saunderling

[saunderling]

infatuation

Hak tends to know when he’s being stared at.

They are subtle, unassuming gestures at first: shy golden eyelashes fluttering away in a moment of hesitation, fingertips lingering between the gaps of held breaths. A ghostly kiss against his neck. Hak feels it keenly.

Half-imagining, half-waiting; it's a cycle he’s gotten used to lately. Soo-Won gives him just enough time to close his eyes and ponder it, to let the thought frustrate him. His skin felt closer, Hak thinks, but would you like to confirm?

Then take another look. The rules for Soo-Won’s tricky little dares have been unknowable since he was seven years old.

His gaze always starts at Hak’s hands. The shaft of his guandao has dug so deep into his palms that the wood grooves and splinters are still indented in their flesh. Once, when the two were wrestling and Hak grabbed hold of his wrist, he noticed the difference. His fingers, rough and warmly thick, and Soo-Won’s, slender and marked with ink stains.

How gentle, Soo-Won murmurs, only moments after an arrowhead had slid through his skin, and Hak was holding his bleeding palm as he wrapped the cloth. Soo-Won was staring at his calluses. Did he think them beautiful?

In summer the two of them swim and horseplay in the river: bare shoulders, damp hair, water dripping from fruit-kissed lips. Melted snow from last spring had married into the streams and had made the water wild and sweet. Hak’s arms lock around his — teenage boys tend to play rough — if only to feel the heat of Soo-Won’s body passing through his own. When Soo-Won’s tired, he pulls away. I'll watch you, he says as he sits down in the grass, sun-streaked hair plastered to his face.

And he does watch. The ghosts of his touches are still felt on Hak’s torso, his chest; the droplets of sweat on his neck are still warm. And quietly he mourns the flashes of Soo-Won’s arms around the small of his back — how he’d felt Soo-Won breathe deeply into him, his nose against the crook of his shoulder, bright laughter in his ear. If only you hadn’t let go.

Infinitesimally, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He’s staring again.

Is he aware of how intense it is, how each time his skin feels as though it were being peeled back to expose the bone? There are bees buzzing between Hak’s ribs; they make honey that is sweet and sticky, if only a hand would probe between them and take—

Soo-Won’s toes dip into the water, sending ripples that sparkle like diamonds under the thin sunlight.

Other times, his gaze wanders from Hak’s hands to the features of his face. Hair, once brown in his childhood, now jet-black; the faint scar on his cheek; the deep blue pools in Hak’s irises. You’ve changed a lot, Soo-Won tells him. Hak’s blush deepens. Soo-Won is admiring the new breadth of his shoulders, the leanness of his boyhood giving way to smooth muscle filling out the rest of his body. You could say the same for yourself, Hak murmurs back, palm resting on Soo-Won’s stomach.

Soo-Won lifts up his eyes. They’ve always been such a startling color, tiny flecks of green in what is otherwise honeyed brown. His lips are pale pink and look tender to brush against. They say his soft features resemble his mother.

You’re so strong, Soo-Won says again, the warmth of his chest pressing against Hak’s back. Hak can smell the expensive cologne as the other leans into him, the sunny smell of his bright hair. You’re so strong, you could carry me. If only Soo-Won knew about the warmth pooling near the bottom of Hak’s abdomen, how every second glance makes the blood beat hot in his veins.

Soo-Won seems to know when he’s being stared at.

“Hey…”

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to-” May I touch?

Before Hak can finish the question, Soo-Won pulls away.

#drabble #akayona #soohak #i am so out of practice