🐧𝒮𝑢𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑛.⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

The scent of wilting lilies clung to the living room, a sweetness turning sour. Sunghoon stood in the center of the bedroom, his knuckles white as he gripped a single Polaroid. The image was blurred, a secret captured in chemical hues that didn't belong in their curated, clean sanctuary.
The front door clicked. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed through the hallway, followed by the metallic rattle of keys hitting the floor. 
Sunghoon stepped into the corridor. Sunoo leaned against the wall, his frame trembling. The smell of cheap gin and stale cigarette smoke rolled off him in waves, masking the usual scent of vanilla. His eyes, usually bright and wide, were bloodshot and swollen.
"You're late," Sunghoon said. His voice was a low grate, steady but edged with a sharp current of anxiety.
Sunoo flinched, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor. A choked sob escaped him.
"Where have you been?"
"Does it matter?" Sunoo whispered. He hugged his knees to his chest, looking small beneath the oversized sweater that usually made him look cuddly. Now, it looked like a shroud.
Sunghoon knelt, his large hand reaching out to tilt Sunoo’s chin upward. 
"Look at me. Tell me what happened."
Sunoo jerked his head away, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. 
"Stop it. Just stop being... you."
Sunghoon’s brow furrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I know," Sunoo gasped, his voice fracturing. "I know why you stay. I know what they say about you."
Sunghoon froze. The Polaroid in his pocket felt like a hot coal against his thigh. "Who is 'they'?"
"Everyone! The people who actually know you," Sunoo screamed, the sound raw and guttural. He finally looked at Sunghoon, his expression a mask of betrayal. "You're straight, Sunghoon. You've always been straight. This whole thing—us, this apartment, the way you look at me—it's just a game, isn't it?"
Sunghoon recoiled as if struck. "What are you talking about? I love you."
"You're using me!" Sunoo wailed, clutching his chest.