Chapter 15: Birthday Encore
The lift ascended too fast.
It was a split-second thing, a hydraulic jolt that shouldn’t have happened. The stage floor, a massive, solid block, rose to meet the main platform. Donghae, lost for a millisecond in the dizzying roar of the crowd and the ghost-ache in his own body from the island, misjudged the step.
His foot caught the edge. His balance, usually so sure on a stage, abandoned him. He pitched forward, arms flailing, the hard, industrial surface rushing up to meet his face.
A vise locked around his chest. The air left his lungs in a shocked grunt. He was jerked back, colliding with something solid and familiar. Hyukjae.
The audience’s collective scream was a physical wave, a sharp, high-pitched sound of alarm that cut through the music’s tail end.
Hyukjae’s arms were iron bands, one across Donghae’s torso, the other hand splayed against his pounding heart. He held him there, suspended for a breathless second, his own body rigid as a steel cable. Donghae could feel the frantic hammer of Hyukjae’s heartbeat against his back. The smell of his sweat, of stage makeup and his specific shampoo, filled Donghae’s senses.
“You reckless idiot,” Hyukjae hissed into his ear, the words trembling with a fury that was pure terror. His breath was hot, sharp. His fingers dug into Donghae’s costume, clutching fabric and flesh. For a moment, he didn’t move, just crushed Donghae against him, face buried in the sweaty nape of his neck, as if verifying he was intact.
Then, as quickly as the panic had taken him, it transmuted. Hyukjae’s grip loosened, turned purposeful. He spun Donghae around to face him under the blinding white glare of the follow spot. His hands came up, framing Donghae’s face, thumbs swiping roughly at the smudged makeup under his eyes. Hyukjae’s own expression was a masterclass in recovery: the stark fear melted into a look of exaggerated, comical scolding.
He shouted, his voice amplified and booming through the stadium with a playful edge meant for the crowd. “Ya! Lee Donghae! Are you trying to give me a heart attack before my Taiwan encore?!”
The tension in the arena snapped. The gasps turned into a wave of relieved laughter. Donghae, his own adrenaline making his knees liquid, managed a grin. He saw it all in Hyukjae’s eyes, just for him: the aftermath of the island, the desperate care, the I-almost-lost-you flash that would haunt his own sleep later.
“Your fault!” Donghae shouted back, his voice cracking a little. He pushed at Hyukjae’s shoulder, the gesture fond and familiar. “You distracted me!”
Hyukjae threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied, contagious sound that poured into the microphones and washed over the crowd. He slung an arm around Donghae’s neck, pulling him into a rough, sideways hug, shaking him a little. The cheers escalated, becoming a deafening affirmation. A story. A moment. Something to tweet about.
The music for the next song kicked in, the heavy synth bass pulsing through the floor. Hyukjae released him, giving him a gentle shove towards his mark. His eyes, in the half-second before he turned away, held a silent command. Focus.
The rest of the concert was a high-wire act of a different kind. Donghae’s body moved on autopilot, executing choreography drilled into his muscles for decades. But his mind was split. Part of him was here, in the smoke and laser light, feeding off the energy of his members, of ELF. The other part was trapped in that moment of weightlessness, in the crushing safety of Hyukjae’s arms.
He watched Hyukjae across the stage. He moved with a liquid grace, all sharp angles and explosive power, completely in his element. He flirted with the cameras, teased the other members, his stage persona a bright, untouchable flame. No one else could see the slight stiffness in his left side, a relic from their honeymoon suite. No one else noticed the way his gaze kept flicking to Donghae during formation changes, a quick, scanning check.
During a VCR break, back in the clamorous, shadowy wings, they crashed onto a shared bench, gulping water. Stage managers fluttered around them like anxious moths. Donghae’s hands were still vibrating.
“You okay?” Hyukjae asked, voice low, blotting his face with a towel.
“Yeah. Just… adrenaline drop.” Donghae glanced at him. “You?”
Hyukjae stretched his neck, a series of audible pops. “I’ve had more relaxing weekends.” A ghost of their earlier joke. Then his tone flattened. “The lift malfunctioned. They’re checking it. It won’t happen again.”
There was a finality in his voice that wasn’t just about stage engineering. It was a CEO’s voice. The protector’s voice. Donghae nodded, leaning his head back against the cool concrete wall. The image of the approaching floor replayed behind his eyelids.
The finale was a shower of confetti and screaming. They bowed, a line of exhausted, exhilarated men. As the house lights came up, Donghae felt the looming silence waiting for him. The solo work. The empty studio. The pressure that had been held at bay for three hours by the communal noise began to seep back in.
In the crowded dressing room, chaos reigned. Laughter, the clatter of makeup being removed, the rustle of costumes being shed. Donghae sat in front of his mirror, mechanically wiping off the foundation. The face staring back looked pale beneath the smears.
Hyukjae appeared in the reflection, stripped to his sweat-darkened tank top. He placed a hand on Donghae’s shoulder, squeezing the tight muscle. “You were good tonight. After the thing. You recovered.”
“I had a good catcher,” Donghae mumbled.
Hyukjae bent, his lips close to Donghae’s ear so his words wouldn’t carry. “I’m not just talking about the stumble.” He straightened, patted his shoulder, and moved away to deal with a scheduler.
It took another hour to wind down, to thank staff, to change into soft, private clothes. They slipped out a side entrance, the night air cool and shocking after the stadium’s heat. Their manager drove in silence.
Home. The quiet was different now. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of the island suite. It was the quiet of spent energy, of a vacuum left by 50,000 voices.
Hyukjae went straight to the kitchen, pulling out containers of pre-made food. He moved with a quiet efficiency. Donghae stood in the middle of the living room, feeling untethered.
“Come eat,” Hyukjae called, not turning around. “You need fuel.”
They ate at the kitchen island. Brown rice, grilled chicken, steamed greens. Fuel, not a meal. Hyukjae watched him push the food around.
“The title track,” Hyukjae said suddenly. “The one you played me. ‘The Last.’” He took a sip of water. “It’s not about an ending, is it?”
Donghae stopped chewing. He shook his head slowly.
“It’s about the moment before. The step you take when you can’t see the ground.” Hyukjae’s eyes were steady, insightful. “That’s what you wrote. That’s what you’re feeling.”
The accuracy of it hit Donghae in the chest. He put his chopsticks down. “What if the ground isn’t there?”
“Then you fall,” Hyukjae said simply. He reached across the granite and placed his hand over Donghae’s. His skin was warm. “And I catch you. That’s the contract. That’s what the island was. That’s what today was. A reminder.” He squeezed. “But the step itself, Hae? That’s all you. You already know how to do that. You’ve been doing it for twenty-five years.”
Donghae looked down at their joined hands. He thought of the stage lift, the sudden void beneath his feet. He thought of Hyukjae’s arms, unyielding. He thought of the microphone waiting for him tomorrow in a silent studio, with no one to catch his voice if it broke.
“I’m scared,” he whispered, the admission finally curling out into the safe dark of their kitchen.
“I know,” Hyukjae said. He didn’t offer empty reassurance. He just held on. “Be scared. Then do it anyway. That’s the only part that matters.”
Later, in bed, Donghae lay on his stomach. Hyukjae kneaded the knots from his shoulders and back, his hands strong and knowing. The physical pressure grounded him, pushed the circling thoughts out.
“Your solo,” Donghae muttered into the pillow. “In Taiwan. Are you ready?”
Hyukjae’s hands paused. “Mostly. Choreography’s solid. Vocals are fine.” He resumed his work, digging a thumb into a particularly tight spot near Donghae’s spine. “I’ll miss this, though. Coming home to you.”
The words were a different kind of catch. A soft one. Donghae closed his eyes. The fear was still there, a cold pebble in his gut. But it was surrounded now by the warmth of the hands on his skin, by the memory of a grip that refused to let him fall. It wasn’t gone. It was just held.
Hyukjae finished, lay down, and pulled the covers over them. He wrapped himself around Donghae from behind, his body a firm, breathing shield against the quiet.
“Step, Hae,” he murmured, his voice already slurry with sleep. “Just take the step.”
Outside, Seoul glittered, indifferent. The stage was dark. The next one, waiting.
The next one, waiting.
Silence settled after Hyukjae’s whispered advice, thick and velvety. Donghae lay there, feeling the slow, rhythmic expansion of Hyukjae’s chest against his back. The city’s light bled around the edges of the blackout curtains, painting faint grey lines on the ceiling. His mind, finally, was quiet.
He focused on the physical points of contact. Hyukjae’s forearm was a warm, heavy bar across his ribs. The faint tickle of his breath stirred the hair at Donghae’s nape. The solid line of his thighs tucked against the back of Donghae’s legs. This was the real catch. Not the staged, adrenaline-fueled grab on the lift, but this. This deliberate, sleepy anchoring.
Donghae’s hand, which had been lying limp on the pillow, drifted. He found Hyukjae’s hand where it rested on his stomach. He laced their fingers together, squeezing once. Hyukjae hummed, a low, approving vibration.
Then Donghae remembered. The date had been blinking on his phone all day, buried under concert alerts.
He shifted, turning carefully within the circle of Hyukjae’s arms until they were face-to-face in the dark. Hyukjae’s eyes were closed, his features soft with near-sleep. Donghae reached up and traced the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing over the faint stubble there.
“Hyukkie,” Donghae whispered.
“Mmm?”
“It’s past midnight.”
Hyukjae cracked one eye open. It gleamed in the low light. “So? We have a eleven AM vocal session. Go to sleep, you menace.”
Donghae smiled, his fingers still moving, caressing Hyukjae’s cheek, his temple, threading into his hair. “It’s your birthday.”
A pause. Hyukjae’s other eye opened. He seemed to calculate, his brain slowly engaging. “Huh. So it is.”
“I didn’t get you a present yet,” Donghae murmured. His hand slid down, over the strong column of Hyukjae’s throat, across the prominent collarbone, coming to rest on the flat plane of his chest. He could feel the steady, calm heartbeat. “Got distracted. By almost eating stadium floor.”
Hyukjae chuckled, the sound rusty. “Watching you nearly die was present enough. My own private horror movie.”
“Funny.” Donghae’s touch grew more deliberate, mapping the familiar territory of Hyukjae’s torso. He leaned in, his lips brushing Hyukjae’s as he spoke. “Since it’s your birthday… you can have whatever you want.”
Hyukjae went very still. His eyes searched Donghae’s in the dark. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Donghae’s voice dropped, a low, intimate thrum. He guided Hyukjae’s hand, the one he’d been holding, down his own body. Over his hip. He pressed it firmly against the growing warmth between his legs, already stirring beneath his sleep pants. “I’m your present. Unwrap me.”
A sharp intake of breath. Hyukjae’s fingers flexed, feeling him through the soft cotton. “You’re sore,” he said, but his voice had lost all sleepiness. It was rough, interested. “From the island. From tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Donghae nipped at his lower lip. “It’s your birthday. You can have me any way you want.” He rolled onto his back, pulling Hyukjae partially over him. He looked up, the dim light catching the earnest offer in his eyes. “Want you to take me. Want to feel you. All of you. No thinking. Just you. Fuck me slow, Hyukjae. Make it last. Plunder me.”
The raw, giving permission in Donghae’s words acted like a live wire. Hyukjae’s control, so tightly held all day, snapped. He kissed him, deep and consuming, a hand cradling the side of Donghae’s face. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, grateful, and profoundly focused.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “You’re sure.”
“Need to feel you in charge.” Donghae spread his legs, an open invitation. His hips canted up. “Need you to make me forget my own name. Just for a while. Please. Birthday boy.”
That did it. Hyukjae moved with a new kind of efficiency. He pushed Donghae’s sleep pants down and off, his own following. The lube was cool, but Hyukjae’s hands were fever-hot as he prepared him. His touch was different—not the frantic, wrecking pace of the island, but a slow, thorough claiming. Every press of his fingers was deliberate, stretching, making space for himself.
Donghae gasped, back arching off the mattress. The stretch burned, a bright, clean fire that overwrote every other ache. He watched Hyukjae’s face above him, the intense concentration, the dark flush of desire. “You feel so good,” Donghae breathed, his hands gripping Hyukjae’s biceps. “Always so good. Making room for you. I’m so empty without you inside.”
Hyukjae groaned, low and animal. He removed his fingers, slicking himself with a shudder. He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing against Donghae. He didn’t push. Not yet.
“Look at you,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice awed and thick. “Open for me. Just for me. My present.” He leaned down, kissing Donghae as he finally, slowly, began to sink in. “My perfect, giving present.”
The invasion was relentless in its slowness. Donghae felt every millimeter of the glide, the unbearable, delicious fullness expanding him. His mouth fell open on a silent cry. He was being split open, possessed, and it was all he wanted. His legs hooked around Hyukjae’s back, heels digging in, urging him deeper.
“That’s it,” Hyukjae panted against his mouth, finally seated to the hilt. They were both trembling. “All mine. Every part. Taking me so deep. Your tight, hot little birthday wrap.”
He began to move. A long, slow drag out, followed by an even slower, grinding push back in. It was maddening. It was exquisite. Each stroke rubbed a spark along Donghae’s spine, building a fire with glacial patience. Donghae clawed at his back, babbling.
“Yes—fuck, right there, you’re everywhere—filling me up, Hyukkie, just like that—” Donghae’s head thrashed on the pillow. “Can feel you in my throat. Claiming me. Making sure I remember who I belong to.”
Hyukjae’s rhythm faltered. He buried his face in Donghae’s neck, his hips pumping with a renewed, deep urgency. The slow, measured pace began to fracture. “You. Belong to you. And me. This. Us.”
He drove into him, each thrust landing with a wet, solid sound. The bed rocked. Donghae met him push for push, his own cock trapped between their sweat-slick stomachs, leaking incessantly. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, the ragged symphony of their breaths, the profound, stretching fullness.
“Gonna come,” Hyukjae gasped, his body tensing like a bowstring. “Inside. Marking my present. Mine.”
“Do it.” Donghae arched, offering himself completely. “Fill me. I want to feel it for days. Want to remember your birthday every time I move.”
The permission shattered Hyukjae’s last restraint. He cried out, a raw, broken sound, as he emptied himself in deep, pulsing waves. The intense, sudden heat flooding his core tipped Donghae over the edge an instant later. His own release ripped through him silently, a white-out seizure of pleasure that left him blind and breathless.
Hyukjae collapsed, his weight a welcome burden. He was sobbing, just softly, his face hidden. Donghae held him, stroking his sweaty hair, his own body humming with a shattered, perfect peace.
After long minutes, Hyukjae rolled off, pulling Donghae immediately into his arms. He tucked Donghae’s head under his chin. His heart was still galloping.
“Best present,” Hyukjae finally whispered, his voice wrecked. “Ever.”
Donghae smiled against his skin, boneless and floaty. The studio tomorrow didn’t seem so terrifying. The step didn’t seem so long. He had been filled, claimed, and remade. The hollow space was gone.
For now.
For now.
The morning light was less forgiving. It slanted across the rumpled sheets and highlighted the faint bruise blossoming on Donghae’s hip from the stage lift. The deep, satisfied ache from the night before had settled into a dull, pervasive throb. He shifted, and the sensation was a blunt reminder of Hyukjae’s possession. A good reminder.
Hyukjae was already awake, propped on an elbow, just watching him. His gaze was soft, satiated, tracing the lines of Donghae’s body in the clear daylight. He reached out and ran a single finger down the length of Donghae’s spine, from nape to the dip just above his ass.
Donghae shivered, eyes fluttering open. He met Hyukjae’s look. A silent communication passed between them, laden with the history of the island, the terror of the concert lift, the surrender of the night just gone.
“Morning,” Donghae rasped, his voice sleep-wrecked.
“It is.” Hyukjae’s finger continued its path, back up, then down again. A proprietorial touch. “Sore?”
“Everywhere. You?”
“A little.” Hyukjae’s smile was a slow, wicked thing. “Worth it.” He leaned down and kissed Donghae’s shoulder, just a press of lips. Then he nuzzled into his neck, his breath warm. “My present was incredible.”
Donghae hummed, tilting his head to give him better access. “You unpacked it thoroughly.”
“I did.” Hyukjae’s hand smoothed over Donghae’s flank, possessive. He lingered. His voice dropped to a low, morning-rough murmur. “Can I have it again?”
Donghae stilled. The question wasn’t about sex. Not really. It was a key turning in a lock they’d forged over decades. It was Hyukjae asking for access, for the right to obliterate the world outside their bedroom for a little while longer. It was a lifeline, and Donghae was still drowning.
He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow that smelled of them. He didn’t speak. He just pushed himself up onto his knees, presenting himself. The sheets pooled at his waist. The silence was his answer, more eloquent than words.
He heard Hyukjae’s sharp intake of breath behind him.
“Like this,” Donghae muttered into the fabric, his voice muffled but clear. “Don’t be gentle. Just need to feel it. Need you to wipe everything else out. Ram into me. Hard. Until I can’t think.”
A beat of stillness. Then the bed dipped as Hyukjae moved. The sound of the cap snapping open was shockingly loud. The cool drizzle of lube was a fleeting shock before Hyukjae’s fingers, blunt and sure, were on him, pushing inside. There was no leisurely preparation this time. It was a swift, efficient stretch, a reclaiming of territory.
Donghae gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets. The burn was immediate, bright, cutting through the residual haze of sleep and last night’s pleasure. It was exactly what he wanted. A pain that was singular and clarifying.
Hyukjae positioned himself. The broad, insistent pressure at his entrance was undeniable. “You asked for it,” Hyukjae growled, his hands gripping Donghae’s hips, thumbs digging into the bruise.
“I did. Now fuck me. Stop talking.”
Hyukjae obeyed.
He drove forward in one ruthless, deep stroke. Donghae cried out, his back bowing, the air punching from his lungs. It was a full, brutal invasion, a taking. Hyukjae didn’t pause. He set a punishing, piston-like rhythm, each slam jolting Donghae forward, stealing his breath.
The bedframe thudded a frantic, ragged tattoo against the wall. Donghae’s world telescoped to this: the slap of skin, the searing fullness, the rough grip on his hips holding him in place to be used. White noise filled his head. The anxiety about the album, the phantom sensation of falling, the echoing cheers of the crowd—it all shattered under this sustained, physical assault.
“Hyuk—fuck—yes!” The words were torn from him, ragged and desperate. He was unmoored, adrift on the sensation. He pushed back, meeting every thrust, demanding more.
Suddenly, Hyukjae’s rhythm broke. He wrapped a powerful arm around Donghae’s chest and hauled him upright, his back against Hyukjae’s sweat-slick front. Before Donghae could process the change, Hyukjae spun them both and dumped him onto his back on the mattress. He was back inside him in the same fluid, brutal motion, never losing the connection.
Donghae stared up, dazed. Hyukjae loomed over him, his expression fierce, etched with a desperate kind of love. He wanted to see. He braced his hands on either side of Donghae’s head, his thrusts deepening, angling now, hitting a spot that made Donghae’s vision strobe.
“Look at you,” Hyukjae panted, his eyes raking over Donghae’sexpand face. “Look at you taking me. My baby. My love.” He drove into him, harder, his control visibly fraying. “My present. Come for me. I want to watch you fall apart. Need to see it.”
The words, raw and adoring, unlocked something. The coiled tension in Donghae’s gut snapped. Pleasure, sharp and incontrovertible, detonated along his nerves. He came with a broken shout, his body seizing, back arching off the bed, every muscle clenching tight around the length of Hyukjae still moving inside him.
The intense, rhythmic clenching pulled Hyukjae over with him. He shouted, a guttural, helpless sound, and poured himself deep, his hips stuttering through the final, claiming pulses.
He collapsed, but caught his weight on his elbows, peppering Donghae’s face, his eyelids, his panting mouth with frantic, wet kisses. “I love you,” he whispered between each kiss, his voice trembling. “My baby. My love. My perfect, perfect present. All mine. Thank you. Thank you.”
Donghae could only tremble beneath him, utterly spent, hollowed out and refilled. The frantic kisses slowly gentled, becoming softer, lingering. Hyukjae finally settled beside him, pulling him close, tucking Donghae’s head under his chin. Their hearts hammered a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other’s skin.
The silence returned, but it was different. The fearful static was gone, burned away. Donghae listened to Hyukjae’s breathing even out. He traced idle circles on Hyukjae’s chest.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A reminder for his vocal session. In two hours.
The cold pebble of anxiety tried to reform in his gut. He felt its chill start to seep back in. Then Hyukjae’s arm tightened around him, a solid, warm bar of reality. The step. Just take the step.
He closed his eyes. For now, he would lie here, in the wreckage of their morning, and borrow Hyukjae’s certainty. For now, it was enough.