Page 24 of Damian & Jun: Episodes 5-8
Jun exchanged looks with Damian, then plucked the microphone from the man’s hand with a bow of his own. “Please forgive me. I’m out of practice.”
He walked back to the rest of the band with the leader, and they conferred for a while. Damian texted Mi Hi.
She texted back.
Damian smirked. There were cameras for certain. Even the kitchen staff was crowding into the room as Jun stepped to the front of the stage.
The drummer counted them in, and Jun’s body moved with the beat. The regular singer joined the two guitarists who usually sang backup. The keyboardist entered with a light, steady strum of chords.
“This sounds familiar,” Émeric noted.
Jun raised the microphone to his lips, his eyes sliding shut as the opening melody floated from his lips.
A middle-aged woman a table away pressed her hand over her mouth.
Jun swayed through the first two lines, voice dark and strong as black silk. His eyes opened, finding Damian’s face as he sang.
Forget the media impact, Damian needed this performance recorded for himself.
No one moved through the entire song. There was a riotous applause and demand for more. Jun exchanged looks with the drummer and held up one finger. There were cheers. Jun turned to the drummer, his hips swaying to the beat. When he turned back around, his shirt was fully open from throat to belt, the ugly bruises decorating his lower ribs and down his flat stomach visible in the stage lights. One of the Chinese girls pointed, and two of her friends slapped their hands over their mouths.
Jun slotted the microphone into the mic stand and cupped his hands around it, leaning into it, his eyes shut, husking out the first two lines. This song was in Korean and English.
Damian shook his head, holding in his laughter. Jun was singing for all he was worth as if this was an award concert and not a restaurant. But when had Jun ever phoned in a performance? The song was popular. At least half the people present seemed to know it, and they were nodding along, some of them singing quietly under their breath. The main band singer joined Jun at the front, switching off the parts. There were cheers when Jun broke out into an abbreviated bit of the choreography.
“The boy is throwing down a challenge,” Émeric murmured.
“How so?” Richard tilted his head toward his husband.
Émeric slid his phone across the table with the lyrics of both songs on display.
Richard read them, his grin growing.
“I see. Let’s see how they respond.”
Damian frowned. “What do you mean?”
Émeric smirked. “The first public song your Jun decided to sing references getting out of prison, and he followed it up with ‘Fake Love.’”
Oh.
There was no way Bak would not respond to that. K-pop fans would not miss such a blatant declaration. The comment boards would explode in speculation before the hour was out.
“I like this boy.” Richard grinned, his eyes on Jun.
The song came to an end, and Jun bowed, then turned, giving credit to the band. When he turned around, his shirt was buttoned back up. He gave the microphone back and jogged across the restaurant to their table. He slid in beside Damian, Richard having switched sides and joined his husband.
Jun brushed his hand against Damian’s thigh under the table.
Damian caught his hand, wrapping his fingers over Jun’s, encasing them. “You know they’re going to write about every time you touch me.”
Jun’s eyes glowed like a wolf’s. “Let them.”
Damian
Back at The Residency that night in Damian’s bed, both of them freshly showered, surrounded by Bear, Téméraire, and a barely sufficient abundance of pillows and blankets, Damian held a nearly naked Jun against his skin. They traded kisses slowly, hands wandering over each other's skin. There was so much wonder in having Jun here willing, pliant, and hungry for him. Damian mapped his lips and his mouth, imprinting the taste of him inside his bones. He needed to know every part of Jun to have and to hold forever.
They stilled, just breathing each other in.
