Chapter 1: The Hoodie on the High Seas
The apartment still smelled like him. Donghae breathed it in, the warm spice of Hyukjae’s cologne clinging to the cushions, mixing with the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun. A half-unpacked suitcase yawned open by the bedroom door, a sock trailing out like it had tried to escape. He’d been gone for four days. A family trip to Singapore. Four fucking days.
Donghae slumped shirtless on the couch, the cold leather a shock against his skin. His thumb moved on autopilot, stabbing open Instagram. Hyukjae’s story. The first photo: a plate of chili crab, glossy and red. The second: Hyukjae’s mom, smiling, arm around her son. The third: the skyline from some stupidly tall hotel bar, the city lights scattered like dropped jewels.
A fresh, hot needle of jealousy lodged under Donghae’s ribs. He wasn’t in any of them. Not even a fucking fingertip.
He scrolled again. A new one, posted ten minutes ago. This one was a video. The low, thrumming engine of a ship. The camera panned across dark water, then lifted, shaky, to rest on a railing. On the railing, draped neatly, was a splash of vibrant red. Their red couple hoodie. The one Hyukjae had stolen from Donghae’s closet last winter and never given back.
The camera lingered. A hand—Hyukjae’s hand, with that specific slope of the knuckles Donghae knew better than his own—entered the frame. His fingers brushed the sleeve of the hoodie, a slow, almost unconscious caress. The video ended.
Donghae’s breath hitched. The casual intimacy of the gesture, the quiet claiming of it, was a punch to the gut. It was a message. A fucking haiku written in fabric and fingertips. I’m here. You’re there. This smells like you.
He threw his phone onto the cushion beside him like it was scalding him. The silence of the apartment roared. He got up, pacing past the suitcase, into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, Hyukjae’s side perfectly smooth. Asshole. Donghae yanked the duvet into a state of acceptable disarray, then walked back out.
His eyes landed on the armchair. The red hoodie was there, a crumpled heap of red. He must have missed it before. He walked over, picked it up. It was soft, worn thin in places. He brought it to his face and inhaled, deeply. Sweat, his own deodorant, and underneath it, the faint, indelible trace of Hyukjae’s skin, his cinnamon-spice smell. A wave of sheer, possessive want washed over him, so intense it made his knees feel weak.
He needed to hear his voice. Now.
The phone rang three times before Hyukjae picked up. Background noise—laughter, distant music, the clink of glass. “Hae?”
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” Donghae said, his voice tighter than he intended.
A soft laugh. “It’s our hoodie. And no, I’m not wearing it. It’s thirty degrees Celsius here. I’d die.”
“You had your hands all over it in that story. Looked like you were thinking about wearing it. Or maybe just thinking about who usually wears it.”
“Maybe I was.” Hyukjae’s voice dropped, a private note in the public noise around him. “Miss me that much?”
“I hate it here. The bed’s too big. The shower doesn’t have anyone to complain about the water temperature. I cooked kimchi-jjigae and only ate one bowl because without you here to finish it, it just… sits.”
“You’re so dramatic.” But Donghae could hear the smile in his voice.
“Come home.”
“It’s two more days, Hae. I’m with my family.”
“I’m your family.”
“You are,” Hyukjae said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “And they are too. Two days.”
Donghae sank into the armchair, the hoodie in his lap. He traced the stitching on the cuff. “What are you doing?”
“At a dinner. On the deck. It’s windy.”
“Are you drunk?”
“A little. The Singapore Slings are… slinging.”
Donghae closed his eyes. He could picture it. Hyukjae leaning against the railing, the city lights behind him, his hair messed up by the wind. Probably smiling that small, private smile that never made it onto stage. A smile someone else might see and misunderstand.
“I saw the video,” Donghae murmured, his hand sliding over the soft fabric of the hoodie, draping it across his thighs.
“Yeah?”
“Your hand. On the sleeve.”
A pause on the line. Just the wind and the muffled party sounds. “Yeah.”
Donghae’s fingers clenched in the material. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because,” Hyukjae said, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper that went straight to Donghae’s gut, “I was thinking about the last time you wore it. You came home from the studio, exhausted. You smelled like sweat and cheap coffee. You pulled it on over nothing because you were cold. The zipper was cold when I kissed you.”
A shiver ran through Donghae. He remembered. Hyukjae had pushed him against the fridge, his hands under the hoodie, warm on his bare hips. “Fuck,” Donghae breathed.
“Yeah.” Hyukjae’s breath hitched, a tiny sound eaten by the distance. “What are you wearing right now?”
“Sweatpants. That’s it.”
“On the couch?”
“In the armchair. With your… with the hoodie.”
“Put it on.”
Donghae didn’t hesitate. He stood, shoving his arms into the sleeves. It settled on his shoulders, too familiar, like being embraced by a ghost. The lining was cool against his bare skin. “It’s on.”
“Good.” Hyukjae’s voice was darker now, a thread of command in it. “Now touch yourself.”
“Hyukkie…”
“You called me because you’re jealous and hard and lonely. So don’t pretend. Do it.”
Donghae’s other hand slid into his sweatpants. He was already half-hard, just from the voice, the smell, the memory. He wrapped his fingers around his cock, a low groan escaping him as he leaned back into the chair.
“That’s it,” Hyukjae purred, the background noise fading as if he’d moved somewhere quieter. “Tell me.”
“I’m thinking about your mouth,” Donghae gasped, his hips pushing up into his fist. “That night. You on your knees in the living room. The fucking sounds you made.”
“I remember. You wouldn’t let me use my hands. You just fucked my face until I cried.”
“You loved it.” Donghae’s strokes grew faster, rougher. The hoodie brushed against his nipples with every movement, a maddening friction. “You came in your pants like a teenager just from me using your throat.”
A sharp, ragged inhale from Hyukjae. “I’m in a bathroom stall. My pants are open.”
The image exploded in Donghae’s mind: Hyukjae, crowded into a sterile ship bathroom, one hand braced against the wall, the other working frantically over his cock. “Are you touching yourself thinking about my cock down your throat?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m jerking off, Donghae,” Hyukjae hissed, his voice strained. “I’m so fucking hard for you. I want you to come all over that hoodie. Mark it up again. Make it yours. Make it us.”
The raw filth of it, the possessiveness flung back at him, tipped Donghae over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and silencing. He cried out, back arching, painting hot stripes across the soft red cotton stretched over his stomach. He panted, collapsing back into the chair, the phone slick against his ear.
He could hear Hyukjae’s harsh, muffled breaths on the other end, the soft, wet sounds of his own release. “Did you…?” Donghae asked, breathless.
“Yeah.” Hyukjae’s voice was spent, quiet. A deep sigh. “Fuck. I have to go wash up. My mom is probably wondering where I am.”
Reality, cold and mundane, seeped back in. The sticky mess on his stomach, the empty apartment, the two-day chasm still stretching between them.
“I hate that you’re not here,” Donghae whispered, the post-coital hollow opening up inside him.
“I know.” A faucet ran on Hyukjae’s end. “Two days. Then I’m yours. I’ll even wear the hoodie through the airport.”
“You better.” Donghae managed a weak smile. “It’s fucking disgusting now.”
Hyukjae’s laugh was warm, real, and it filled the hollow a little. “Good. I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep in the middle of the bed.”
They hung up. The silence returned, deeper now. Donghae looked down at the mess on the hoodie, at his own spent body nestled in their chair, wrapped in their scent. The craving was momentarily sated, but the loneliness had just reshaped itself, become a quieter, more patient thing. It would wait for him to get up, to clean himself off, to face another empty night. It would wait until the door opened in two days. And then, he knew, it would dissolve the second Hyukjae walked in, dropped his bag, and raised an eyebrow at the state of their hoodie.