Key’s a bit different. Kyuhyun’s sure that had he been stuck living with the brat, Kyuhyun would never have had time to perfect his dancing or arpeggios, or anything other than expand the range of his hip’s flexion.

“What’d you think,” Key says when they’ve come backstage, when Key and shrugging out of his leather jackets and dabbing away the sweat on his neck, forehead, and chin. He asks again when Kyuhyun laughs and ignores him, when they’re in the car back to the hotel in the middle of Time’s Square, when they’re in the hotel room Kyuhyun has to himself.

“How do you even move like that,” Kyuhyun manages to say at some point in between frantically scrabbling for the lights, for Key’s shirt, for the bed.

“Yoga,” Key says primly, or as primly as someone bend over in half can possibly say. Kibum always manages to be a fucking pain even when his knees are trembling, when they’re rolling off the high of a concert, ears still ringing with the English of New York City’s fanatic cheers, when Kyuhyun has the lights on and the drapes open and anyone with a pair of binoculars could see them grabbing at each other, kissing and biting and leaving marks that even the most expensive foundation won’t cover.

Kyuhyun pushes Kibum further into the sheet, breathes, and refocuses. Key is still dressed, but his shirt’s stupid buttons are mainly undone. Kyuhyun bits his lip.

“You know, if you wore actual pants, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“If you used your hands instead of your teeth, they’d be off by now.” But Kyuhyun’s hands are sliding up Key’s shirt, tracing the lines of his hips, up his chest, encircling his waist. He lowers his nose and nuzzles into Key’s inner thighs.

“I could stop.”

“You wouldn’t,” and Key thrusts forward into Kyuhyun’s face, cock brushing against his cheek. Kyuhyun sucks a bruise into Key’s hip, and teethes at the cotton leggings. Kibum’s right—Kyuhyun is desperately hard himself, It’s almost painfully dizzying, watching Key lean backwards, blond hair mussed, eyeliner smudged. Key smells of sweat and musk and something deep that Kyuhyun’s can’t quite identify.

“Fuck,” Kyuhyun thinks or saying or something in between the two, palming himself restlessly. “Just. Get out of these. “

Key rolls his eyes and leans forward, breath hot by Kyuhyun’s ear. “Can’t multi-task?” But he obliges, shifting away and curling his hands under his legging-pant-things, slipping them down. They catch on his knees, which Kyuhyun thinks about laughing at, but then he sees Key’s legs, all pale and curved and hairless. He remembers Key’s latest photoshoot, the ropes wound around his calves, up his thighs, around his hips. He wonders if Key fucked the stylist as well, if it was necessary, if Key was too fucking hard to fit into the costume.

He wouldn’t be surprised; it wouldn’t be the first time.