Chapter 23: Overstimulation Devotion
The rug was a battlefield. Donghae came back to himself draped over Hyukjae, both of them sticky and spent, breathing in ragged unison. The last echoes of the demo had faded, leaving a ringing silence in the penthouse. Hyukjae’s fingers twitched against Donghae’s shoulder blade.
“You’re crushing me,” Hyukjae mumbled, his voice shredded.
“You like it.”
“Move, you sweaty bastard. I can’t feel my legs.”
Donghae grunted, rolling onto his back. The ceiling spun for a moment. Cool air hit the sweat on his chest. Next to him, Hyukjae let out a long, trembling sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. The evidence of their coupling was a cooling patch on his stomach. He looked completely ruined, beautiful in his disassembly.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing. The golden sunset had deepened into violet twilight, painting the room in long shadows.
“The demo,” Donghae said finally, the words scraping out. “You’re giving it to me.”
“It was always yours.” Hyukjae didn’t move his arm. “We wrote it together. I just… held onto it for a rainy day. Or a psychotic break.” He finally lowered his arm, turning his head. His eyes were dark pools, exhausted but clear. “It’s the skeleton. You build the flesh. That’s your job now.”
The weight of it settled, but differently. It wasn’t the crushing, solitary pressure of before. It was a shared load, a baton passed in the dark. Ghost had a heartbeat now. It had a rhythm. He’d felt it, pounding through both of them on the floor.
“I need a shower,” Hyukjae announced, pushing himself up on elbows that visibly shook. He winced. “Everything hurts. You’re a menace.”
“You asked for it.”
“And I’d ask again, which makes me an idiot.” Hyukjae managed to get to his knees, then swayed. Donghae was up instantly, sliding an arm around his waist, hauling him to his feet. Hyukjae leaned into him, a dead weight of muscle and satisfaction. “See? Menace. But a useful one.”
They hobbled together down the hallway, a parody of a three-legged race, leaving their clothes in a trail behind them. The master bathroom was all steam and slate tile. Donghae turned on the rainfall showerhead, and they stood under the hot spray, foreheads pressed together, letting the water sluice the sweat and salt and spend from their skin.
Hyukjae hissed as the water hit certain tender areas. Donghae soaped his hands and washed him with a clinical gentleness that felt like an apology. He kneaded the taut muscles of Hyukjae’s lower back, rinsed the silky black hair, wiped the last traces of tears from his cheeks.
“I’m not broken, you know,” Hyukjae said quietly, eyes closed.
“I know.”
“You’re treating me like glass.”
Donghae didn’t answer. He just kept washing him, mapping the familiar territory of his body—the old dance injury near his hip, the mole on his rib, the strong line of his shoulders. When he was done, Hyukjae returned the favor, his touches firmer, less reverent, more practical. They were clean long before they moved, but the heat of the water was a cocoon.
Finally, the water began to cool. They stepped out, wrapping themselves in thick, absurdly soft towels. The walk to the bedroom was slower, their energy truly spent. Hyukjae’s bedroom was a sanctuary of deep blues and soft golds, the bed a vast, inviting plane. They fell into it naked, the sheets cool and smooth against overheated skin.
Donghae lay on his back, staring at the faint pattern of city lights playing on the ceiling. Hyukjae immediately curled into his side, his head on Donghae’s shoulder, one leg thrown over his. His skin was warm and smelled of Hyukjae’s sandalwood soap.
“I have a nine A.M. with the choreographer for the new trainee evaluation,” Hyukjae muttered into his collarbone.
“Cancel it.”
“Can’t. It’s on my calendar in bold. Also, I’m a responsible CEO.”
Donghae snorted. “You just got railed on the living room rug. You can be a responsible CEO tomorrow.”
Hyukjae pinched his side. “Don’t get cute. You have studio time at ten. Don’t think I forgot.”
The studio. Ghost. The demo. The reality of it seeped back in, but the sharp edges were blunted. It was just work now. Hard, personal work, but work he knew how to do.
“Will you come?” Donghae asked, his voice small in the dark.
Hyukjae was silent for a moment. “To the studio? You don’t need me hovering.”
“Yes, I do.” Donghae turned his head, his lips brushing Hyukjae’s damp hair. “Not to do anything. Just… sit there. Be ugly. Eat snacks. Ignore me. I just need to know you’re in the room.”
Hyukjae let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll cancel the nine A.M.”
“See? Irresponsible.”
“Shut up.” Hyukjae shifted, rolling halfway on top of him, his weight a familiar comfort. “Go to sleep. Your big, fragile artist’s brain needs rest.”
Donghae closed his eyes. The storm in his head was quiet. For the first time in weeks, the silence felt like peace, not emptiness. It was a space waiting to be filled, and for once, he wasn’t afraid of what he would put there.
He was almost asleep when Hyukjae spoke again, his voice slurry with exhaustion.
“The bridge,” he murmured. “On the demo. The part with the layered vocals. That’s where you should put it.”
“Put what?”
“The question you asked me.” Hyukjae nuzzled closer. “On the floor. ‘How do I finish this?’” He sighed, a contented sound. “Answer it, Hae. Finish it.”
Donghae held him tighter, feeling the steady, reliable beat of his heart against his own. The answer was already there, sleeping in his arms. The album would be finished the same way it started—not alone, but in the devastating, beautiful conversation they’d been having for twenty-five years. Everything else was just production.
Sleep took him, deep and dreamless, and for the whole night, he did not think about turning forty once.