Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The chicken wings were the last straw.

Jackson had been having a monumentally shit day from the moment his alarm failed to go off at 5 AM. He’d overslept by two hours, which meant he’d missed the first half of dance practice. Their choreographer, a terrifying woman named Ms. Kim who had trained half the industry’s top groups, had torn into him in front of everyone—about his lack of professionalism, his disrespect for his members’ time, his apparent belief that the rules didn’t apply to him.

Mark had given him a sympathetic look. Jinyoung had rolled his eyes. Jaebeom had smirked, which had made Jackson’s blood boil because of course Jaebeom would find his humiliation amusing.

Then during the make-up practice session, Jackson had been so focused on proving he could nail the choreography that he’d pushed too hard and pulled something in his shoulder. Not badly enough to need a doctor, but enough that every movement sent sharp pains down his arm. He’d powered through because showing weakness in front of Jaebeom felt worse than physical pain.

Lunch had been a protein bar eaten standing up between vocal lessons. During said vocal lessons, their coach had spent forty-five minutes comparing Jackson’s technique unfavorably to Jaebeom’s, using phrases like “more refined” and “natural talent” that made Jackson want to throw something.

Then he’d spilled an entire iced americano down the front of his favorite hoodie—the black Supreme one that had cost him three months of saved allowance. The coffee had been scalding hot despite the ice, leaving a burn on his chest and a stain that no amount of cold water could fix.

By the time he dragged himself back to the dorm at eleven PM, exhausted and sore and feeling like the universe had personally decided to fuck with him, all he wanted was the small comfort of the chicken wings he’d been saving. The honey garlic ones from that place near the company building, the ones that cost way too much but were worth every won. He’d been thinking about them for hours—the crispy skin, the sweet-spicy sauce, the way the meat fell off the bone.

He’d labeled them. Put his name on the container in both Korean and English, just to be absolutely clear. Added a little skull and crossbones for emphasis. Those wings were sacred.

So when he opened the refrigerator and found an empty container with his name still on it, something inside him snapped.

“WHO THE FUCK ATE MY WINGS?” The words came out as a roar that echoed through the dorm, loud enough that he heard someone drop something in one of the bedrooms. “WHO THE ACTUAL FUCK—”

Mark’s door cracked open, his face appearing in the gap with an expression that clearly said oh no, not again. He took one look at Jackson’s face, said “Nope,” and immediately closed the door again. Smart man. Mark had learned months ago that getting between Jackson and whatever had pissed him off was a recipe for disaster.

Jinyoung poked his head out next, took in the scene, and called out, “If you’re going to kill someone, please do it quietly. I have an interview at six AM.”

“Someone ATE MY FUCKING WINGS,” Jackson repeated, his voice hitting a pitch that probably only dogs could hear.

“Check the label,” Youngjae’s voice came from his room. “Maybe you forgot to write your name.”

“I WROTE MY NAME. IN TWO LANGUAGES. WITH A SKULL.”

The bathroom door opened and Jaebeom emerged, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp from the shower and curling slightly at the ends. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, his skin still flushed from the hot water. He looked relaxed and satisfied and completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding in the kitchen.

“What are you screaming about?” Jaebeom asked, his tone suggesting he already knew and didn’t particularly care.

Jackson turned to face him, the empty container still in his hand like evidence at a crime scene. “My chicken wings. Someone ate my chicken wings.”

Jaebeom’s expression didn’t change. He reached for a towel to dry his hair, his movements casual. “The ones that have been in the fridge for three days?”

“Yes. The ones with MY NAME ON THEM.”

“Oh yeah, I ate those.” Jaebeom said it like he was commenting on the weather, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He started rubbing the towel through his hair, not even looking at Jackson. “They were good.”

It wasn’t true, He saw Bambam eating them earlier but knowing Jackson he knew he would be mad at him for a long time. And Bambam will cry again like last time he and Jackson fought. Too much drama.

For a moment, Jackson couldn’t speak. His brain short-circuited trying to process the sheer audacity. “You… you just admitted it? Just like that?”

Jaebeom shrugged, which was his first mistake. The movement was dismissive, careless, like Jackson’s feelings on the matter were completely irrelevant. “They were taking up space. I figured if you really wanted them, you would have eaten them by now instead of hoarding them like some kind of food dragon.”

“A DRAGON?” Jackson’s voice hit a new octave. “You’re calling ME a dragon when YOU’RE the one who can’t keep his hands off other people’s food?”

“It was just chicken wings, Jackson. Not the crown jewels.” Jaebeom tossed the towel onto the back of a chair. “Maybe if you managed your time better, you could actually eat the food you buy instead of letting it rot in the fridge.”

That was his second mistake.

“Manage my time better? MANAGE MY TIME BETTER?” Jackson slammed the empty container on the counter hard enough that the plastic cracked. “I’ve been at the company for sixteen fucking hours today. I missed breakfast, I missed lunch, I’ve been running on coffee and protein bars. Those wings were the one thing I was looking forward to, and you ate them. YOU ATE THEM.”

“And I’d do it again,” Jaebeom said, his voice rising to match Jackson’s volume. “You know why? Because you do shit like this all the time. You claim ownership of everything in this dorm like you’re the only one who lives here. ‘This is my spot on the couch,’ ‘this is my shelf in the bathroom,’ ‘these are my wings.’ Well guess what? It’s a shared space, and maybe you need to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“OH THAT’S RICH coming from the guy who leaves his shit everywhere like we’re all his personal cleaning service!”

“I clean up after myself!”

“You LEFT YOUR UNDERWEAR IN THE DRYER FOR THREE DAYS.”

“That was ONE TIME.”

“You used my shampoo last week!”

“Because you used all the hot water the night before and I couldn’t even take a proper shower!”

They were both shouting now, moving closer with each accusation, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of rage and frustration. The other members had wisely retreated to their rooms, the sound of doors locking audible even over the argument.

“You play your music at 2 AM!” Jaebeom stepped forward, jabbing a finger at Jackson’s chest. “The neighbors have complained TWICE.”

“You leave dirty dishes in the sink for DAYS!” Jackson swatted his hand away. “I counted SEVEN bowls last week. SEVEN.”

“At least I don’t steal people’s food!”

“At least I don’t act like I’m too good to follow basic dorm rules!”

“Rules? You want to talk about rules?” Jaebeom’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “You’re the one who thinks rules don’t apply to you. Show up late to practice, use other people’s stuff without asking, act like you’re doing us all a favor just by being here—”

“Fuck you,” Jackson snarled, getting right in his face. They were chest to chest now, both breathing hard, the air between them electric with hostility. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re a selfish prick who only cares about himself.”

“Yeah? Well you’re an arrogant asshole who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”

“At least I don’t throw tantrums over chicken wings like a fucking five-year-old.”

That did it. Jackson shoved him. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make a point, enough to express the fury coursing through his veins. “Those were MY wings, you piece of—”

Jaebeom shoved back, harder. “Grow the fuck up, idiot.”

Jackson’s foot caught on the edge of the coffee table as he stumbled backward. His arms windmilled, trying to catch his balance, but gravity won. He went down hard, his shoulder—the one he’d injured earlier—hitting the floor with a crack that sent stars exploding behind his eyes.

“Shit,” he heard Jaebeom say, but then Jaebeom was falling too, tripping over Jackson’s leg, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

“Get off me!” Jackson tried to shove him off, but Jaebeom’s weight was pinning him down.

“You grabbed my shirt, idiot!” Jaebeom struggled to get up, his elbow catching Jackson in the ribs.

“Ow, fuck—” Jackson retaliated by hooking his leg around Jaebeom’s, trying to flip their positions. They rolled across the floor, knocking into the couch, both of them grappling like they were kids on a playground instead of 20 years old idols who should know better.

Jackson managed to get Jaebeom in a headlock, his arm tight around his neck. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Never,” Jaebeom gasped out, then drove his elbow back into Jackson’s ribs hard enough to make him loosen his grip.

They rolled again, and this time Jaebeom ended up on top, his hands pinning Jackson’s wrists to the floor above his head. They were both panting, faces flushed, hair messed up. Jackson could feel Jaebeom’s heartbeat where their chests pressed together, could see the way his pupils were dilated, could smell his body wash mixed with sweat and anger.

“I hate you,” Jackson panted, trying to buck Jaebeom off. But Jaebeom’s grip was iron, his thighs bracketing Jackson’s hips, holding him in place.

“I hate you more,” Jaebeom shot back, and his voice had gone lower, rougher.

They glared at each other, the air between them charged with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore, or maybe it was anger mixed with something else entirely. Jackson could see a drop of water from Jaebeom’s still-damp hair fall onto his own cheek. Could see the way Jaebeom’s chest was heaving. Could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the way every point of contact between their bodies felt like a live wire.

And then, for reasons Jackson would never be able to fully explain, he surged up and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or romantic or any of the things kisses were supposed to be. It was anger and frustration and violence redirected, Jackson’s teeth catching Jaebeom’s bottom lip hard enough to make him gasp. It was a continuation of their fight by other means, all that explosive energy finding a different outlet.

For exactly three seconds, Jaebeom went completely still, shocked into immobility. Jackson felt the moment of hesitation, the split second where this could go either way—Jaebeom could pull back, could punch him, could call him insane and storm off.

Instead, he kissed back.

And when Jaebeom kissed back, it was with the same aggressive intensity he brought to everything else. His grip on Jackson’s wrists tightened almost painfully as he deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding entry. When Jackson opened his mouth, Jaebeom took it as an invitation to absolutely destroy him.

It was messy and rough and probably a little bit violent. Jaebeom’s teeth scraped against Jackson’s lip, hard enough that Jackson tasted blood. He made a sound that was half growl, half moan, and suddenly his hands were free because Jaebeom needed them to grab his face, to angle it better, to kiss him deeper.

Jackson’s hands immediately went to Jaebeom’s hair, fisting in the damp strands and pulling hard enough to make Jaebeom groan against his mouth. The sound went straight to Jackson’s core, making his hips buck up involuntarily. When they made contact with Jaebeom’s, they both froze for a heartbeat, the reality of their position suddenly very clear.

Then Jaebeom rolled his hips down experimentally, and Jackson saw stars.

“Fuck,” Jackson gasped, his head falling back against the floor. Jaebeom took advantage of the exposed throat, his mouth moving to Jackson’s neck, biting and sucking in a way that was definitely going to leave marks.

Jackson’s hands scrabbled at Jaebeom’s bare back, his blunt nails dragging across skin. Jaebeom hissed at the sensation but didn’t stop the assault on Jackson’s neck, his teeth finding the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder and biting down.

“Jesus—” Jackson arched up into him, every nerve ending on fire. His hands slid down to grab Jaebeom’s hips, pulling him down, creating friction that made them both groan.

They moved together with the same intensity they brought to fighting, all sharp edges and desperate need. Jackson pulled Jaebeom’s face back up to kiss him again, and this time when their tongues met it felt less like a battle and more like a dance they both somehow knew the steps to.

Jaebeom’s hands were everywhere—in Jackson’s hair, on his chest, sliding under his ruined hoodie to touch bare skin. Each point of contact felt electric, overwhelming, too much and not nearly enough all at once. Jackson grabbed the back of Jaebeom’s neck, holding him in place while he kissed him deeper, harder, trying to pour all his frustration and anger and want into the connection.

When Jaebeom’s hips rolled down again, more deliberately this time, Jackson made a sound he didn’t recognize, it was so desperate and needy that it should have been embarrassing but wasn’t because Jaebeom made a similar sound in response.

They kissed until Jackson’s lips felt swollen and bruised, until Jaebeom’s hair was completely dry from Jackson’s fingers running through it obsessively, until they were both hard and panting and completely lost in each other.

The sound of a door opening down the hallway made them both freeze.

“Guys?” Mark’s voice called tentatively. “Is everyone… alive?”

They scrambled apart like they’d been electrocuted, both jumping to their feet and trying to look casual even though Jackson’s shirt was rucked up and Jaebeom’s hair looked like he’d been struck by lightning and they both had matching flushed faces and swollen lips.

Mark appeared in the doorway, took one look at them, and his eyes went wide. For a moment, nobody said anything.

“We’re fine,” Jackson said, his voice coming out rough and about an octave lower than normal.

“Just… working things out,” Jaebeom added, adjusting his sweatpants in a way that was definitely not subtle.

Mark’s gaze moved between them, taking in their disheveled appearances, the overturned coffee table, the way they were both very carefully not looking at each other. His expression suggested he was putting pieces together that he maybe didn’t want to put together.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Working things out. Cool. Just… try to keep it down. Some of us have schedules in the morning.”

He retreated back to his room, and Jackson and Jaebeom were left standing in the living room, the post-fight/post-makeout awkwardness settling over them like a blanket.

“So,” Jackson said finally, still not looking at Jaebeom.

“So,” Jaebeom echoed, his voice equally rough.

“That was…”

“Weird.”

“Yeah. Weird.”

Another long silence stretched between them. Jackson could still feel the ghost of Jaebeom’s hands on his skin, could still taste him, could still feel the ache in his lips from the force of their kissing. His heart was still racing, still hard, adrenaline mixing with arousal in a cocktail that made his head spin.

“I’m going to bed,” Jaebeom announced abruptly, already turning toward his room.

“Cool. Yeah. Me too.”

Jackson watched him disappear down the hallway, then stood there for another full minute trying to process what the hell had just happened. He touched his lips, felt the slight sting where Jaebeom’s teeth had caught him, and something in his stomach did a complicated flip.

He went to his room, lay down on his bed fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling for three hours before finally falling into a restless sleep filled with dreams he refused to examine too closely.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it.

The next morning, they passed each other in the kitchen with careful indifference, Jackson making toast while Jaebeom poured cereal. When their hands accidentally brushed reaching for the milk, they both jerked back like they’d been shocked.

“Sorry,” Jackson muttered, studying his toast with intense focus.

“Whatever,” Jaebeom replied, his attention fixed on his cereal bowl like it contained the secrets of the universe.

From his position at the table, Jinyoung watched this exchange with narrowed, calculating eyes. “You two are being weird.”

“We’re not being weird,” Jackson said too quickly.

“Totally normal,” Jaebeom agreed, his voice pitched slightly too high.

Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed further. “Uh-huh... definitely weird”

Youngjae snorted into his orange juice. Bambam looked up from his phone with interest. “What happened last night? We heard yelling and then it got quiet and then we heard...”

“What did you hear?” Jackson demanded, his face heating up.

“Just… noises. Like furniture moving. And… stuff.” Bambam’s grin. “Did you guys actually fight or did you just threaten each other really loudly?”

“We fought,” Jaebeom said firmly. “Jackson is an asshole who can’t respect other people’s property.”

“And Jaebeom is a thief with no consideration for others,” Jackson shot back.

“See? Totally normal,” Yugyeom said sarcastically from the doorway. “Just like every other morning where you two look like you want to either kill each other or—” He stopped, his eyes widening slightly as he looked between them. “Wait. What’s on your neck hyung?”

Jackson’s hand flew to his neck, which was definitely a mistake because it confirmed Yugyeom’s suspicion. “It’s just….”

“It’s a hickey,” Yugyeom said, his voice climbing with excitement. “Holy shit, You are dating that guy from sm again?— he is a fucking masochist hyung”

“NO” Jackson said, loud enough to make Yugyeom step back.

“We just fought,” Jackson continued. “And I must have… hit my neck on something.”

“On his mouth?” Bambam supplied helpfully.

“On the COFFEE TABLE.”

“Drop it,” Jaebeom said, his voice hard. “We fought, we’re over it, end of story.”

He grabbed his bowl and disappeared into his room, leaving Jackson to face the combined scrutiny of their bandmates alone.

“Seriously, we are good now,” Jackson insisted, grabbing his toast and retreating to his own room before anyone could interrogate him further.

For two days, Jackson convinced himself it had been a weird fluke, a moment of temporary insanity brought on by exhaustion and excess adrenaline. He and Jaebeom had fought plenty of times before without it turning into… whatever that was. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t happen again.

Then they got into another fight.

This time it was about the TV remote. Jackson had been watching a documentary about bass guitar techniques, sprawled on the couch after a particularly brutal dance practice. He was actually learning something useful, taking mental notes about a specific slap bass technique he wanted to try.

Then Jaebeom came home, walked directly to the TV, and changed the channel without so much as a word.

“Dude, I was watching that!” Jackson sat up, annoyance already flooding through him.

“You’ve seen this documentary three times,” Jaebeom said, settling into the other end of the couch with his phone.

“So? I like it. I’m learning things.”

“Well, I want to watch the news.”

“Then ASK first. It’s called basic courtesy.”

“It’s a shared TV, Jackson. I don’t need your permission to use it.”

And just like that, they were off again. Voices rising, both of them standing up and moving closer with that familiar pre-fight energy. The other members had developed a sixth sense for these moments—Bambam grabbed his phone and headphones, heading for his room. Yugyeom followed close behind, muttering something about homework. Youngjae appeared from the kitchen, took one look at them, and retreated with his snacks.

“You’re such a selfish prick,” Jackson spat, getting in Jaebeom’s face.

“You’re a controlling asshole who thinks everything belongs to you,” Jaebeom shot back.

They were chest to chest again, both breathing hard, and Jackson could see the exact moment when Jaebeom remembered what happened last time. His eyes flickered to Jackson’s lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—but Jackson caught it. And once he’d noticed, he couldn’t stop noticing the way Jaebeom’s jaw was clenched, the way his hands were balled into fists at his sides, the way his chest was heaving.

“Don’t,” Jackson warned, but his voice lacked any real conviction.

“Don’t what?” Jaebeom challenged, stepping even closer.

Jackson grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

It was just as angry and desperate as the first time, maybe more so because now they both knew what they were doing. There was no moment of shock, no hesitation. Jaebeom’s hands immediately went to Jackson’s hair, pulling him closer, kissing back with bruising intensity.

Jackson pushed him backward until Jaebeom’s back hit the wall with a thud that should have hurt but didn’t seem to register. Jaebeom used the leverage to flip them, pressing Jackson against the wall instead, one hand braced beside his head while the other slid down to grip his hip.

They kissed like they were trying to consume each other, all teeth and tongue and barely controlled violence. When Jaebeom’s thigh pressed between Jackson’s legs, they both groaned into each other’s mouths. Jackson’s hands slid under Jaebeom’s shirt, his blunt nails scraping across skin, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Fuck,” Jaebeom gasped against his mouth, his hips pressing forward involuntarily.

They made out against the wall until Jackson’s legs felt weak, Jaebeom’s lips were red and swollen, until they heard someone’s door creaking open down the hallway and had to break apart, both of them panting.

“This is insane,” Jackson said, his voice hoarse.

“Completely insane,” Jaebeom agreed, his eyes dark and pupils dilated.

But three days later, when they fought about whose turn it was to do the dishes—a screaming match in the kitchen that had Jinyoung threatening to mother them both—they ended up pressed together between the counter and the refrigerator, kissing frantically while trying to keep quiet enough that no one would hear.

A week after that, an argument about music volume led to them making out in Jackson’s room. Jackson had his headphones in, working on a new bass line, the volume admittedly higher than it should have been. Jaebeom stormed in without knocking, yanked the headphones off Jackson’s head, and started yelling about respect and shared spaces.

One thing led to another, and suddenly Jaebeom had Jackson pressed into his mattress, their kisses growing more heated with each passing second. Jackson’s hands were under Jaebeom’s shirt, mapping the planes of his back, while Jaebeom’s mouth moved from his lips to his jaw to that spot on his neck that made Jackson make embarrassing sounds.

“The others are going to hear,” Jackson gasped when Jaebeom’s teeth found his collarbone.

“Then be quiet,” Jaebeom murmured against his skin, his hand sliding down Jackson’s chest, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans in a clear question.

Jackson’s breath caught. They hadn’t gone further than kissing and touching over clothes. This was new territory, dangerous territory. But when Jaebeom looked up at him, his eyes dark with want, Jackson found himself nodding.

It was the first time they touched each other intimate parts. Without clothes on it was even more addictive. Something about Jaebeom’s dick in Jackson’s hand was driving both of them crazy.

Even crazier when Jackson placed himself on top of his leader and started rolling his hips so their could feel each other grow harder.

"Fuck"

The sound of Mark’s voice calling for them from the living room had them springing apart, both scrambling to look presentable. They emerged from Jackson’s room two minutes later, Jackson’s hair a mess and Jaebeom’s lips still swollen, and Mark just sighed heavily without commenting.

Then it was a fight about the bathroom schedule that ended with them tangled together in the shower, water running cold by the time they finally broke apart. That day they tried something new. Jaebeom had his dick sliding between Jackson’s lower cheeks while having his hand around his leaking and wet erection. Absolutely perfect. An argument about someone using someone else’s razor turned into frantic kissing in the hallway. A disagreement about the thermostat setting led to them pressed together in the supply closet, trying to stay quiet while the others watched TV in the next room.

They fought, and then they make out, then they went back to their normal lives like nothing had happened. They never discussed it. Never acknowledged it outside of those heated moments. During the day they were the same as always—argumentative, competitive, driving each other and everyone else crazy with their constant bickering.

But now there was an edge to their fights that hadn’t been there before, an electric anticipation underlying the anger.

Jackson found himself picking fights over increasingly stupid things just to feel that rush of adrenaline followed by the crash of Jaebeom’s body against his. And based on the way Jaebeom seemed to go out of his way to antagonize him, he wasn’t the only one.

“You two are weird” Jinyoung announced one evening after witnessing them nearly come to blows over whose turn it was to take out the trash, only to disappear into Jackson’s room moments later and emerge twenty minutes later looking suspiciously disheveled.

“We’re working on our communication skills,” Jackson said with a straight face, his lips still tingling from Jaebeom’s teeth.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Jaebeom muttered, adjusting his shirt.

“You need therapy,” Jinyoung said flatly.

But they ignored him, because acknowledging what they were doing would make it real, would require them to put labels and definitions on something that worked precisely because it existed outside of rational thought.

The thing was, as insane as their arrangement was, it worked for them. All that explosive energy that used to result in actual physical fights—the kind that left bruises and required ice packs—now got channeled into something that felt equally intense but significantly more satisfying. Jackson still got pissed at Jaebeom on a regular basis—the guy was infuriating in about a thousand different ways—but now anger and attraction were so tangled up together that he couldn’t separate them anymore.

He’d be furious about something Jaebeom did, ready to throttle him, and then they’d be kissing and he’d forget what he was mad about until they broke apart and he remembered oh right, the asshole used all the hot water again. Then he’d get mad all over again, which would lead to more kissing, which would lead to forgetting again. It was a vicious cycle, but neither of them seemed interested in breaking it.

The first time they almost got caught was during a particularly heated argument about song lyrics.

Their manager had tasked them with writing original material for their next comeback, and Jackson and Jaebeom had volunteered to work on a track together. In retrospect, this was obviously a terrible idea, but their manager seemed to think that forcing them to collaborate would help them “work through their issues.”

They were supposed to be working in the practice room, just the two of them while the others were at a variety show taping. Jaebeom had written a verse that Jackson thought was too repetitive, and Jackson had suggested changes that Jaebeom found insulting.

“The metaphor doesn’t work,” Jackson insisted, pointing at the lyrics sheet. “You can’t compare love to a storm and then suddenly switch to calling it a garden. Pick one.”

“It’s called artistic complexity,” Jaebeom snapped. “Not everything has to be literal and obvious.”

“It’s not complex, it’s confusing. The imagery is inconsistent.”

“Your bass playing is inconsistent.”

“My bass playing is perfect, unlike your pretentious lyrics.”

“Pretentious? You’re the one who spends hours watching documentaries about bass techniques from the 1970s.”

“At least I’m trying to improve my craft instead of thinking I’m God’s gift to songwriting.”

“You arrogant piece of—”

Jaebeom cut him off with a kiss, rough and demanding, pushing Jackson back against the mirrored wall. Jackson’s hands immediately went to Jaebeom’s hair, pulling hard enough to make him gasp.

“Shut up,” Jaebeom growled against his mouth.

“Make me,” Jackson challenged.

Jaebeom did, kissing him deeper, more thoroughly, his hands sliding under Jackson’s shirt to touch bare skin. Jackson’s breath hitched at the contact, his head falling back against the mirror with a thud that probably would have hurt if he could focus on anything other than Jaebeom’s mouth on his neck, Jaebeom’s hands on his skin, Jaebeom’s body pressed against his.

They kissed and Jackson’s and thoughts were reduced to an incoherent buzz of want and need of more. Jaebeom’s hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his chest, sliding down to grip his hips and pull him closer. When Jaebeom’s thigh pressed between his legs, Jackson couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped.

“Fuck, Jackson,” Jaebeom breathed against his ear, his voice wrecked. His hands moved to Jackson’s belt, fingers working at the buckle.

“Here?” Jackson gasped, even as his hips rolled forward involuntarily.

“Why not?” Jaebeom’s teeth found his earlobe, biting gently. “Door’s locked, no one’s here—”

“Jaebeom,” Jackson’s voice was barely recognizable, rough with need.

Jaebeom pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark and intense. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Jackson pulled him back into a kiss instead, pouring every ounce of want and frustration and desperate need into it. Jaebeom made a sound of satisfaction low in his throat, his hands resuming their work on Jackson’s belt.

They were so lost in each other that they didn’t hear the practice room door opening until Bambam’s voice cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water: “Hey, we finished early so we thought we’d—HOLY SHIT.”

Jackson and Jaebeom sprang apart so fast that Jaebeom nearly fell over, his foot catching on a discarded water bottle. Bambam stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open in shock. Behind him, Yugyeom peered over his shoulder and his expression transformed from curious to shocked to horrified in about half a second.

“This isn’t—” Jackson started, his face burning hot enough to probably be visible from space.

“We were just—” Jaebeom tried, running a hand through his thoroughly messed hair.

“You were making out,” Bambam said flatly, his voice pitched high with disbelief. “Like, actively making out. Against the mirror. With tongue. And hands. So many hands.”

“We can explain,” Jackson said weakly, even though he had absolutely no explanation that would make this look any less damning.

“Please don’t,” Yugyeom said quickly. “I’m not ready for this conversation.”

Bambam’s eyes darted between them, taking in their flushed faces, swollen lips, the way Jackson’s shirt was rucked up and Jaebeom’s belt was hanging open. “Are you guys like… together?”

“No,” they both said immediately and in perfect unison, which was probably suspicious in itself.

Bambam raised an eyebrow. “So you just make out for fun?”

“It’s complicated,” Jackson muttered, adjusting his shirt and trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

“It’s really not complicated,” Jaebeom added. “We just… when we fight, sometimes we…”

“Kiss instead of killing each other,” Jackson finished lamely.

The two younger members looked at each other, then back at Jackson and Jaebeom, then at each other again. Some kind of silent communication passed between them.

“That is literally the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,” Bambam announced. “And I once watched Jinyoung-hyung alphabetize his sock drawer.”

“Are you going to tell the others?” Jaebeom asked, and Jackson was surprised to hear something almost vulnerable in his voice.

Yugyeom shifted uncomfortably. “I mean… it’s kind of your business? As long as it doesn’t mess up the group…”

“It won’t,” Jackson said quickly. Too quickly. “This doesn’t change anything. We’re still the same.”

“The same but occasionally making out,” Bambam clarified.

“Yes. That.”

Another loaded silence stretched between them. Bambam and Yugyeom were still staring at them like they’d grown second heads. Jackson could feel Jaebeom’s presence beside him, could sense the tension radiating off him, could almost hear his racing thoughts.

“Fine,” Bambam said finally, sighing dramatically. “We won’t say anything. But you two seriously need to figure out whatever this is, because it’s going to get messy eventually.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Jaebeom said, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced.