Alexithymia - Minchan

Chan woke just before sunrise, the soft glow of dawn casting golden streaks over the ruined rooftop. Blinking away sleep, he turned his head, gaze settling on Minho. Even now—disheveled, lips slightly parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows from discomfort—he looked breathtaking.

Chan smirked to himself before leaning over, his voice hushed but teasing. "Hey, wake up, princess. Don't wanna see the sunrise?"

Minho groaned, shifting in the chair with a wince. His back ached from the awkward position, and his head throbbed from last night's drinks. Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to find Chan staring at him—intensely, like he was something to be devoured. Minho swallowed, sitting up straighter, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck.

But then his gaze flickered to the horizon.

The sky was a masterpiece of fire and gold, the sun barely cresting over the city's skeletal remains. The distant skyline stood in silhouette, softened by the morning haze. There was no noise—no honking, no distant chatter, just the whisper of wind against crumbling walls. The world, for once, was silent. Peaceful.

Minho's breath hitched.

Without warning, Chan grabbed his wrist, pulling him up. Minho stumbled with a yelp, glaring at him. But Chan only grinned before leading him toward a makeshift staircase—old wooden crates stacked precariously to a small ledge higher up.

Minho hesitated.

Chan was already halfway up, standing on the edge with his hand outstretched. "Come on."

Minho swallowed hard. Heights weren't his thing. His heart thudded in protest, but—for some reason—his hand found Chan's without hesitation.

With one firm pull, Chan hoisted him up, steadying him as they reached the top. The higher ledge was little more than a broken section of the rooftop, parts of it long since crumbled away, leaving just enough space for them. A blanket lay spread across the surface, worn but inviting.

Chan flopped onto it with ease, stretching out before patting the spot beside him. "Sit."

Minho did, still trying to ignore the height. But once he focused on the sky, his anxiety melted away. The deep orange hues were softening into pinks and purples, the sun rising higher, painting the clouds with its warmth.

It was beautiful.

Minho barely noticed when Chan shifted, his head now hovering just above his. Fingers brushed the nape of Minho's neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

Minho turned, and suddenly, Chan's eyes were on him—dark, unreadable. Lust swirled in them, but there was something else, something waiting. A question.

Minho blinked once. That was all it took.

Chan crashed their lips together.

The kiss was deep, consuming, as if Chan wanted to pull him in completely. Minho's fingers curled into the fabric of Chan's shirt, his own body arching instinctively. Chan's hands moved with purpose, slipping under Minho's shirt, fingers ghosting over warm skin. The air between them was thick, heavy.

Somehow, Minho's shirt was gone, his breath stolen as they pulled apart for a second.

"Here?" Minho gasped, chest rising and falling.

Chan chuckled, low and husky. "Not yet."

Before Minho could react, Chan scooped him up effortlessly, cradling him against his chest.

Minho tensed. "Yah—put me down!"

But Chan was already making his way down the crates, carrying him with ease. Minho clenched his eyes shut, burying his face against Chan's shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

When they reached the ground, Chan didn't stop. He carried Minho through the ruined structure, past charred walls and hollow doorways, until they reached an unburned section—a lone door that stood untouched amidst the destruction.

Minho frowned. "What is this place?"

Chan smirked, pushing the door open with his foot. "My castle."

Inside, the space was nothing like the ruins outside. The room was simple yet intact, bathed in the dim glow of morning light filtering through an old window. A bed sat in the center, neatly made, like it had always been waiting.

Minho scoffed. "And you made me sleep on a chair?"

Chan grinned. "The stars were the main point."

Minho barely had time to glare before Chan's lips crashed against Minho's once again, rougher this time—desperate, demanding. Their bodies pressed together as Chan backed him toward the bed, hands roaming over Minho's exposed skin, igniting fire in every place he touched. Minho's breath came out in ragged gasps, his fingers gripping onto Chan's shoulders as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Chan's hands traced down Minho's spine, pressing him closer, until there was nothing between them but heat. The room was dimly lit by the early morning sun, golden rays filtering through the broken window, painting their bare skin in soft, flickering light.

Chan's lips moved from Minho's mouth to his jaw, then lower—hot, open-mouthed kisses ghosting over his throat. Minho tilted his head back, letting out a shaky breath as Chan's lips found that sensitive spot just beneath his ear. A quiet moan escaped him when Chan sucked at the skin, leaving a mark—evidence of where his mouth had been.

Minho barely noticed when his fingers started working on Chan's shirt, pulling at the buttons blindly, urgency making them fumble. But Chan only chuckled, pulling back just enough to rip the shirt off himself, tossing it aside without a second thought. Minho barely had a moment to take in the sight—the sculpted lines of Chan's chest, the way his muscles flexed as he moved—before Chan was kissing him again, deep and consuming.

Minho let himself fall back onto the bed, gasping when the mattress met his back. Chan followed immediately, settling between his legs, one arm caging him in while the other dragged slowly down his torso, fingers tracing every dip and curve. Minho shuddered when those fingers dipped below his waistband, teasing, making his breath hitch.

Chan's lips never stopped moving, exploring—down his neck, along his collarbone, pressing soft kisses to his chest before trailing lower. Minho's fingers found their way into Chan's hair, gripping tightly when Chan's mouth latched onto his skin once again, sucking lightly before dragging his tongue over the now-sensitive spot.

Minho arched beneath him, his body betraying him with the way it sought more—more warmth, more pressure, more of Chan.

And Chan gave.

The room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing, quiet gasps, and the rustle of fabric as clothes were lost between tangled sheets. Skin met skin, warmth melting into warmth. Chan's hands traced over Minho's bare body as if memorizing every inch, every curve, every spot that made him gasp.

"Minho," Chan murmured against his skin, his voice thick with something that made Minho's stomach twist.

Minho couldn't respond. Couldn't think.

Could only feel.

Chan's lips pressed into the dip of his waist, his hands gripping Minho's thighs as he continued his descent. Minho's breath hitched, his fingers curling into the sheets as anticipation coiled in his stomach like a tightly wound spring.

And when Chan finally touched him, every last coherent thought disappeared.

There was only this.

Only them.

Wrapped in golden light, tangled in sheets, their bodies moving together like they were meant to fit. Like they had been waiting for this moment all along.