Chapter 12: Confessional Breakdown
The city sprawled beneath them, a glittering, silent beast, its roar reduced to a distant hum by the time it reached the rooftop bar. Up here, the air was cooler, laced with the damp, clean scent of impending rain and the sweet ghost of jasmine from the planters lining the glass barriers. Moonlight battled with the warm, low glow of copper lanterns, creating pockets of intimate shadow.
Donghae stared into his champagne flute, watching the tiny bubbles rise and die. The laughter around him—Leeteuk’s high-pitched cackle, Shindong’s rumbling chuckle—was a familiar comfort, a blanket of twenty-five years. Yet, he felt oddly separate from it, adrift in the sea of his own sudden, bewildering frustration.
It had been three days. Three days since the mastering, since the raw claiming in Hyukjae’s blue-walled sanctuary. Three days of… nothing.
Well, not nothing. There had been conversations. Practical, logistical conversations about single releases, photo shoots, promotional calendars with Manager Kim. There had been meals shared in comfortable silence. There had been Hyukjae’s hand resting on the small of his back as they reviewed venue portfolios for Jeju.
And there had been the silk pajamas.
Last night, Hyukjae had emerged from the bathroom wearing them. Dark charcoal, they were, and they did not so much hang on him as cling. The fabric whispered over the defined planes of his chest, the taper of his waist, draping his thighs with a sheen that caught the low bedroom light. He’d smelled of clean cotton and his own subtle cologne. He’d climbed into bed, given Donghae a soft, closed-mouth kiss, murmured “Sleep well, jagiya,” and turned over.
Donghae had lain there, staring at the ceiling, feeling like he’d been doused with ice water.
Now, the memory of it, coupled with the sheer physical ache of want, tipped him over. With a groan that was only half theatrical, he slid off his chair and executed a slow, deliberate flop directly across Sora’s lap.
“Unnie,” he whined, his voice muffled by the sequined throw pillow he immediately buried his face in.
The table erupted. Shindong nearly snorted his drink. Leeteuk pointed, wheezing. Sora, used to a lifetime of this from all of them, just sighed and patted his head absently.
“What’s wrong with our Donghae-ssi?” Leeteuk managed, wiping a tear from his eye.
Donghae turned his head, one eye peeking over the pillow. “He’s a monster,” he declared, his tone utterly despondent. “A beautiful, heartless monster.”
“Hyukjae?” Sora asked, her fingers now carding through his hair. “What did he do? Forget to buy more of that overpriced kombucha you like?”
“Worse,” Donghae moaned. He took a dramatic sip of champagne from the flute he still clutched in his hand, the picture of melodramatic despair. “He has instituted… rules.”
Kyuhyun leaned forward, intrigued. “Financial rules? Did he finally put you on an allowance?”
“Abstinence rules,” Donghae whispered, as if confessing a state secret.
A beat of silence was followed by a fresh wave of howling laughter. Even Manager Kim, sitting slightly apart with his tablet, cracked a smile into his tonic water.
“He’s prepping for a comeback, isn’t he?” Shindong guessed, grinning. “Needs to save his energy.”
“It’s not a comeback!” Donghae protested, sitting up slightly. “He’s just… he’s doing it on purpose. It’s sadistic. Last night—” He dropped his voice again, conspiratorial. “He wore silk pajamas to bed. Black. They clung to every single muscle.” He demonstrated by gripping his own bicep and making a pained sound. “I’m only human! I have needs! The album is done! We should be celebrating!”
Leeteuk was crying with laughter now. “So wait, you finished your big solo project, you had your… triumphant moment—” he waved a hand vaguely, causing Donghae to blush, “—and now he’s just… dressing up and going to sleep?”
“Yes!” Donghae flopped back onto Sora’s lap. “It’s psychological warfare. I’m withering away.”
“You look,” Kyuhyun deadpanned, “extremely withered. I can see your bones.”
The glass door to the rooftop slid open with a quiet sigh. Hyukjae stepped out, the city lights framing his silhouette. He’d been on a call with the Taiwanese label. He took in the scene: his family in various states of amusement, and his fiancé sprawled across Sora, proclaiming his demise.
His eyebrows lifted. He made his way over, his steps unhurried. He didn’t sit. He stood behind Donghae’s chair, his hands coming to rest on Donghae’s shoulders. His thumbs dug in, starting a slow, firm massage.
Donghae tensed for a second, then melted backward with a pathetic, grateful sigh.
“What’s all this?” Hyukjae asked, his voice a low rumble near Donghae’s ear. His tone was pure innocence.
“Your fiancé is accusing you of cruel and unusual punishment,” Kyuhyun supplied cheerfully. “Something about silk pajamas and neglect.”
Hyukjae’s massage didn’t falter. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Donghae’s ear, his voice meant only for him, though the others could probably guess. “I told you, jagiya. You have a promotional cycle starting. You need to focus. You need your rest.” He straightened up, addressing the table with a smirk. “He gets… distracted.”
Donghae swatted at him weakly, his face flaming. “I am a pillar of focus!”
“A pillar of something,” Leeteuk cackled.
The group settled into easier banter, the topic shifting to an upcoming variety show appearance some of them were filming together. Hyukjae finally took a seat, his ankle brushing against Donghae’s under the table. A point of contact. A silent promise.
Later, as the gathering began to wind down and goodnights were exchanged, Manager Kim approached their corner of the table. “Donghae-ssi,” he said quietly. “The final schedule for the first week of promotions. We need to lock it in tomorrow.”
The bubble of warmth and laughter popped. The real world, with its spreadsheets and camera crews and endless interviews, rushed back in. Donghae felt his smile tighten at the edges. “Right. Of course.”
Hyukjae’s hand found his under the table, squeezing once. “We’ll look at it together in the morning,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Over breakfast.”
After the others had left, and they were alone with just the whisper of the wind and the distant neon, Donghae stood at the glass railing. Hyukjae came to stand beside him, their shoulders touching.
“The silk was a tactical error,” Hyukjae admitted softly, staring out at the city. “I was just… comfortable.”
Donghae snorted. “Liar. You were testing my resolve.”
“Maybe.” A smirk. “It was fun to watch you squirm.”
“I’m squirming right now,” Donghae grumbled, but he leaned his weight into Hyukjae’s side. The earlier frustration had bled away, leaving a familiar, sweet ache of want, tempered now by understanding. Hyukjae was, in his own ridiculous way, trying to help. To be the stable ground while Donghae walked the high wire of solo promotion.
“I know,” Hyukjae murmured. He turned, his body blocking the wind, and hooked a finger under Donghae’s chin, lifting his face. The lantern light caught the gentle amusement in his eyes. “After the first week of promotions. If you’re not completely drained. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
The kiss he pressed to Donghae’s lips was slow and deep, a distilled essence of every promise they’d ever made. It tasted of champagne and shared history and a future waiting just beyond the glare of the spotlight.
When they parted, Donghae rested his forehead against Hyukjae’s. “I already can’t focus,” he whispered.
Hyukjae laughed, the sound warm and private. “Good. Now let’s go home. The manager-nim’s spreadsheets await their king.”
They rode the elevator down in a comfortable silence, Donghae’s head on Hyukjae’s shoulder. The frantic energy from earlier was gone, replaced by a steady, warm current. He thought of the blue bedroom, the sanctuary. He thought of Hyukjae’s hands, not withholding, but waiting. The path ahead was lit with a different kind of light now, harsh and glaring. But he wouldn’t be walking it alone.
In the back of the car, their fingers entwined on the seat between them, Donghae knew the abstinence, the torture of the silk pajamas, was just another form of being held. And for that, he could wait a little longer.
And for that, he could wait a little longer.
The promise held, but just barely. The two months that followed were a blur of relentless motion, a curated storm Donghae had to weather alone under lights. Manager Kim became his shadow, a steady, calming presence amid photoshoots, dance rehearsals for the title track, and countless interviews where he was asked, endlessly, about the pressure of going solo. He answered with practiced charm, the ghost of Hyukjae’s grounding touch a constant in his mind.
He spent nights in hotel rooms, the silence a stark contrast to the blue sanctuary of Hyukjae’s penthouse. They video-called, Hyukjae’s face pixelated and smiling from their home, his questions specific and insightful. “Did the choreographer like the adjustment you proposed?” he’d ask, or, “Your high note in the bridge today sounded clearer.” His support was a scaffold, invisible but holding everything up.
The physical ache became a familiar companion, a low-grade fever he learned to ignore. It spiked during stolen moments—a deep, sleepy voice through the phone at midnight, a screenshot Hyukjae sent of himself fresh from the shower, hair damp. Donghae would groan, pressing his forehead to the cool hotel window, counting days. He survived.
Then, suddenly, it was over. The final fan sign was completed, the last schedule checked off by Manager Kim with a satisfied nod. The hiatus before the wedding began, a clear, placid pool of time after the rapids.
Jeju greeted them with soft, salt-tinged air and the rhythmic crash of waves against black rock. The villa was all clean lines and muted earth tones, open to a private stretch of coast. Their suitcases, side by side in the foyer, seemed to echo the comfortable silence between them. They had arrived.
“The coordinator will be here in an hour to finalize the seating chart,” Hyukjae said, unpacking his toiletries in the spacious master suite. Sunlight poured across the wide bed.
Donghae watched him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. He felt unmoored in the quiet, the professional adrenaline gone, leaving only a sharp, focused want. “Good,” he replied, his voice rough from disuse. He pushed off and walked to Hyukjae, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind, burying his face in the familiar juncture of his neck.
Hyukjae stilled, his hands coming to rest over Donghae’s. He leaned back into the embrace. “Missed you,” he murmured.
“That’s a fucking understatement,” Donghae muttered into his skin, his hands sliding beneath Hyukjae’s shirt, mapping the warm, solid planes of his stomach.
Hyukjae turned in his arms, his expression soft. He kissed Donghae, a deep, slow communion that tasted of reunion and home. It was tender, and it burned. Donghae pulled him closer, his intentions clear, urgent.
Hyukjae broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Donghae’s. His breath was uneven. “There’s… one more thing. A tradition.”
Donghae blinked, dazed. “What?”
“Two days,” Hyukjae said, his voice gentle but firm. “I want us to sleep in separate rooms until the wedding.”
A beat of silence. Donghae pulled back just enough to see Hyukjae’s face. He was utterly serious. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Hyukjae’s thumb stroked his cheek. “It’s for the bride. To keep… chastity. To make the wedding night mean something.”
The words hung in the sunlit air. Donghae processed them. The abstinence. The two months. The silk pajamas. It all clicked into a bizarre, frustrating logic. “You… you’re the bride?” he finally managed, disbelief coloring his tone.
A small, defiant smile touched Hyukjae’s lips. “Yeah. I am.” He said it like a fact, simple and unshakable. “I’ve kept it for two months. I can handle two more nights.”
Donghae stared at him. He saw the glint in his eye, part genuine sentiment, part sheer, unadulterated provocation. It was the most Hyukjae thing imaginable. A laugh burst out of him, sharp and unexpected. “You are insane. Completely, utterly insane.”
Hyukjae shrugged, the smile widening. “You survived the promotions. You can survive this.”
“I didn’t survive it,” Donghae corrected, dropping his forehead back onto Hyukjae’s shoulder with a thud. “I endured it. There’s a difference.” He breathed in Hyukjae’s scent, committing it to memory. “Separate rooms. In our own villa.”
“Mhm.” Hyukjae pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’ll take the one downstairs. It has a very small, very chaste-looking single bed.”
Donghae groaned. The visceral memory of Hyukjae beneath him, breathless and begging, was a live wire in his gut. “This is cruel. You know that, right? This is advanced cruelty.”
“It’s tradition,” Hyukjae said lightly, disentangling himself. He walked to his suitcase, picking it up. “It’ll make it better.”
“Nothing could make it better than right now,” Donghae called after him as he headed for the door.
Hyukjae paused at the threshold, looking back. His eyes were dark, full of a promise that stretched back through years of shared history. “I disagree,” he said softly. Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
Donghae stood alone in the center of the sun-drenched master bedroom, the king-sized bed suddenly vast and mocking. He ran a hand through his hair, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the acute frustration knotting his stomach. Two more days. After two months. After twenty-five years.
He walked to the window, watching the relentless sea. Hyukjae was out there somewhere, in a room with a chaste single bed, playing his role to the hilt. The path to here had been narrow ledges and open skies, silence and screaming, silk and separation. It all led to this absurd, perfect moment.
He could wait two more nights. For the bride.
For the bride.
The words echoed in Donghae’s skull, equal parts saccharine tradition and pure, unadulterated psychological warfare. He spent the first day pacing the sun-bleached wooden floors of the villa’s main living space, the crash of the waves a constant, mocking applause. He tried to work. He reviewed the finalized wedding seating chart the coordinator had left, the names of their family and friends blurring into meaningless symbols. He attempted to answer a few congratulatory messages about his album’s strong chart performance, but his thumbs hovered over the screen, useless.
His focus was shot, atomized by the knowledge that Hyukjae was somewhere below him, likely reading a book, perfectly calm. The sanctity of the master bedroom felt like a gilded cage. The bed was too large, the silence too complete without the even rhythm of another breath. He lasted until mid-afternoon before the absurdity of it all condensed into a single, sharp impulse.
He grabbed his phone, stormed out onto their private terrace, and scrolled to Hyukjae’s contact. He didn’t call. He began to text, his fingers jabbing at the screen.
The melody in track three is charting higher than the title. People are calling it a ‘vocal color breakthrough.’
He sent it. Stared at the sea. A minute later, his phone buzzed.
Manager Kim forwarded the report. I saw. Proud of you.
Donghae scowled at the message. It was supportive, spousely, sane. It was entirely unsatisfactory. He typed again, the frustration finding a new vent.
They want to know my ‘inspiration’ for the lyrics. What do I even say?
The reply came quicker this time. You say whatever you want. They’re your words.
“Helpful,” Donghae muttered to the empty terrace. “Extremely fucking helpful.” He slouched in a lounger, the canvas sun-warmed against his back. He was being petulant and he knew it. The album’s success was a profound relief, a validation he still hadn’t fully processed. But the processing required a quiet mind, and his mind was currently screaming about a chaste single bed downstairs.
He lifted the phone again, switching to the camera. He aimed it at his own face, capturing what he hoped was a look of profound suffering and artistic torment. He sent the picture.
A full five minutes passed. Then, his phone rang.
Donghae answered on the first ring, pressing the device to his ear. “What.”
“You look like you’re mourning the death of a pet,” Hyukjae’s voice came through, laced with obvious amusement. The sound was clear, untouched by the sea wind that tugged at Donghae’s hair.
“I am. I’m mourning my sanity. It’s gone.” Donghae closed his eyes, imagining Hyukjae in that small room. Was he lying down? Sitting at a desk? The not-knowing was its own particular torture. “What are you doing?”
“Getting some air. The room is a little stuffy.”
A beat of silence, filled only by the distant sound of water—not the sea, but something softer. A trickle. A pool filter.
Donghae’s eyes snapped open. “You’re outside.”
“I’m on my designated terrace,” Hyukjae clarified, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “Adhering to the rules of separation. Which, for the record, do not prohibit fresh air.”
“You’re by the pool.” The villa’s lower level had a narrow, curving pool that hugged the architecture, private and shielded from the coast wind. Donghae stood up, walking to the terrace railing. He couldn’t see it from his angle; the design was deliberately staggered for privacy. “I can hear the water.”
“Can you?” The amusement deepened. There was a rustle, fabric on skin. A long, liquid sound, like a body sliding into water. Donghae’s grip tightened on the phone.
“Are you… swimming?” The question was absurd. He knew the answer.
“Just dipping my feet. It’s warm.” Another rustle. Hyukjae let out a soft, contented sigh. The image crashed into Donghae’s mind, fully formed and devastating: Hyukjae, stretched on a lounger, the sun on his skin, his eyes closed. He’d be shirtless, of course. He always was by water. The black swim trunks he’d packed, the ones that sat low on his hips.
Donghae’s breath hitched. He could practically see the slow trail of a single water droplet navigating the defined path from his sternum, over the flat plane of his stomach.
“The chart numbers,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. It was the voice he used in the dark, a velvet rasp that bypassed thought and went straight to the spine. “Number six on the real-time. Trending on three major platforms. All that work. All that focus.” A pause, deliberate. The sound of his fingertips brushing something—his own skin? “Such a good boy.”
The praise, delivered in that tone, here, now, was a physical blow. Donghae leaned against the railing for support, a low groan escaping him. “You’re evil. You know that, right? This is evil.”
“It’s anticipation,” Hyukjae corrected gently. Another liquid sound, a subtle shift. In his mind’s eye, Donghae saw Hyukjae letting his head fall back, the line of his throat exposed to the sun. Saw his free hand, the one not holding the phone, drifting idly down his own torso. “It makes it mean something.”
“It already means something!” Donghae’s protest was half-whine, half-laugh, choked with desire. “It meant something on your bedroom floor! It meant something on the rooftop! It means something every goddamn day!”
“Mm.” The hum was non-committal, indulgent. “One more day. Then you can claim your reward.”
The phrase, spoken aloud, was a lit match tossed on dry tinder. Donghae’s vision blurred at the edges. He could see it, the claiming. It wouldn’t be gentle. It would be a reclamation, an obliteration of every inch of space that had been forced between them these past months. It would be in this villa, in that big bed, with the sea crashing outside as a witness.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game,” Donghae managed, his voice rough.
“I know.” Hyukjae’s reply was a smile he could hear. “I’m counting on it.” There was a final, soft sound, like skin sliding on smooth plastic. The pool lounger. “I should go. The sun is strong. Don’t want to burn.”
“You should,” Donghae agreed, the words tasting like ash. “You really should.”
The call disconnected. Donghae lowered the phone, his knuckles white around it. He stared at the endless, taunting blue of the sea and sky, a vivid, aching contrast to the specific, sun-drenched image of Hyukjae by the pool, trailing his fingers over the reward he was deliberately keeping just out of reach.
The frustration was a live wire, yes. But beneath it, coiling tighter with every passing hour, was a different current. It was a slow, gathering certainty. Hyukjae wasn’t just torturing him. He was building something. An altar. And Donghae, willingly, agonizingly, was bringing every last bit of his focused desire to lay upon it.