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Hongjoong shudders.
He presses back against Seonghwa and their hips move in sync to the beat of the edgy, synth-heavy pop song blaring through the dim-lit club.
The music is something fit for a lap dance, the bass loud but lazy and slow, something that rolls through Hongjoong's whole body - up his spine, across his ribs, straight through his head until the alcohol and the beat have him delirious and wanting.
And Seonghwa?
Seonghwa just gives, his arms solid around Hongjoong to guide him through the motions of the dance even when Hongjoong could fall boneless into Seonghwa's arms (and bed, never mind that, it's Hongjoong's bed too) right now, the whole energy of the place making Hongjoong feel like he's drenched in glitter and sparkling.
There are bodies all around them but Hongjoong can only feel Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa, skin electric everywhere they touch.
"Fuck," Seonghwa says in Hongjoong's ear, and he's tugging Hongjoong around so they're face to face.
It's borderline dreadful, the want that shoots through Hongjoong's stomach.
Hongjoong loves dancing - always has and always will, especially in a club, with alcohol (or something harder) rushing through his veins.
It's better now that he's 23 instead of 16, now that he's caged in by his best friend instead of some stranger whose name he won't ever find out.
Seonghwa's lips find Hongjoong's and their mouths move together; Seonghwa's tongue traces Hongjoong's teeth.
It's trippy and exciting.
Just Hongjoong and Seonghwa, partners in crime, a double-act blood-pact pair.
Hongjoong and Seonghwa.
Making out recklessly on the dancefloor of a club in the outskirts of Itaewon.
And then the song ends and the next track is stupid and cheesy and old.
The moment shatters.
"Fuckin' A," Hongjoong says, pulling away from the kiss.
Seonghwa laughs.
"Pick that phrase up from Mingi, did you?" Seonghwa asks, tugging Hongjoong over to the side of the room with a hand around Hongjoong's wrist.
