Chapter 17: Negotiations for Early Release
The city below the ODE office was a circuit board of endless gold and white. Donghae hated it tonight. He stood at the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass. The ‘Alive’ photoshoot had ended six hours ago. The confidence he’d felt then, the solidity of seeing his own unvarnished face, had evaporated like sweat. Now, there was only the vacuum before the drop. A week. Seven days of silence before the music left his hands forever.
His reflection in the glass looked pale, eaten by the light behind him.
The office door hissed open and shut. He didn’t turn. He knew the footfall, the rhythm of it, the way the air changed.
“You’re going to leave a grease mark,” Hyukjae’s voice came, casual, from near the desk. The sound of a bag being unzipped, the rustle of fabric.
“It’s my building. I’ll grease whatever window I want,” Donghae muttered, but he pushed himself back.
Hyukjae was unpacking takeout containers onto the low coffee table, not the imposing CEO desk. The desk was a monument to the work already done, strewn with the physical ghosts of it: a coffee cup from the vocal director, a pen she’d left behind, the crumpled first draft of the ‘Good Day’ lyrics with his own frantic notes in the margin. ‘Softer here,’ he’d written. ‘Like you mean it.’
“Come eat. You’ve been staring at that skyline since you got back. It hasn’t changed.” Hyukjae didn’t look up, arranging chopsticks with precise focus.
Donghae wandered over. It was sundubu-jjigae, steam fogging the plastic lid. His stomach turned. “I’m not hungry.”
“Your digestive system doesn’t get a vote right now,” Hyukjae said, finally glancing up. His eyes were assessing, calm. “You need fuel. The hard part’s over. Now comes the weird part.”
“The weird part is worse.” Donghae sank onto the sofa, knees cracking. He felt every one of his forty years. “The doing… I could handle that. The waiting? It’s just me and my brain. And my brain is a terrible companion.”
Hyukjae nudged a container toward him. “Your brain just produced ten tracks. Give it a break. Let it watch bad TV.”
“What if it flops?” The question, petty and massive, fell between them. Donghae stared at the swirling red soup. “What if… what if it takes weeks to even hit number one? What if it just… lands with a thud and everyone is too polite to say anything?” He heard the whine in his own voice and hated it. It was the sound of a scared child. He draped himself forward, his torso landing on the desk with a soft thump, his head turned toward Hyukjae. The cool wood pressed against his cheek.
He reached out, his fingers finding the sturdy leather of Hyukjae’s belt. He didn’t undo it. He just traced the buckle, his touch light, petulant. “I’ll die from the withdrawal. From the not knowing. The silence is so loud.” He nuzzled his face against Hyukjae’s abdomen, breathing in the familiar scent of his detergent, the day’s faint musk beneath. It was an anchor. “Can’t I get an advance? Just a small one? A… preview.”
His hands slid lower, palms flat against the front of Hyukjae’s jeans, seeking the shape of him, a certainty he could feel.
Hyukjae went very still. Then, with a speed that made Donghae gasp, his hands shot out and grabbed Donghae’s wrists. The grip was iron, immobilizing. He yanked Donghae’s hands up and pinned them, palm-down, to the polished surface of the desk. The cold surface bit into Donghae’s knuckles.
Hyukjae leaned over him, his body caging Donghae against the wood. His face was inches away. The smirk was there, but it was tight at the edges, strained with something harder than amusement.
“An advance?” Hyukjae’s voice was a low growl, vibration traveling through the desk into Donghae’s bones. “For what? For being anxious? You don’t get rewarded for fear, Hae. You eat it for breakfast and you move the fuck on.”
Donghae struggled weakly, a token resistance. The hold was absolute. A flush of heat—shame, arousal, a volatile mix—crept up his neck.
Hyukjae leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Donghae’s ear. “You want a preview? You want to feel something good?” His breath was hot. “Earn it. Like you earned every single note on that album. Like you earned the look on your mother’s face on that set. You didn’t whine your way through that. You worked. You showed up. You were scared and you did it anyway.”
He released one wrist, but only to slide his hand down, gripping the back of Donghae’s neck, not gently. It was a claiming, a steadying pressure. “The work is done. The product is in the can. It’s good. I’ve heard it. It’s so fucking good it makes me angry.” He shook him a little, just once. “Now you have to sit in the fire. You have to wait. And you don’t get to use me as a distraction from it. You have to feel it. All of it.”
Donghae went limp under his hands. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a hollow, aching acceptance. Hyukjae was right. He always was. The need for a distraction, for a physical confirmation to blot out the mental noise, was a coward’s move. He’d already done the brave thing.
“It hurts,” Donghae whispered, his voice cracking. He wasn’t talking about his wrists.
Hyukjae’s grip on his neck softened. Became a kneading touch. “I know it does. That’s how you know it matters.” He finally let go, straightening up. He looked down at Donghae, still sprawled across the desk, a portrait of surrender. “Now. Sit up. Eat your fucking soup. Then we’re going to watch the most brainless action movie on the planet. And you’re not going to check the pre-order numbers once. For two hours, your brain is on leave.”
Donghae slowly pushed himself up. His wrists tingled. The ghost of Hyukjae’s hold felt more real than the anxiety. He picked up his chopsticks. His hands were steady.
He ate. The soup was spicy, clearing his sinuses. Hyukjae put on a movie, something with exploding helicopters and improbable stunts. He dragged the other sofa over so they sat side-by-side, shoulders touching. Hyukjae’s arm eventually settled around him, a weight that demanded nothing.
Donghae’s phone, face-down on the desk, buzzed twice. He didn’t move for it.
Halfway through the movie, during a lull in the gunfire, Hyukjae spoke, his eyes still on the screen. “Remember the lift? On stage? The malfunction.”
A cold jolt. How could he forget? The plunge, the darkness, the hands that caught him.
“You thought it was an ending,” Hyukjae continued, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on Donghae’s shoulder. “It wasn’t. It was an intermission. This… this waiting? This is just the house lights being down. The quiet before the track starts.” He finally looked at Donghae, his face illuminated by the gunfire on screen. “You’re not falling. You’re in the wings. And you know your cue.”
Donghae leaned his head against Hyukjae’s shoulder. The helicopters whirled on screen. The city’ circuit board pulsed below. The silence in him didn’t feel so loud anymore. It felt like a held breath. Like the moment after the last note of ‘Good Day’ faded in the studio, just before the producer’s voice came through the speakers.
It was the sound of something complete, waiting to be heard.
He didn’t need an advance. He had already been paid, in the work itself. The rest was just the world catching up.
The world caught up exactly seven days, fourteen hours, and three minutes later.
Donghae was in a vocal coaching session for a junior team, demonstrating a breathing technique, when his personal phone—set to override all silences—exploded. It wasn’t just a buzz. It was a sustained, screaming vibration that skittered the device across the laminate floor. The kids froze. His manager’s face appeared at the door’s window, eyes wide, mouthing a single, silent word.
He knew.
He finished the exercise on autopilot, his voice miraculously steady, his hands ice. He offered a stiff bow, mumbled an excuse, and walked out. He didn’t run. His legs carried him down the sterile hall, past practice rooms spitting out pieces of other people’s dreams, toward the executive wing. The corridor seemed to stretch, then snap back into place.
He didn’t go to his own office. He stopped at the familiar mahogany door, the one that smelled faintly of Hyukjae’s coffee and decision-making. He didn’t knock. He turned the handle and shouldered his way in.
Hyukjae was at the desk, of course. He was on a video call, profiles of investors tiled neatly on his monitor. He didn’t look surprised. He held up a single finger to the screen, a perfect pantomime of ‘one moment,’ his CEO mask flawless.
Donghae let the door slam.
The sound was violently final in the sleek room. He stood there, chest heaving, not from the walk but from the pressure valve blasting open inside his ribs. All the waiting, the silence, the fire he’d had to sit in—it combusted.
“I’m here to collect my dues.”
His voice was too loud, ragged at the edges. Hyukjae’s eyebrow twitched, the only crack in the facade. He muted the call.
Donghae took three steps forward, planting his hands on the desk. He leaned into Hyukjae’s space, close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils dilated. “You told me to earn it. I earned it. Now pay up.” The bravado was thin, desperate. Underneath was a raw, shaking need for validation that charts and comments could never touch. “I miss burying myself in you. I miss your insides. I need–”
Hyukjae reached out and unmuted the call. “Gentlemen, an urgent matter requires my immediate attention. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.” His voice was smooth butter, utterly professional. He didn’t wait for replies. He closed the laptop lid with a soft, decisive click.
The room plunged into a new kind of quiet.
Hyukjae leaned back in his chair, swiveling slowly to face Donghae fully. His gaze traveled from Donghae’s wild eyes, down his heaving chest, to the white-knuckled hands gripping the desk. A slow smile spread, one that didn’t reach his eyes—it lived deeper, in the set of his jaw.
“How,” Hyukjae said, his voice a low, wondering rumble, “can you say all that with that innocent face of yours?” He reached up, his thumb brushing the apple of Donghae’s cheek. The touch was feather-light, a shocking contrast to the filthy promise hanging between them. “You look like you just won a charity raffle. Not like you’re demanding a sexual payout.”
Donghae’s lower lip trembled. He bit it. The innocent face wasn’t a choice; it was a betrayal by his own genetics.
Hyukjae stood up, forcing Donghae to straighten. He didn’t kiss him. He didn’t touch him beyond that single thumb-stroke. He simply looked at him, a long, assessing look that saw every exhausted, triumphant, frayed nerve.
“Go home,” Hyukjae said, finally. He picked his suit jacket off the back of the chair. “Our home. Go there. Wait for me.”
“That’s it?” Donghae’s voice cracked.
“No.” Hyukjae slipped the jacket on, smoothing the lapels. A calculated shift back to control. “I said I’d prepare myself. To give the good boy a good day.” He finally met Donghae’s eyes, and the depth in them was a physical force. “You want your dues? You’ll get them. But I set the exchange rate. Go. Now.”
Donghae went. The drive to the penthouse was a blur of honking horns and his own heartbeat in his ears. He paced the endless living room, the view meaningless. He touched things—the frame of their first concert photo, the remote, a discarded sweater—without feeling them. The silence here was different. It was charged, pregnant with a promise Hyukjae had sealed.
An hour ticked by. Then another.
Just as the anxious energy threatened to curdle into doubt, the soft, pulsing bassline of a song filtered through the apartment’s hidden speakers. It was familiar. It was ‘Element.’ Not the version anyone knew. This was slower, deeper, a viscous, sensual remix that seemed to throb from the very walls.
The master bedroom door, which had been ajar, was now closed.
Donghae crossed to it. The music was clearer here, a predatory groove. He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, lit only by the dying sunset and a single, low lamp draped with a silky blue scarf. The air smelled different—less of Hyukjae’s cologne, more of jasmine and skin.
Hyukjae stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the neon bleed of the city.
He’d prepared himself.
The tailored suit was gone. In its place was a slip of a dress, the color of midnight, silk so fine it clung to the planes of his back, the dip of his waist, the tight curve of his ass. The straps were slender whispers on his shoulders. The hem hit mid-thigh, showcasing the powerful, defined lines of his legs, utterly bare.
He turned.
The dress was deceptively simple. It plunged in a deep V at the chest, revealing the smooth, taut skin of his pectorals. The fabric moved with him, liquid and alive. His hair was softer, ruffled. His eyes were lined, just enough to make his gaze smolder. He leaned against the window frame, one ankle hooked over the other, a picture of effortless, devastating offering.
“You said you missed my insides,” Hyukjae said. His voice was the same, but the delivery was new—a low, calm challenge. He gestured to himself, a slow sweep of his hand down the silk. “Come and collect.”
Donghae couldn’t breathe. The number-one chart, the pressure, the seven days of hell—it all shattered, falling away like cheap glitter. This was the only truth. This man, in this dress, offering him everything without saying a word.
He crossed the room in five strides.
He didn’t speak. He buried his face in the hollow of Hyukjae’s neck, where the jasmine scent was strongest, and inhaled like a drowning man finding air. His hands found the silk, clutching at Hyukjae’s back, feeling the heat of him through the fragile barrier. A sob, half-relief, half-consuming want, tore from his throat.
Hyukjae’s arms came around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. The other pressed firmly against the small of his back, pulling their bodies flush. The music swelled.
“Good boy,” Hyukjae whispered into his hair, the words vibrating through Donghae’s skull. “You did so good. Now let me be good for you.”
The silk whispered as Hyukjae guided his hands, placing them on his own hips. "It's yours," he murmured, his breath hot against Donghae's ear. "All of it. Always has been."
Donghae’s fingers trembled against the delicate fabric. He gripped the hem and gathered it slowly, the silk pooling in his hands as he revealed the smooth skin beneath. Hyukjae stepped out of the puddled dress, leaving it on the floor like a shed skin, and turned to face him completely, unashamed and waiting.
He was already prepared, glistening and open, a fact that punched the air from Donghae’s lungs. Hyukjae had done this for him, thought of everything, turned his own body into a sanctuary. "Lie down," Donghae heard himself say, his voice scraped raw.
Hyukjae did, sinking back into the deep blue sheets, his eyes never leaving Donghae’s face. Donghae followed him down, covering his body with his own, their skin meeting everywhere in a shocking, feverish slide. He buried his face against Hyukjae’s throat, nuzzling, anchoring himself in the frantic pulse he found there.
"Look at me," Hyukjae whispered, his hands coming up to frame Donghae’s face. "I want to see you."
Donghae lifted his head. The raw affection in Hyukjae’s gaze was a physical touch, softening the sharp edge of his need. He kissed him, deep and slow, trying to pour a quarter-century of trust into it. Hyukjae’s legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer, an unspoken permission.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against that impossibly giving heat. A strained sound escaped Hyukjae, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t pain but profound focus. Donghae pushed forward, just an inch, and the world narrowed to a single, searing point of connection.
It was like breaking a seal, like entering a sacred, private space no one else had ever touched. Hyukjae was so tight, a silken, clinging pressure that threatened to unravel him instantly. He pushed deeper, a slow, relentless invasion, feeling every subtle resistance give way for him.
"You feel so good around me, Hyukjae," he gasped, the words wrenching free. His forehead dropped to Hyukjae’s shoulder, his hips finally flush, fully sheathed. "No one could ever make me feel this way." He began to move, a shallow rock. "Only you, babe. Fuck… ungh."
The first round was a blur of sensation and pent-up emotion. It was fast, desperate, a reclaiming. Donghae rode the tension out of his own body, pounding into that exquisite heat until Hyukjae’s cries grew ragged and his own climax tore through him with a guttural shout. He collapsed, spent and shaking.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed inside, softening, kissing the sweat from Hyukjae’s collarbone. "I’m sorry," he mumbled against his skin. "That was… I needed…"
Hyukjae shushed him, stroking his hair. "I know what you needed. It’s okay." His voice was hoarse, satisfied. "You’re just getting started."
After a long while, Donghae stirred. The nervous energy was gone, replaced by a deep, affectionate hunger. He rolled them, urging Hyukjae onto his stomach, then his knees. He took his time now, massaging the strong lines of his back, worshiping the curve of his spine with his lips.
He entered him again from behind, even slower this time, with a reverence that made Hyukjae moan into the pillow. This was the sweet for the good boy. Long, deep, grinding strokes that sought not release but connection. Donghae leaned over him, blanketing his body, whispering nonsense praise against his shoulder blade.
"You were so brave," he murmured, snapping his hips gently. "Waiting for me. Holding everything together." Hyukjae pushed back against him, a soft, broken sound of agreement escaping his lips. This round was a gentle cresting wave, pulling them both under with less frenzy but greater depth.
Later, in the hazy dark, Donghae traced Hyukjae’s lips. "Once more," he said, it wasn’t a demand, but a request. "I want to see you."
The third time was lazy, achingly intimate. Hyukjae on his back, Donghae between his thighs, moving together in a rhythm that felt older than time. The city lights painted silver stripes across Hyukjae’s stomach, rising and falling with each thrust. Donghae watched his face, every flicker of pleasure, every bitten-off gasp.
He felt the telltale clench, the tightening that signaled Hyukjae was close. He reached between them, his hand working in time with his hips, and watched Hyukjae fracture. His name was the only word left in the universe.
In the echoing quiet, Donghae finally let go too, pouring himself into that warm, accepting depth with a shudder that started in his soul. He slumped forward, utterly dissolved, his weight supported by his trembling arms.
He slipped out, but didn’t go far. He just curled into Hyukjae’s side, his head on his chest, listening to the galloping heartbeat slowly settle. Hyukjae’s arm came around him, heavy and final.
Outside, the neon pulse of the city continued, indifferent. The charts would update. The articles would publish. The silence would return. But here, in this bed that smelled of jasmine and them, it didn’t matter. Donghae had his anchor. He had his proof.
He nuzzled closer. "The intermission’s over," he whispered.
Hyukjae’s hand stilled in his hair. "Yeah," he breathed, a smile in his voice. "Now the real show starts."