unodoseskimo: (Cyborg<3)
[personal profile] unodoseskimo
Title: The Art of Consistency
Pairing: Doojoon / Yoseob
Rating: high PG-13, not quite smut
Summary: Yoseob could be fickle.
Warnings/Notes: Not proofread

Yoseob could be fickle; he likes sleeping with the stuffed duck, and only the stuffed duck. Until next week when he rediscovers the slim panda plush stuck between his bunk and the wall and he wonders how he ever got to sleep without it. He likes the duck tucked right under his neck, the beak pressing his cheek up. But he likes the panda flat against the mattress, the back of his head caving in its black thread features.


Doojoon finds the two boxes of colourful cereal that turns the milk purple and sweet in the garbage bin three days after Yoseob begged and pleaded for the leader to buy them. Yoseob tells him they were never his favourite, and that the crunchy oats in that brand are much more appetizing and he should go buy seven boxes of that. When Junhyung complains that there are cereal crumbs leading down the hall and across the kitchen floor and they hurt his feet, Doojoon can only shrug and tell him next week could better, or worse.

And it is worse. Yoseob decides that cereal hurts his throat—-because you never stop to chew it long enough, Doojoon insists as he peels the boy from his arm in the grocery store the next week—-and that he wants toaster pastries instead.

“The strawberry ones. No, the apple ones. No, no. The blueberry ones, definitely.”

Doojoon buys all three boxes on Monday; he makes Dongwoon carry them down to the dumpster on Friday, following Yoseob’s decision that oatmeal is really the only way to go.


Yoseob likes touching and kissing and being held in public for a while.

Doojoon likes touching and kissing and holding Yoseob in general.

He tells Doojoon that he wants a piggyback ride from the car to the dressing room, insists that the elder’s lap is much more comfortable than the leather loveseat across the room. He lets his hand linger a little too long against Doojoon’s thigh during filming, fingers dancing against the seams along his inner thigh, all faux innocence and smiles as he agrees with whatever the MC is saying.

Kikwang makes a sound in the back of his throat when Yoseob interlaces his fingers with Doojoon’s when they climb into their van six long hours later and the leader smiles, because this contact is short-term and Kikwang really doesn’t have much to worry about.

Doojoon wraps his arms around Yoseob’s waist from behind in the makeup room the next night and Yoseob swats at his hands, unclasping them from one another and shoots a worried look up at Doojoon, who sighs and kisses the top of the boy’s head before backing away, smile playing at the corners of his lips.


Mornings are hectic and peppered with half-asleep orders given around a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste, because Hyunseung is hogging the bathroom and Junhyung just really wants to find his missing headphones.

“Is Yoseob even up?” Somebody, Doojoon thinks its Kikwang, asks from somewhere near the kitchen.

Is he?

Doojoon can’t bring himself to remember which Yoseob he fell asleep with: the one who wanted to be out of bed first, or last, or not at all. But it doesn’t matter, because they have to go, and Doojoon’s feet have carried him on auto-pilot into the room, up the ladder and he’s palming at the boy’s hip.

“Time to get up,” he drones, pushing a little harder against Yoseob. He stirs, asking for the time, his voice muffled under the stuffed turtle—where had the Panda gone?

Doojoon finds the wall clock—“Seven forty,”— Yoseob glares at him when he quickly pushes himself out of bed and walks out of the room mumbling bitter things.

Doojoon shakes his head clear of his sleepy haze and remembers what Yoseob he had fallen asleep with.


Yoseob incessantly apologizes between pointed kisses later, mumbles over and over that he was running low on sleep and didn’t mean to be harsh that morning. Doojoon nips at the skin behind Yoseob’s right ear, tells him it’s okay, it’s nothing, stop talking, and Yoseob listens. He listens because Doojoon knows what feels good and what he’s not willing to try; what he likes, what he doesn’t.

But what Yoseob liked yesterday usually isn’t what Yoseob likes today, so Doojoon goes with intuition and rubs small circles against the small of his back, drags the pad of his thumb along the dip of Yoseob’s hip bone. Doojoon gives Yoseob more of what he leans into, sighing and tonguing at the shell of his ear; stops what Yoseob shies away from, the stinging bite into his shoulder.

It’s give and take between them when Yoseob is on his knees, face pressed into the duck plush—so he went back to that—as Doojoon shifts his hips, the give, then pulls back when the friction is just right, the take; and Yoseob may just want to cry.

Their rhythm is a beat off from each other because Doojoon’s hands are a little too uncertain, uncertain if Yoseob will like the sharp pang in his scalp when he threads fingers through coarse hair like he did a week ago. Uncertain if Yoseob’s pink lips can take another bite or three, uncertain—-but not anymore, because Yoseob shudders against him and his hand is coated in warm fluid, and Doojoon smiles to himself.


But Yoseob isn’t fickle. Yoseob is irresolute, yet sure. He’s hesitant, but constant. Because at the end of the day, it’s Yoseob crawling up the bunks near Doojoon’s right side. It’s Yoseob’s warm palm pressing against the spot between Doojoon'd shoulder blades; his shampoo that seeps into Doojoon’s pillow as he nuzzles into the crook of the elder’s bent body.

It’s Yoseob, who likes that cereal but not really.

He's Yoseob, Doojoon’s, and that’s constant enough.
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August 2011

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