Chapter Text
The sun is setting the first time Jeno arrives at the ranch house.
It comes to him almost like a vision, that single-story house with whitewashed walls and a bush-lined patio, after hours on foot in the scorching heat. Looking at it from a blurry distance it feels akin to a church, only instead of towering into the sky it spreads wide over the yard, quiet and serene the way only places in the countryside can be. There’s no stained glass on the windows, just sliding glass doors, but the feeling this house gives him is hallowed just the same – a miraculous oasis in the desperate desert, a shelter in which he can hopefully shield himself from the storm that would surely break out that evening, and more importantly, the storm brewing silently in his measly life.
In that muggy day of early summer, the air is heavy with the smell of rain to come, the grass dewy and freshly cut, flower pots lined up neatly on the front porch. Except for some fallen fence posts near the stables, everything is orderly and clean, and here comes Jeno with his mud-stained boots and shoulders curved down due to baggage more emotional than physical, about to unleash unforeseen chaos in this family’s peaceful life. But he has to – he needs a place to stay, even if just for tonight. Until he sorts things out, until he figures out what to do next, and how to move on from the dark stain slowly spreading over his heart – the kind of storm that doesn’t pass overnight.
Pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead, Jeno sighs. Tired of looking down at the sweltering tarmac road, he glances up, and it gets a little easier to breathe. The previous cerulean, cloudless sky is now a broken mosaic of grey clouds, purple and orange hues sneaking between them like the lilacs and marigolds his mother grew back at home. When she was still there. When his house was still a home.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jeno wipes the last beads of sweat from his face, or maybe it’s some stray tear rolling down his cheek – the sting it leaves in his mouth is the same. Then he opens his eyes, clenches his fists tight around the straps of his rusty satchel bag and makes the last steps up to the large entrance door.
He rings the bell once. Waits with shaky hands and a heart too wild for this calm farm. Then the door opens, he holds his breath – there’s a burly man standing on the threshold, thick eyebrows quirked in suspicion but a kind glint in his eyes.
Just that speck of goodness in his stare – it’s more than he’s seen in years.
“Whaddaya want, boy? You a friend of Jaemin’s?” The tall, imposing man keeps the door open just an inch, as if afraid Jeno’s some thief about to barge into his home. It makes sense, considering his clothes are all dirty and torn from the long journey; he probably looks dangerous and deranged, though he just feels tired. His muscles are sore, his limbs feel as heavy as lead – he’d give anything just for some hay bale to lie down in, but he has to ask first. The last barn he slept in was seemingly abandoned – until he woke up at dawn with an enraged farmer aiming a shotgun at him and had to rush out of there with his heart dropping to his stomach and most of his belongings left behind – including the only picture of his mother he’d brought with him. “He ain’t told me about no friend visitin’, but you’re in luck, he’s right inside.”
For a moment Jeno considers lying, but if his son is in the house, his lie will be uncovered right away, and there goes his chance to stay some place safe during the storm.
“No, I…” He clears his parched throat. He’s dying for some water. He doesn’t know who Jaemin is, and all his friends are back in the village he’s trying to escape, probably wondering why he just left one day without a word.
The man waits for him to answer, and the longer Jeno takes to speak, the softer his expression gets. It’s weird, really – he should be getting angrier by Jeno’s lack of response, but it’s like he sees past his roughened up exterior. Jeno’s trying hard not to show his inner turmoil, but maybe his eyes show how lonely and scared he is, because the older man sighs and opens the door a fraction wider, enough for Jeno to glimpse the open floor plan of the house, the polished floors and the rustic furniture. It looks… well, cozy. Lived-in. Nothing like where he comes from.
“What's your name, boy?”
Jeno gets a little wide-eyed at the question and takes off his cattleman hat just to buy some time. He holds it close to his chest, hands quivering from exhaustion, and says, “Why I ain't got none, sir, on account of my mama passed on before she could give me one”.
Which is not true at all – he does have a name, but he’s afraid this stranger is acquainted with his father somehow, and will hear about a missing son, connect the dots and force him back home.
“Oh boy… I’m real sorry to hear that, son.”
Jeno’s used to this gentle, pitying tone, yet now he welcomes it with a twinge of guilt: although his mother did pass on, it was not at birth but over a year ago, and the grief still feels too fresh, the wound still too raw. He doesn’t like lying and yet it feels like he’s had a lifetime of it – no one knowing his true self, not even God, not even him.
“Anything I can do for ya?”
These simple words give him back a feeling he thought he’d lost forever: hope. The knot in his throat uncoils, he can breathe again. He almost sags in relief right there, but instead just clasps his hat tighter and conveys his gratitude through his smile.
“Well I can't read nor write neither, but I’m mighty good with horses and can mend them fallen fence posts I saw on my way in.” Jeno stops then, gauging the other’s reaction. He simply nods for him to go on. “So I won't ask for nothing much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in.”
The stranger in front of him stays quiet for too long a moment, scratching his stubble in deep thought. Jeno has the sudden impression his life is being weighted on the scales, like his pastor back home always talked about. He cannot be found wanting. It’s either here or nowhere – the closest farmhouse is miles away, and he doesn’t have it in him to travel that far, not when his mind is already wobbly with dizziness, not when his feet are blistering and his stomach gnawing from hunger and nerves.
The desperation in him grows as strong as his hope dims.
“Please, sir…” He looks up at the darkening sky, and the man follows his gaze, sighs again, and takes a step ahead. The hand he places on his shoulder feels fatherly in the way his own father’s never has – it’s tender and comforting and it makes Jeno want to cry.
“Alright, son, alright. Don’t get all choked up now, yeah? I ain’t do well with tears.” He pats his shoulder lightly, then gestures with his chin towards the barn. “You can stay in there for as long as needed. It’s sturdy construction, it’ll bear the storm. There’s a well and a large pond nearby you can use to clean up, and I’ll send my boy to get you something warm for the night. Now I jus’ have three rules, yeah? You do the work you promised, you don’t go inside the house, and you stay away from my wife and daughters.”
That’s something he doesn’t have to worry about, given Jeno’s lack of interest in women – something his father often pestered him about, as if Jeno was at fault for being who he was.
“Thank you, sir.” Jeno’s shoulders finally sag and he smiles honestly for the first time in ages. This stranger has not even asked him where he comes from or why he’s here. If the rest of his family is like this, then Jeno’s in a good place. “Really, you’re saving me ‘ere.”
“Yeah, well, it’s what Jesus would’ve wanted, innit?” He gestures towards Jeno’s necklace – the pendant is hidden under his tank top, but from the way it clings to his torso the shape is still visible. It’s a T, the initial of his mother’s name, not a cross, but Jeno nods as if it is. They mean the same to him anyway, even if he always believed in his mother more. “Just make sure you find a name for yourself, I ain’t wanna call you sad stranger all the damn time.”
Jeno forces out a nod. Maybe one day he’ll be able to say his name without thinking of who gave it to him and the void she left behind.
***
Thunder is breaking the first time Jeno sees Jaemin.
He’s just finished washing up, relishing in the brief reprieve the cool water gives him as he splays it onto his face and chest when he hears the steps behind him, the muffled gasp – he turns around abruptly and the sky rips apart. The rolling thunder roars above him in time with his blood thrumming in his temples and rushing to his cheeks and that’s when he sees him.
Oh.
Jaemin’s a real pretty boy.
If this is Jaemin, that is, and it must be, for he shares the same sharp features as his father and has the same gentle glint in his eyes – though instead of brows raised in suspicion his mouth is parted, his eyes widened, his knuckles going white from how hard he’s clasping the tray in his hands.
He has the exact same expression of people that claim to have seen a miracle. Then in a second his startled expression is gone, and Jaemin smiles at him so dazzlingly for a moment Jeno wonders if the clouds had gone and the sun risen again.
“Heya, I’m Jaemin. Sorry to sneak up on you like that, I thought you’d be ready by now.” He does not seem very sorry, given as he keeps staring unabashedly at Jeno’s bare torso. His gaze moves fast over Jeno’s arms and chest and Jeno is sure he’s trailing down the droplets that still cling onto him. Jeno tries not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze, but there’s nothing he can do about his red ears or how hard his heart is beating inside his chest. It’s just the scare, he tells himself. Just that. It has nothing to do with how disconcerting this boy is, with how different Jeno imagined him to be – someone like his own friends, rough around the edges and all toughened up, not someone as dreamy and delicate-looking as this.
And yet he must be strong, for he’s carrying a heavy tray, a duffle bag and a lantern all at once without any sign of effort. Jeno considers taking something from him to help, but he’s pinned to his place by the force of Jaemin’s gaze, unable to do anything but gawk back.
“It’s…” Jeno swallows; it feels as if the whole world is trapped in his throat. It’s like he hasn’t bathed at all – he feels hot all over, though he’s thankful he’s managed to scrub all the grime off him because for some incomprehensible reason he did not want this stranger to see him like he was before. “It’s alright, I was done either way.”
He makes a show out of grabbing one of his old t-shirts to dry himself with, which has nothing to do with wanting to see if Jaemin will stay staring at the way his muscles flex and his veins bulge out.
Jaemin stares, and chews on his bottom lip, and stares some more, until it’s too much for Jeno to bear. Even in the half-light casted by the moon and the orange gleam from the lantern, Jeno can see this is the most good looking boy he’s ever come across with, and it’s not just from the light brown locks that softly cover his forehead and fall over his eyes, or the chiseled jaw and heart-shaped lips, it’s from the way he carries himself, like he knows exactly where he belongs in the world, and the way he looks so sturdy yet soft, like a dandelion always spared by the wind.
And when the lightning lights up the sky and illuminates Jaemin’s whole face, Jeno knows he’s done for, for this feels like a miracle too – the only one he’s ever been graced with.
“I should’ve come sooner, then.” Jaemin flickers his eyes back to Jeno and when he’s not smiling his expression gets even more unsettling, like he has the power to make Jeno fall apart with just a breath or a touch. Jeno mentally thanks God or whoever’s out there for the fact he’s at least wearing shorts – he doesn’t think he’d survive the embarrassment, or the intensity of Jaemin’s gaze in his most private parts.
The air is sticky and stuffy as it is, a true summer storm, and Jeno feels something brewing in his stomach that might be as perilous. It’s just the hunger, he thinks. Just that. But he’s terrified this meal Jaemin brings him will not quench it.
As if reading his mind, Jaemin holds the tray up. “Well, if ya finished, we should go inside. I brought dinner.” Too dazed until then to see nothing but Jaemin, Jeno finally takes a proper look at the tray – everything there is doubled, as if Jaemin is to dine with him.
“Oh, thanks. I’m starving.”
“Yeah, me too.” Jaemin gives him a pointed look, the subtle quirk of his lips giving his intention away. Moved by a force greater than him or simply compelled by his teasing and the need to have more of it, Jeno takes a few tentative steps towards him and peeks at the bowls – potato soup and beef stew, the homey, savory steam that curls into his nostrils enough to make his stomach growl.
“Looks delicious,” he says, and looks up at Jaemin with eyes that could rival the half-moon in the sky.
“Oh it is.” Jaemin shakes himself out of the stupor of seeing Jeno smile at him like that and smirks back. “My mama made it, so it has to be. I mean, she made me, and don’t I look delectable?”
Upon his charming grin and cocky tilt of his head, Jeno staggers. How could anyone say anything to him but yes, yes, a thousand times yes, won’t you let me have a taste? Jaemin looks so composed in his loosely tucked shirt and high-waisted jeans that violent, unholy images flood Jeno’s mind – of how he would look with those clothes ruined, of how every inch of his skin would taste. Jeno has always been unsatisfied. He thinks if given the chance he could devour him whole, and judging by the baffled look Jaemin had upon first seeing him, Jaemin doesn’t know what he’s truly getting himself into.
But Jeno does – he’s been there when it went well and bears the scars of when it didn’t. He’s in a minefield, and he needs to tread very carefully or stop entirely before he gets blown off. So he simply scoffs and takes the lantern from Jaemin’s hand and gestures for him to lead the way. Jaemin chuckles, and Jeno’s relieved he doesn’t seem offended by his brusque gestures – he never dealt with flirting all that well, and he sure can’t do it here, when he depends so strongly on the good will of Jaemin’s father.
“Power’s out ‘cause of the storm but we have more lanterns inside so you’ll be just fine,” Jaemin says as Jeno follows him into the barn in stunned silence, urging his nerves to calm down and his palms to stop sweating. He has been wanting to be fine for a long time, and it’s only then he realizes his shoulders are no longer slouched but straight, and he hasn’t thought about how hard it’s been because his mind’s full of Jaemin, Jaemin, Jaemin. Like whiskey, that boy is. Burns on the tongue but oh… if it warms the inside.
“S’okay, I ain’t afraid of the dark,” Jeno assures him. Other things scare him far more – like his nightmares, painful because they’re memories past, or the urge to hold this boy’s hand just to see where it’ll lead him. He wonders if Jaemin ever feels lonely in his big house. If he ever feels out of place in his tidy life, if he ever gets bored or craves more and if he falls asleep with dreams too big for his eyelids to hold.
He wonders if each time he wakes up he gets his wings clipped off the way Jeno does.
“We don’t get that many guests ‘round ‘ere, especially not one as…” Jaemin trails off abruptly, looking over his shoulder to take another long look at Jeno. “Mysterious as you.” The way he strings the letters together into a slow drawl gives Jeno the impression that’s far from what he wants to say but is trying to keep things courteous and appropriate. “Welcome home.”
Jaemin places the tray and bag down and sets off to arrange the lanterns. They paint the barn in a golden glow that feels safe and reliable, like a fireplace in deep winter or the morning sun after the grayest day. Jeno doesn’t know how to express what it means to him that these people were kind enough to welcome a complete stranger into their property, how relieving it is to have a roof over his head and someone that looks at him like he’s worth taking up space in the world, like every word of his matters.
“Thanks. I like what y’all did with the decor.” Jeno jokes along, glancing around at the bales of hay, the scattered equipment and the wooden beams ceiling. This scent at least is familiar to him – fodder and dust and old wood – helping him to relax a little even as thunder keeps rumbling around. He’s never quite liked storms, finding them too loud and scary, because even if nature screamed and suffered some times, how could he not do it as well?
“It’s our best work.” Jaemin nods, and in the triangular light cast by the lanterns Jeno finally dares to risk a longer glance at his body, getting a little too lost admiring the broad expanse of his chest, how strong his shoulders look and how snatched his waist is in comparison. And the worst part – how tightly his starched shirt stretches across his obviously defined pecs. Jeno finally understands Jaemin’s struggle not to ogle. “My old man said we were about the same height so I brought you some of my clothes. Though it’s pretty hot in here, so really, ain’t no need for you to wear them…”
His stare drops from Jeno’s face to his chest again, and despite the heat, Jeno feels shivers all over his skin. He can practically feel the way Jaemin’s heated gaze goes from his arms to his abs and then dip lower, staying where it really shouldn’t for just a second before climbing back up to meet Jeno’s wide eyes. Now Jeno knows he’s got muscles from all the work he used to do around the house and all the cycling to run errands here and there, but he never particularly felt good about his body, not like he's feeling now. Because despite how flustered he is, he recognizes the warm, pleased bubble bursting in his stomach, and it doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin – it makes him feel seen, and appreciated, and maybe that has more to do with the way Jaemin is looking at him not so much with lust but with awe, like he’s some painting in a museum rather than some rugged boy with nowhere else to go. Like Jeno’s the miracle out of the two of them when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Give me a t-shirt, yeah?” Jeno asks, chuckling when Jaemin’s shoulders slump heavily and his lower lip juts out. Cute.
“Sure.” Jaemin nods, not bothering to hide his dejected tone. He kneels down to dig into the bag – Jeno tries not to think too hard about that position and how it makes him feel to see him like that and instead focuses on how Jaemin impatiently rummages through the clothes, discarding every t-shirt he comes across with just to pick up a low cut sleeveless shirt in the end.
“A t-shirt, Jaemin,” Jeno says lowly, heating up when he notices Jaemin gulping down hard and shifting his knees closer together. He decides to have mercy on him and adds, softer, “Please?”
“Fine.” Jaemin gets up and throws him a white, clean t-shirt, his eyes lingering on Jeno’s biceps with a sad farewell look. “Hope it fits.”
It does, although it’s a little large on the shoulders area, and Jeno tries not to glance again at how buff Jaemin is. He must do a lot of work around the farm – maybe Jeno can join in sometime.
“It’s just ‘cause of the mosquitos, y’know,” Jeno feels the need to add just so Jaemin’s lips turn upward again. “Don’t want no mosquito bites, especially not on the pecs.”
It works – Jaemin’s shut-tight mouth opens in a lazy grin. “Not into that, uh? A pity. I kinda like gettin’ my tits bitten.”
Jeno’s jaw makes a hollow sound when his mouth drops agape, but it’s Jaemin’s cheerful laugh echoing throughout the barn that truly hurts him – it’s so carefree, so honest. It hurts Jeno not because he’s rarely had it, but because he hopes Jaemin always will, and that some of those laughs will be for him, even though he has no idea how long he’ll even have the privilege of hearing them.
“That something that usually happens ‘round ‘ere?”
Jaemin flashes him his cheeky grin. Yeah, Jeno definitely wants to swallow it whole, keep it all to himself. “If y’ain’t careful.”
It’s a dare rather than a threat, and the imagery it evokes in Jeno’s mind urges him to run to the nearest confessional to atone for all his sins, if that was still something he believed in.
“Here.” When the reveries go away and reality falls upon him again, Jaemin is handing him a warm bowl of soup that smells as appetizing as his mother’s did. He accepts it in silence, and so they remain for a while, Jeno trying not to wolf down the broth while Jaemin steals small glances at him every once in a while. It’s comfortable, in a way things often aren’t between strangers. Even when the rain starts to bluster against the sides of the barn and drowns out the comforting hum of crickets and cicadas, it’s peaceful. Even when the thunder breaks, it seems to Jeno to be far away, coming from some place where it cannot hurt him.
Then Jaemin speaks up, and what he says makes Jeno expect some of the hurt back, but if it does come, it’s subdued, as if this boy’s mere presence is healing enough.
“Dad told me y’aint got a name.”
Jeno drops the spoon into his bowl. Jaemin flinches at the sound, or maybe at the way Jeno’s expression closes, his eyes distant and unreachable. When he looks back at Jaemin he has an expectant look on his face, patient but deeply curious.
Jeno sighs, utterly defeated. “You can call me Jeno.”
He doesn’t know why he can’t lie to this boy the same way he lied to his father. He’s risking a lot here, and yet it feels so easy to give in, so right.
“Jeno.” Jaemin beams, all traces of worry gone. His eyes are walnut warm, and they shine in a way that makes Jeno hope no tears will ever grace them. “Jeno. Je… no.”
Jeno laughs once he realizes Jaemin’s not so much trying out his name as he’s savoring the feel of it in his mouth like it’s part of his stew. Jeno gets the feeling – he might just do the same once he’s alone in this barn and unable to sleep. Maybe Jaemin’s name can become his mantra, something to whisper over and over when no one’s listening – it seems to have a calming effect on him already.
Then Jaemin licks his spoon clean and looks straight at him and Jeno feels like lightning has bore home inside his veins – just the storm, no calm before or after.
“Real pretty,” he says at last, and he has to be talking about Jeno’s name but then he’s also gawking at Jeno in a way that makes all the sizzling heat from outside pool deep in his stomach. It’s just the warm food, he thinks. Just that. Except it’s not. Feeling dizzier than he has the entire journey, Jeno places down his bowl, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, clears his throat, looks away. His legs press so tightly against each other his knee bones ache. If this is what a simple compliment does to him, he can’t imagine the rest, how quickly Jaemin could break him apart. “You planning to stay ‘ere long?”
“I…” In all truth, he doesn’t know. He can’t see his future for more than a few steps ahead – all he knows is that he will not go back. If he can just go through the minutes until each day bleeds into the next, then he’ll be okay. “Until I fix those fence posts, I guess.”
That will take him no time at all, and maybe Jeno wants Jaemin to ask him to stay.
“Dad said you offered to take care of the horses.” Jaemin leans back on his palms, and he has an easy smile on and a knowing spark in his eyes that makes Jeno’s lungs smaller in his chest. Is he so readable, so transparent, that Jaemin can just look at him and pluck out his secrets and fears, which are sometimes also his wildest desires? “So you’ll have to stay for that.”
It’s so dangerous, how Jaemin is giving him exactly what he wants, dangerous still that he wants it not just for a matter of survival but a matter of temptation. He wants to sink his teeth into the poison and drink him all in. He shouldn’t – God, he shouldn’t.
Jeno’s mouth feels so dry he runs his tongue over his lips to wet them, which is a mistake because Jaemin’s eyes narrow in on the motion instantly, like a cat to his prey. There’s a feline quality to him, present in the way his mouth twists and his pupils dilate, that makes Jeno feel like he’s walked straight into a trap, biting off more than he can chew.
Still, he forces his voice over the lump in his throat, forces himself not to look away. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to.”
Like the idle sun behind the clouds, a grin breaks out on Jaemin’s face, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and it’s so disconcerting Jeno’s mouth hangs slightly open. Jaemin’s lips are parted too. Jeno wonders if they’d satiate him, or if he’d want more out of him.
“Peachy.” Jaemin shrugs as if it’s no big deal, as if the air isn’t as charged between them as it is between the sky and the soil outside. He slowly gets up to rummage through the duffle bag, squatting down with his back to him. Jeno knows he’s doing it on purpose and averts the sight quickly, but not before the dizzying image gets printed behind his eyelids – Jaemin’s got a real fine ass.
When Jaemin stands up again, he’s got a silver flask in his hands. He turns around and winks at Jeno. “Don’t tell my dad.”
He throws him the flask, and Jeno blinks but manages to catch it at the last second and rushes to pop the lid open so he can take a swig and quench the thirst that’s been hastily building in him ever since meeting this little devil. It’s aged whiskey, rich and smoky and full of flavor, the kind he could never have back home. It burns on his tongue and sets his throat on fire as it goes down but he doesn’t cough nor wince and when he’s finished he smack his lips together in a pleased sound and Jaemin watches him through it all, leaning against the door frame with his bulky arms crossed over his even bulkier chest, no traces of a smile left on his face, just this unreadable expression that tenses his jaw and darkens his eyes.
Outside thunder rages and roars and Jeno feels it deep in his bones, rattling his core. He takes a much timider sip this time, hoping that when he looks back at Jaemin he’s lost interest, but sweet Jesus, he doesn’t. He just makes everything worse when he hooks his fingers around his belt loops and says, “Mama keeps tellin’ me I need to find myself a good woman.”
Thank God Jeno’s already swallowed or he would’ve spat out the Bourbon and make a fool of himself. He digs his fingers into the hay, fists the straws as if to ground himself before Jaemin makes him any headier than he already is.
“Is that what you want?”
“In the past? Maybe.” Slowly and predatorily, Jaemin makes his way to him. The air inside the barn is so stuffy and nature is shouting so much outside this moment doesn’t feel real, blurred at the edges like a dream he shouldn’t be having, feverish and risky in the way it makes Jeno feel like whatever happens here, now, will be of no consequence. Just a lucid secret that will not exist come next morning. Therefore, anything can happen. Therefore, he can wish for things he’s been chastised for, and do things he’s never dared to, and he can have this – Jaemin coming too close, standing right between his legs, one of his hands resting on top of Jeno’s thigh, stroking it in soft urgence. For a maddening moment Jeno thinks Jaemin’s going to sit on his lap – God, he wants him to – to feel the plushness of his ass against his crotch, to snake his hands under his shirt and grip his hips to see if his skin is as soft to the touch as it seems. He has a ring on his index finger, Jeno sees it now, silvery and sharp – it’s a cross, and Jeno imagines Jaemin pressing it against his throat, branding his neck anew until it’s red and faithful. God, Jaemin couldn’t be more of a church boy, and Jeno craves to undo all the things in him that are holy. And Jaemin smirks as if he knows all this and leans into him so his hot breath falls right over his ear and down his neck. “But after seeing you? No way in hell.”
Then he snatches the flask from Jeno’s trembling hands and leans back, cracking a soft laugh that feels like honey down Jeno’s throat. He strolls over to the door while Jeno is still dumbfounded, still trying to juggle through what just happened, still flushed and out of breath and it’s not the scare, not the hunger, not the food, not even the heat – it’s the boy in front of him with the lazy smile and cat-like eyes, putting everything Jeno is at risk, and his very survival on the line.
And now Jeno’s left trying to hide how much it aches between his legs and how bad he wants Jaemin to come back and finish whatever it is he’s just started, because just a taste will never be enough. He doesn’t dare think what would happen if they got caught, what that would mean for his immediate future, and Jaemin’s. He knows what a secret like this can do.
“You’re makin’ it very hard for me ‘ere,” Jeno ends up saying, and though he’s not just talking about the bulge in his shorts Jaemin still looks that way, tongue darting over his bottom lip as slow as it can. He bites his lip and opens his mouth to say something when suddenly there’s a heavy knock on the door that startles them both – Jeno recognizes the booming, worried voice of Jaemin’s father. Jaemin’s being asked to go back inside, because he’s taking too long here when he was supposed to simply deliver dinner. But Jeno doesn’t even have time to panic and wonder if he’s going to barge into the barn because Jaemin speaks again, low and husky and trance-inducing.
“Yeah?” He asks, and puts the flask to his mouth, the lid pushing through his plump lips in an excruciatingly frustrating way. Jeno grits his teeth, digs his fingers deeper into the hay, and he can’t do anything but watch in a haze as Jaemin takes a sip from it real slow like it weren't the whiskey what he were tryna savour. His Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp and fire licks at Jeno’s insides as forbidden thoughts of where else he could put that smart mouth on swarm his vulnerable mind. “Well, you better get ready then, ‘cause I intend to make it even harder.”
And then he swivels around and opens the door and he’s gone, and Jeno’s left with a painful hard-on and a storm breaking inside him in a way it never has before, more violent than the one tearing the sky apart.
Jaemin’s said all that with his father right on the other side of the door. A real menace, that’s what he is. Sure, Jeno will have no trouble staying away from his sisters, but from Jaemin himself?
Impossible.