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Over the years, Felix has gotten used to pretending. It's a part of the job – their schedule isn't going to bend itself around the personal problems any of them are dealing with, a thousand moving parts requiring them to be cheerful and ready at a set place at a set time for the whole thing to work – and so sometimes he has to push back the fact that he slept like shit last night, has to ignore the way his outfit scratches and pulls at his skin, has to put the fact he'd rather do anything but talk to people into a box for later and focus on giving their fans the joy they deserve. It always feels worth it in the end, what with the outpouring of love he gets in return.
This feels different. They only have internal schedule today, but he still finds himself putting up a front at the stylist meeting, at dance practice even after the dance coordinator has left and it's just them. He hasn't had to pretend to be fine in front of the members in years, knows he isn't good enough for them not to see right through him and only go along with it out of courtesy. Still, he goes along with the farce, pretends he doesn't feel a stab of guilt anytime he catches Jisung's eyes, pretends to laugh at Seungmin's jokes, pretends he doesn't see the worried glances Hyunjin shoots at him through the mirrors. Pretends he isn't avoiding as much as looking at Chan, too scared he's going to burst into tears – that he doesn't notice Minho glaring daggers in Chan's direction whenever he isn't checking for mistakes.
He excuses himself as soon as they call time on group practice, feeling like his seams are going to split apart any second now. Feels like he's pulled too hard on a thread in their tangle, afraid it'll snap and break off if he does anything else.
The tears start flowing the moment he closes the door behind him, salty and sticky as they seep into his mask on the car back to his dorm, stinging his skin in the afternoon cold. He hates it, hates that he's letting it get to him so much, hates Chan a little for rejecting him. Hates himself for blaming Chan for his own mistakes.
It's a terrible relief to finally fall into his bed, to fully submerge himself in sadness in the safety of his room. He wraps the covers around him and lets sobs wrack his body like waves as his brain turns into a kaleidoscope of bitter memories, each lingering image pushing another heaving breath out of him.
The tears don't stop – he knows it's because deep down, he doesn't want them to. To stop would mean to move on, and the thought of moving on makes panic start seeping down his spine. He can't imagine a world where he moves on that he'd want to live in, and so he settles for wallowing in the haze in between.
Maybe if he stays like this a little longer, he'll feel less like he's inadvertedly fucked everything up.
"Yongbok-ah."
Minho's voice is soft, but still loud enough to make Felix jerk in alarm. He hadn't heard the front door open – was he that loud? Are the others there? Have they heard him?
He has no chance of pretending he's asleep and swiping his little meltdown under the bed like he wanted to.
For a terrifying second, his stomach swoops as the bubble of privacy he's retreated into bursts and deflates, but then Minho speaks again, steady:
"On your front. Ass up."
He finds himself following the command before he fully registers the words, legs tangling in the blanket as he scrambles to roll over and stick his butt out. Fresh tears spring to his eyes – Minho isn't here to talk to him, isn't here to lecture or pity him, isn't here to make him think at all.
"H-hyung. Thank you."
"Shush. No talking." Minho runs his hand up from the curve of his ass up his spine until he reaches his face, wiping Felix's grateful tears even as more spring out to replace them – Minho's always said he likes it when he cries, anyway.
Minho's smile is soft as he leans out of the corners of Felix's vision, the bed dipping with his weight. His hands soothe over his cheeks before carefully pulling the waistband of his boxers to just beneath the swell of his ass. Felix sucks a breath in.
The first slap is more of a caress, really, hands landing on him and staying there to slide up and down, to squeeze. It’s the kind of physical contact the both of them love, hands sliding over warm skin. Assuring each other’s closeness and leaving tingles in the wake of each touch. It feels like minutes before Minho stops kneading, jiggles the fat in his butt to make him stick it out even furhter and pulls off.
Felix takes a ragged breath in, in time for Minho’s hand to punch it out of him. The sting of it spreads up his spine, muscles spasming as he tries to process the sensation, only for it to return on his other asscheek, this time even sharper. Felix breathes in again.
Minho takes his time with each hit, waiting for Felix to regain his breath before bringing his hand back down. He goes gentler after the first few, starts a stable rhythm of softer smacks that serve more to keep up the sparkly ache spreading through his backside than to hurt on their own.
He finds himself matching his breathing to Minho’s timing – inhale, smack, exhale, smack. His sobs have died out, but his tears still flow freely in a steady stream, falling down his face and dripping onto the bedsheets.
“There you go, kitten. Doing so good.”
Good. He's doing good, mind slipping into that warm and fuzzy place where all his thoughts slip away like water off a duck's feathers. All he has to do is be good and receive everything Minho gives him, be nice and pliant and let each touch of Minho’s palms zing through him like a pleasant scratch on an itching wound.
Each hit turns into tingles behind his eyelids, turns Felix into putty under Minho's hands. He mewls when Minho stops, kneads into the flesh of his ass instead, fingers cold with something wet that soothes the light stings.
He lets Minho gently flip him over on his side. He plops down next to him soon after and lets Felix wrap his hands around him. Minho kisses him before he opens his mouth to ask.
Minho is fondly smiling when he wipes the tears off his face and tangles their legs together. Felix presses himself closer, seeks every bit of skin he can. Faintly, he realizes they’re both hard, cocks pressing against each other first when he draws closer, then when he rolls his hips to chase the warm little spike of pleasure.
Minho locks his legs together to still him and reaches to pull the both of them out of their boxers. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe Felix’s tears one more time, then licks the flat of his palm – Felix whines, chases his fingers with his mouth to the sound of Minho’s chuckles. Minho indulges him, four of his fingers slipping in to let Felix lave over them with his tongue, and then they pull out, quickly replaced by another kiss.
“Like this, okay? Stay still for me.” Minho says as he lowers his hand back down between them, wraps around them both. All Felix can do is nod and be good and let Minho rut against his length, the pleasure inside him building up, up, up until he’s floating in it.
“Hyung loves you, you know that, right?” Minho says once he’s cajoled Felix into letting him wipe them off and carry them to Minho’s much cleaner bed, Felix curled against his chest. “All of us do.”
“Mhm.” Felix affirms, too tired and fuzzy to doubt him. Minho idly starts petting his hair, melting him even further.
“Channie will come around. Just give him time. If he doesn’t, I’m going to sauté him.”
“Thanks, hyung.”
“Now shush. It’s nap time.”
Felix nuzzles himself deeper into Minho’s hold, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. Tomorrow, he’ll have to face the inevitable reality of his life, all the guilt and the kinks in their tangle. Still, the arms wrapped around his waist as he falls asleep remind him that he won’t have to do it alone.
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