of sheets as Hyukjae turned fully onto his side, propping his head on his hand.
“So,” Hyukjae said, his voice a dry, amused murmur. “What exactly is that therapist doing to make you sound like that?”
Donghae turned his head to look at him. “Hmm?”
“Those noises. I thought only I got to hear you moan like that.” Hyukjae’s tone was playful, but there was a razor-thin edge of something else underneath.
A slow, lazy smile spread across Donghae’s face. He was so loose-limbed and warm he could barely move.“I wasn’t moaning, Hyuk. The way he’s massaging is just… really good. I’m making appreciative sounds.”
“Appreciative,” Hyukjae repeated flatly. He slid off his table, the sheet wrapped around his hips, and padded barefoot over to Donghae’s side. He looked down at him, his expression unreadable. “I could make you feel better.”
Donghae’s smile widened.He felt bold in his languid state. “Are you jealous of the masseur?”
Hyukjae opened his mouth to answer, his eyes darkening. But before a single syllable could form, the door handle turned. The two therapists returned, arms laden with steaming white towels. They stopped, taking in the scene: one client on the table, the other standing disconcertingly close.Hyukjae didn’t flinch. He just gave Donghae one last, lingering look that promised a later conversation, then smoothly turned back to his own table. “Just checking his pulse,” he said to the therapists, his voice smooth as honey. “Sounded a little elevated.” He lay back down, folding his hands over his stomach, the picture of innocence.
Donghae buried his laugh in the face cradle, his whole body shaking with silent, giddy joy.
Donghae buried his laugh in the face cradle, his whole body shaking with silent, giddy joy. The remaining hour of the massage passed in a haze of deep pressure and melting muscle. He floated out of the guest room afterward, his limbs loose and heavy, his mind pleasantly blank. Hyukjae followed, his own posture easier, but his eyes held a specific, simmering focus every time they landed on Donghae.
Dinner was a warm, chatty affair. Hyukjae’s mother had made a hearty kimchi jjigae, the spicy steam curling up to mix with their easy laughter. Donghae felt more present in his own skin than he had in months, the constant hum of industry static finally muted. He was telling a story about some absurd photo shoot directive when he felt Hyukjae’s leg press firmly against his under the table.It was a point of concentrated heat.
“That’s hilarious, son,” Hyukjae’s mother said, wiping her eyes. “The things they make you do.”
“Yeah, well, his face here is even funnier when–” Donghae began, but Hyukjae cut in smoothly.
“Eomma, we should probably clean up.I want to take another look at that song with Hae tonight. While we’re both… relaxed.” His voice was casual, but the weight he placed on the last word wasn’t subtle. His thumb stroked once, slowly, over the inside of Donghae’s wrist where it rested on the table.“Of course, of course. You boys work.I’ll handle this.” She shooed them away from the sink. “Go create.”
In the hallway, the domestic sounds faded behind them. The climb up the stairs felt different than it had that morning.The air thickened with unsaid things. Hyukjae closed the bedroom door behind them with a definitive click. The earlier sunlight was gone, replaced by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp that painted the room in pools of gold and deep shadow.
Donghae leaned back against the dresser.“So.The song?”
Hyukjae didn’t smile. He walked over, stopping close enough that Donghae could smell the clean linen and warm skin scent of him, layered now with the faint herbal tinge of massage oil. “The song can wait.” His gaze was intent, scanning Donghae’s face. “I’ve been thinking about those sounds you were making.”
“They were therapeutic,” Donghae said, his own voice dropping to a murmur.“Were they.” It wasn’t a question. Hyukjae reached past him, opening the top dresser drawer. He pulled out a simple, sleek bottle of unscented lotion.The motion was deliberate. “I think I can do better than therapeutic.”
Donghae’s breath hitched.“Is that right?”
“Yeah. Lie down.”
The command, soft but absolute, sent a bolt of liquid heat straight through Donghae’s loosened body.He moved to the bed, lying back on the cool duvet. Hyukjae knelt beside him, the mattress dipping. He popped the cap on the lotion, poured a clear pool into his palm, and rubbed his hands together to warm it.
He started with Donghae’s right foot. His hands were firm, knowing, so different from the clinical touch of the therapist. He worked each toe slowly, the pad of his thumb pressing into the arch, then swept up over the ankle bone. The lotion was cool, then warm from Hyukjae’s skin. He moved up Donghae’s calf, his fingers digging into the muscle with a possessive pressure that felt like reclaiming territory.His mouth followed the path of his hands.
A kiss pressed to the inside of his knee.A nip at his thigh. Donghae gasped, his head falling back.“Hyuk—”
“Shh. Just feeling.” Hyukjae’s voice was a low vibration against his skin. He methodically repeated the process on the left leg, a slow, maddening pilgrimage. He took Donghae’s right hand, spreading the fingers, massaging the palm, then turning it over to kiss the wrist where his pulse hammered. He did the same with the left, his tongue tracing the blue veins there.
Then he leaned over Donghae’s torso, his shadow swallowing him. He poured more lotion, smoothing it over the slope of Donghae’s right shoulder, down his arm. His mouth found the hollow of Donghae’s armpit, his tongue a hot, shocking stripe. Donghae jolted, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
“Sensitive here,” Hyukjae murmured, his breath damp and hot.He paid the same torturous attention to the other side. Donghae was writhing now, his hips lifting off the bed, his cock straining painfully against his sweats.Hyukjae ignored it.He moved lower. He slicked his hands and circled Donghae’s nipples, first with his thumbs, then with his palms, until they were tight, aching peaks. He bent his head, his mouth closing over one, sucking gently, then with more force. Donghae cried out, his fingers tangling in Hyukjae’s hair. Hyukjae switched to the other, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub before soothing it with his tongue.
“Please,” Donghae whimpered, the word strangled.
“I’m not done.” Hyukjae’s hands, glossy with lotion, slid down his ribs, over the tremble of his stomach. He spread the lotion there, painting patterns on Donghae’s skin with slow, open-palmed strokes that dipped toward the waistband of his sweats but never quite crossed it.The friction was exquisite, unbearable. Donghae was panting, a fine sweat breaking out on his skin despite the cool lotion.Finally, finally, Hyukjae’s fingers hooked under the elastic. He pulled Donghae’s sweats and briefs down in one slow motion. The air hit his wet, throbbing cock.Hyukjae surveyed him, his eyes dark and satisfied. He poured a final, generous amount of lotion into his hand.
He didn’t take Donghae in his mouth.He wrapped his slick, warm hand around him, starting a slow, maddening stroke. “You feel that?” he breathed, his other hand still roaming Donghae’s stomach, his hip.
“Yes—god, yes—”
“That therapist ever make you feel like this?” Hyukjae’s voice was rough, close to his ear now. His rhythm sped up, his thumb swiping over the head with every upstroke. “He ever touch you like you’re his? Like he knows every place that makes you shake?”
“No, no, only you, fuck—” Donghae was babbling, his vision spotting at the edges. The pleasure was a coil, wound impossibly tight, a screaming pressure in his gut. Hyukjae’s hand was perfect, his words a filthy, beautiful counterpoint to every glide of his skin.
Just as Donghae felt the coil snap, Hyukjae stopped.He pulled his hand away completely. Donghae sobbed, a raw, desperate sound. Hyukjae shifted, his hands spreading Donghae’s thighs further. He leaned down, and his tongue, hot and relentless, licked a stripe from his balls to the sensitive pucker behind them.
Donghae shouted, his back arching clear off the bed. Hyukjae ate him out with single-minded intensity, his tongue driving into him, flattening against him, fucking him with it. The intimacy was blinding, worse and better than anything before. The coil, denied, wound tighter, hotter, an agony of need.
Hyukjae’s tongue worked him open, wet and messy and perfect, until Donghae was just a shaking, pleading thing on the sheets. Only then did Hyukjae rise up over him, aligning his body. He pushed in, slow and inexorable, a filled-to-bursting stretch that stole the air from Donghae’s lungs.
The first movement was a deep, rolling thrust that brushed directly against that blinding spot. Pleasure, held back for so long, detonated. Donghae came with a shattered scream, his body convulsing around Hyukjae, his release painting stripes across his own stomach.
Hyukjae laughed, a low, breathless sound against his neck.He didn’t stop moving. “Babe… you’ll wake Eomma up.”
The overstimulation was instantaneous, a sharp, sweet pain piercing the aftershocks. Donghae clutched at him, his nails digging into Hyukjae’s back. “Fuck you, Hyukjae,” he gasped, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.“Please, I need you in me. Don’t stop.”
Hyukjae’s rhythm became harder, deeper, each thrust wringing a punched-out moan from Donghae’s spent body. He was chasing his own end now, his breathing ragged, his own release building as he moved inside the tight, clutching heat. The room held only the sound of skin, of breath, of a relentless, perfect friction.