i think i'd love you if we met

by pickledmelon

Chapter 6

Notes:

We’ve made it! This chapter gets very fluffy, consider yourself warned ❤️

Good at waiting… What fucking possessed him to say that?

Blessed with a new internal countdown and a mad urge to disregard every single responsibility that’s been waiting for him in Seoul, Wooyoung is on day two and he’s suffering. He’s losing it. He’s made it through a morning of practice, one flat viewing, and two meetings, and all of it on sheer luck and charm. If someone asked him what colour underwear he was wearing that day, Wooyoung could only answer because most of his underwear is black.

“Why would anyone ask that?” Yeonjun says, eyebrow raised as he takes a sip of beer.

“I don’t know.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Just an example.”

“Is he asking you that?” The eyebrow wiggles this time, in the direction of Wooyoung’s phone.

“No. He’s asking worse things,” Wooyoung says with an exaggerated sigh. “What flowers I like. How I feel about oysters.”

“Oh, boy is planning!”

“Yeah...”

The second sigh is softer; he doesn’t mind that San is planning—it’s thrilling and sappy and so very San—and complaining about his antics would only make Wooyoung a hypocrite. He’s put in a reservation at a BBQ place in Gangnam that’s usually booked months in advance, knowing one of the employees through Seunghyuk. He has a list of dessert places in his head, ready to consult with Seonghwa. For the start of the date, he’s deciding between an amusement park and a cat café.

“I should just go ambush him on campus,” he says, pulling the tab off another can.

“Mm. I can find you a spare megaphone.”

Wooyoung pretends to think about it, holding the beer in his mouth. “You know, I think he’d love that.”

“Cool. Let me call Soobin!”

They both laugh, not moving from the floor cushions and the takeout spread before them. Yeonjun changes the song that’s playing from his phone. Wooyoung looks through the floor-to-ceiling window, contemplating how far the SJU campus actually is.

He’s not going to run around and scream San’s name into a megaphone, hilarious as the idea is. San just got back from Namhae. He’s probably unpacking or—more realistically—taking a nap. Two more days is nothing.

Though Yeonjun had ribbed him about meeting only to find out they have zero chemistry, Wooyoung doesn’t really worry. He’s overthinking the plans because he wants to, years’ worth of daydreams unleashed and suddenly floating to the surface of his mind. He’s calm, all things considered. Once they meet, Wooyoung knows the plans won’t actually matter at all.

“By the way—” he snatches Yeonjun’s phone, disregarding his squeak and cutting the music off “—do you know this song?”

It’s been a while since Wooyoung’s heard it in full, overdoing it in the weeks that he was trying to work out a good choreo, irrationally jaded with it after failing that one medley audition. He never picked the parts he’d finished back up, moving onto a different song, and then another, and then dropping that part of him after the breakup.

He still remembers what he’d been going for, though, and he might make it work better now that he’s got more experience.

Yeonjun nods. “Of course. What’s with it?”

“I was thinking of using it,” Wooyoung admits. “For a video.”

“Is there choreo? It’s been a while since—”

“Yeah, in my head.” He gets his own phone, scrolling down to a year ago in his gallery. “Mostly.”

The version he likes the most is only about a minute long, far from finished. Yeonjun likes it; genuinely, Wooyoung doesn’t spot any of his usual tells for when he’s trying to sugarcoat something. He watches it three times and listens to Wooyoung’s rambles on what could be changed, and then shrugs, playing with his empty can.

“You could sing this, too,” he says, not looking directly at Wooyoung. “It would suit your voice.”

“It’s a duet,” Wooyoung deadpans.

“Can be solved.”

Yeonjun tries to scroll to the next video but Wooyoung doesn’t let him. He hides the phone under his thigh. “Like you’ll have the time,” he deflects, teasing, “with your solo plans.”

“They’re just talks.”

“That’s how plans start.”

“And sometimes that’s where they end.”

“Stop acting so indifferent,” Wooyoung says through a mouthful of fried chicken. “You know it’s going to happen.”

Yeonjun just laughs, rolling his eyes. They fight for the last two fries—Wooyoung scoring both—and sit in comfortable silence for a while, looking at the dazzling city lights behind the window.

“I love this place,” Yeonjun breaks the quiet. “Must’ve been pricey.”

It’s far from the cheapest option Wooyoung could find for the week, but he decided to splurge when he saw the 17th floor view. The flat itself is small, with a tiny kitchen and no proper table, but he gets to fall asleep with a view of the skyline. He can even see Namsan Tower on the horizon.

“Yeah, big mistake,” Wooyoung grumbles. “How can I settle for a basement studio now?” Not one of the flats he’s meant to view is in the basement, but Yeonjun doesn’t have to know that.

“You’ll find a place.”

“Your dorm has a spare bed?”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to live there.”

Probably not, though as far as dorms go, Yeonjun’s is far more civilised than whatever Yeosang and his dormmates have going on. Yeonjun’s flat has a functional fridge, to start with. And his bed must be comfortable enough, since he refuses Wooyoung’s invitation to sleep over on the sofa. Not even Wooyoung’s dramatic wails break him. Not even the prospect of meeting Seonghwa-hyung in the morning, when he’ll come to pick Wooyoung up for practice and take over the babysitting duties.

“You’ll be fine for a few hours, Wooyoung-ah.”

“What if I’m not?” Wooyoung says, a last-ditch joke in the doorway. “What if I steal a karaoke machine and go serenade him at dawn?”

“Have fun.” Yeonjun winks before stepping back from their hug. “Sing one of our songs.”

“You wish.”

Wooyoung scoffs, once the door has already closed. He takes in the mess on the floor—empty takeout boxes and dirty bowls, cushions strewn about, beer cans piled over the coffee table—and decides he’s too drunk to deal with it, despite being a glass of water away from fully sober. Tomorrow is another day. Then there will be one more day.

Then he’ll meet San.

Sunny

I think there’s a party

Next door

(you)

u should go

Sunny

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

Sure

I wouldn’t go on a good day

Definitely not after 6 hours on a bus

(you)

would u go

if i went

with you?

Sunny

That’s not fair!

(you)

would u?

Sunny

Of course

(you)

too bad

i’m in

banpodong

Sunny

Yeah…

As far as their chats go, not much has changed. Wooyoung still complains about random inconveniences (most recently, his favourite history podcast introducing a tiered paywall), and San still sends him random photos (just a while ago, a vaguely heart shaped puddle). They’ve left the dating apps behind. San has already called him twice, for no real reason.

“Hey, San-ah.” The third time, Wooyoung is just settling into bed, lights turned off to admire the skyline. San would love it but Wooyoung hasn’t sent him a picture yet, for reasons too daring to articulate. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Again?” Wooyoung asks, mock-disapproving. It’s embarrassing how close he is to giggling about it.

“Always,” San says. Zero shame.

He’ll be deadly in person, Wooyoung knows. So long that he’s spent avoiding San out of self-preservation, all a useless effort.

He rubs a hand over his knee, watches Namsan Tower blink at him from afar, and listens to San talk about how the bus driver kept taking trot song suggestions from his passengers. San made everyone sing Amor Fati. He sings the chorus for Wooyoung, just because.

It was always going to come down to this, he thinks as he starts drifting off. One way or another, he would always end up getting ruined by San.

*

“I’ll tell you my thoughts if you tell me yours.”

Seonghwa looks at him from the side, grinning. He’s got his mask pulled just below his chin, black beanie covering his hair, and he somehow manages to make the combo work with his woollen poncho. Idol magic.

“Meh.” Wooyoung withholds a smile. “I already know what you think, hyung.”

“Try me.”

“You think I shouldn’t live in a place so close to an old hospital.”

Seonghwa shudders dramatically but shakes his head. “Some ghosts could do you good, Wooyoung-ah,” he says, and shudders once more. “But the state of that laundry room? No way.”

The flat they’ve gone to see is a two-bedroom close to Itaewon, a little rundown but very reasonably priced for the location. Wooyoung would be sharing it with an art student specialising in sculpture. He won’t be, though. Haunted old hospitals and dirty laundry rooms aside, the explosion of colours in the flat almost made him miss Seunghyuk’s pigeon art.

“For three months, maybe I’d let you do laundry at mine,” Seonghwa says, smiling as he catches Wooyoung’s eye in the rearview mirror. “But not for a year.”

Wooyoung smiles back.

Seonghwa would even let him use his premium detergent for a year, if Wooyoung needed it. The comment is just another offhand way for Seonghwa to express his happiness over Wooyoung’s decision—after already suggesting they go to Jinju for their summer break, and pointing out all the places from Wooyoung’s dessert list that they should try together. Never trying to sway him in one direction or another, the moment Wooyoung let him know he’d be staying close, Seonghwa lit up like Christmas had come early.

“Imagine having all those statues staring at you first thing in the morning,” Wooyoung says, mimicking a shudder of his own. “A year, and I’d be checking myself in at that hospital.”

In contrast to Seonghwa’s joy, San’s reaction to the news had been more… reserved.

Truth be told, Wooyoung had no plans of telling him yet—not over the phone, and definitely not over text. He knew how it could sound. How San could feel like he’d been put on the spot, Wooyoung burdening him with an impossibly heavy choice before they’d even met.

But San had brought the topic up, and Wooyoung couldn’t lie. Even faced with San’s delayed reaction—It’s not because of me, right?—Wooyoung could only tell the truth.

(you)

it’s because it doesn’t feel

like it’s the right door

right now

“Your turn,” Seonghwa breaks him out of his thoughts, and smirks at the long-suffering look Wooyoung sends in the driver’s direction. “What do you think of the choreo?”

The perks of having rich idol friends—Wooyoung gets free rides in the company car. With that thought, he relents. “I don’t like it.”

“Mhm,” Seonghwa snarks, “I couldn’t tell.”

“I think it’s repetitive,” Wooyoung goes on. “The same formation as the last title. Everyone will compare the chorus to Growl. But like, boring and family-friendly.”

The choreo they’ve been presented in the morning is not terrible—the backup dancers are there for almost half the song, and the bridge will make for a nice challenge—but it’s nothing Wooyoung will be itching to perform. Easy to learn, easy to forget. His own parts aside, the group deserves way better with the hype they’ve got after their tour.

“We could speak to Eunha-nim.”

Wooyoung hums. While he’s on good terms with everyone in the company, it’s not like he can go complain to the manager about not liking the choreo that’s already been picked and paid for. The group can, to some extent. No guarantees that their concerns will be attended to.

“When we’re back from the fansigns,” Seonghwa says, nudging Wooyoung’s knee. “But you know what she’ll say.”

“Not enough time to start over.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, all casual. “We can suggest some changes, though.”

“Hyung—”

“Between all the dancers, there must be some good ideas.”

It’s clear what Seonghwa is getting at, and Wooyoung does have some ideas. They’re going with a dark concept for the next comeback, and the title track is almost jarring—a theatrical intro that dips into grunge, underlaid with a catchy melody. It’s never going to be a household hit but it’s a good song. A great opportunity to experiment with the group’s usual dance style.

“Hyung, I can’t come up with a whole choreo in a week.”

“Of course.”

“And definitely not this week.”

“Understandable.”

“It would be a disaster.”

“You know it wouldn’t,” Seonghwa says, and then he changes the topic with infuriating calmness, picking Wooyoung’s brain on what chamkireum brand goes best with grilled beef.

Seonghwa’s offered to tag along to another flat viewing—a shared one-bedroom in Yeonhuidong which Wooyoung has zero expectations for—and since he’s providing the car, Wooyoung only grumbles a little when Seonghwa asks to make a stop at their company. It’s not a detour, and the sky has been dark with clouds all day; Wooyoung also knew they’d be making the stop, the moment he saw Seonghwa ordering another bento to-go at lunch.

“I can’t believe he’ll produce a whole song in one sitting,” he says, just as they’re pulling into the underground carpark, “but he’ll forget to feed himself for days.”

Seonghwa, who often voices similar complaints, immediately jumps to Hongjoong’s defence. “He’s really busy.”

“It’s food, hyung. Who can be too busy for food?”

Wooyoung’s halfway out of the car when he realises that sounds exactly like something San would say, smiling to himself. He almost forgets his phone, hidden in the car pocket to stop him from obsessively checking for messages. Seonghwa doesn’t comment—probably hoping his benevolence will prevent further rants about Hongjoong’s lack of life skills. Wooyoung keeps going, though, all the way through the turnstiles, to the elevator, and up to the tenth floor.

“You know what it’s like,” Seonghwa says, hushed, like somehow Hongjoong could hear them in the elevator. “Most talented people have their… quirks.”

“Love is blind.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes, making the gesture as fond and exaggerated as he can.

He’s only been to Hongjoong’s new studio once. The production team used to work in a different building—before the company started renting an extra floor—and, by then, Seonghwa and Hongjoong had stopped dancing around each other, relieving Wooyoung of his self-nominated moral support duties. When they all hang out, it’s usually away from work, Seonghwa on a brave quest of battling Hongjoong’s workaholism.

“It’ll be quick. You could’ve stayed in the car,” Seonghwa says, pointlessly, when the elevator dings open.

Wooyound doesn’t say anything. He’s hoping to get a chance to talk to Hongjoong about the Jongho thing. Not to stop San from leaving—he’s making his peace with San leaving, Australia seeming only a hop away—but…

Wooyoung would shut up about Hongjoong’s quirks once and for all if he could make the Jongho thing happen.

“Is he even here?” Wooyoung asks, following Seonghwa down the corridor.

“Yeah, he was with his friend.”

“Will you blow me off to stay with him?” he jokes, throwing an arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders.

“No, Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa says, just before he knocks on the door. “It’ll be five minutes. I promise.”

Hongjoong’s studio is ridiculously small, really. Wooyoung would think a junior producer deserves a place that can fit a sofa, but the studio reminds him of a cubby-sized darkroom. The light is dim—probably one of the reasons Hongjoong doesn’t know night from day—and there’s a general aura of organised chaos; at least Wooyoung hopes it’s organised, he can tell Seonghwa is itching to clean every last dust mote.

“Seonghwa-ya!” Hongjoong rushes over to greet his boyfriend, surprised but visibly pleased. It takes him about ten seconds to realise Wooyoung is there, too. “Wooyoung-ah! What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life, hyung,” Wooyoung deadpans.

Seonghwa glares at him, unimpressed, but his face softens as he holds up the paper bag. “Brought you food.”

“Oh.” Hongjoong’s smile drops. “I just had some—”

Wooyoung walks into the room, letting the other two hover by the doorway and argue about who should keep the extra meal for later. Seonghwa hangs the paper bag on the door handle, and then proceeds to block Hongjoong from reaching for it. They end up hugging. Wooyoung stops spying, smirking under his nose.

The studio smells like cheap tteokbokki and there’s a beat playing from Hongjoong’s abandoned headphones, something slow and mellow. Wooyoung watches the matching waveforms, thinking up the best way to bring up Jongho. He tunes back into the conversation just to raise his eyebrows, Seonghwa and Hongjoong seemingly discussing the weather.

“You should take my jacket, I’ll be here a while,” Hongjoong says, tugging at Seonghwa’s poncho with a frown. “Or—oh, San forgot his umbrella.”

Wooyoung freezes.

He swallows, tongue not working, staring at the back of Hongjoong’s head with wide eyes. They jump around the room, floor to ceiling, settling in the corner of the room where a purple umbrella stands leaning against the wall.

Wooyoung doesn’t think as he rushes towards it, grabbing the handle before his brain restarts. He’s stomping, heaving on the inside, slamming his shoulder into Hongjoong’s from behind and startling himself at the touch.

“When did he leave?”

“Just now,” Hongjoong says. Slow and confused, he looks between Wooyoung’s face and the umbrella in his hands.

“I—”

Wooyoung gives up on speaking right away. He doesn’t explain as he sets off, making the paper bag fall off the door, practically running down the corridor and ignoring the joint shouts that follow. Lucky, the elevator opens almost as soon as he triple-presses the button.

It makes sense, he thinks as he catches his breath. Producer friend. Old trainee friend that San used to tutor, the one who’s promised to talk to Jongho. It makes complete fucking sense, and Wooyoung feels like an idiot.

San has been in their company building, probably more than once. They must’ve been mere floors apart, maybe less than a corridor away from running into each other. They could’ve bumped shoulders by the vending machines, in the coffee shop, or Wooyoung could’ve walked in on San fixing his hair in the bathroom. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so Wooyoung just swears at how fucking slow the elevator is, not caring about the scandalised looks from other passengers.

He’s the first one out the doors and—a once in a lifetime opportunity—considers jumping over the turnstiles like he’s in a movie; his very own airport chase, except he has no reason for his nerves to be churning like they are, no plane that’s going to take San away from him. It feels like causing an uproar with the security would be the least ridiculous part of the whole ordeal. The most reasonable.

Also the best way to cut Wooyoung’s chase short, and so, the worst thing he could do. He tames his adrenaline and swipes his card like a normal person, laughing as he flies past the rotating doors.

The rain is just starting when he gets outside, stray droplets falling behind Wooyoung’s collar. He pauses, looks around, and swears again. Perhaps he should’ve thought this through just a tiny bit better—asked Hongjoong if he should run towards the bus stop, or the subway, or just call San and ask, no bells and whistles. But there’s no fun in that, and Wooyoung starts running towards the closest subway station, knowing San usually takes the number two.

There are way too many people for this hour.

Wooyoung has no idea what San could be wearing, whether to be looking for his favourite grey beanie or his dark hair. He doesn’t know how tall San is. He doesn’t know what his walk looks like. Most likely, San is already on the subway, completely oblivious to Wooyoung looking for him like a crazed chihuahua. He wishes he really was one, so that he could track San’s smell.

Not that he even knows what San smells like.

He considers turning around at the second intersection, grinding his shoe into the pavement. Forty more seconds of red; it’s as good of a signal to give up as any. His gaze locks onto a person on the other side of the road, a silhouette rushing in the opposite direction, towards the subway. It must be a complete stranger, but Woooyung can’t stop his heart from pounding like a drum. At twenty seconds to go, he gets his phone out. At five, he’s dialling.

He’s almost on the other side of the crossing when San picks up—and the stranger in front of him lifts a phone to his ear.

“Wooyoung-ah?”

“Hey.”

There’s a lump in Wooyoung’s throat, blocking out both words and laughter. He breathes as he runs, the man ahead slowing his steps.

“What’s wrong?” San asks. “Are you okay?”

“San-ah.”

“Yeah—”

“San-ah, turn around.”

More cosmic mockery, more absurd coincidences, a part of Wooyoung expects the man to keep walking. He turns around though. Fluffy hair cut short, an oversized jacket, and a face Wooyoung would recognise anywhere—especially when he smiles, the dimples making Wooyoung feel like he’s been blinded, about to trip over empty air.

He embraces it.

Running the rest of the distance, Wooyoung keeps his balance just until he can throw his arms around San, crashing into him full force. They both stumble but San keeps them standing, letting out the tiniest oof. His breath grazes Wooyoung’s ear, and then again, when San says his name.

“Wooyoung-ah.”

He’s a bit taller than Wooyoung, the perfect height for him to hook his chin over San’s shoulder. So close to his throat, Wooyoung doesn’t know exactly what San smells like, but he immediately knows what San smells like. He’s real. His arms wrap around Wooyoung’s waist, and it’s the perfect fit Wooyoung has imagined a hundred times, made more perfect with the way he can feel it—the slightly painful pressure at his spine, San’s hands clutching at the denim by his shoulder blades, San’s chin digging into the crook of his own neck.

“Wooyoung-ah.”

He hums. The call is still going, phone and umbrella dangling uselessly from Wooyoung’s hands. The rain is growing heavier, too, hitting the exposed skin at Wooyoung’s nape and sliding down to his T-shirt. It makes no difference, he’s already covered in goosebumps.

“It’s raining,” San says, stupidly. Wooyoung can hear the smile in his voice. “We should—”

“No.”

He tightens his grip, squeezing his eyes shut to reject the idea. San laughs and Wooyoung can feel the sound travelling through his body. “No?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

San relents, holding him in place. With the rain picking up, Wooyoung thinks it would make for a worthwhile movie scene after all. He smirks, giddy and wobbling in San’s hold. He’d happily soak to the bone, catch a cold, and continue inconveniencing everyone who’s got to pass them by in the middle of the sidewalk; the only downside to hugging San, however, is that Wooyoung can’t see his face.

He’s adamant about fixing that, but when he finally steps back and ends the call, Wooyoung reconsiders; San is looking at him with something close to awe, and he almost can’t take it.

“Hi,” Wooyoung says, quietly, heart still going at a speed that can’t be healthy. “I’m Wooyoung.”

San blinks twice before he joins in on the joke. “Choi San.”

Wooyoung laughs, and San blinks at that, too. He’s still got his hands resting at Wooyoung’s sides, and his hair is getting all matted with the rain. Wet cat, Wooyoung thinks, and he wants to brush away San’s fringe and pinch his cheeks. It’s not a new feeling, but Wooyoung’s never had issues controlling it when all he could do was knock his phone against the nearest surface. No such boundaries now.

“Wooyoung-ah, how—”

“So informal.” He clicks his tongue.

“Wooyoung-ssi,” San corrects, one dimple showing. “How are you here?”

“You forgot something,” Wooyoung says. Nonchalantly, like he hasn’t forgotten about the umbrella himself, he pops it open and watches a whole spectrum of emotions play out across San’s face, confusion to surprise to misery.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t look too excited.”

“I thought you were flat hunting,” San says, like that’s the most surprising piece of information at hand.

“You know Hongjoong-hyung!” Wooyoung says, punching San’s chest to correct the notion. “And Seonghwa-hyung!”

“I—”

“You knew I work with him.” The same cycle of shifting emotions must be repeating on Wooyoung’s own face—at double speed, all the realisations catching up with him and making him clutch at San’s jacket. “You knew I’m friends with him.”

San’s mouth droops. “I didn’t.”

“What?”

“Know you were close,” San says. He looks so put out by it, Wooyoung can’t help but bring a hand to his neck in fondness.

“It’s Seonghwa-hyung,” he says, the emphasis seemingly lost on San. “Of LEGO fame? I mention him all the time!”

San’s eyes widen and Wooyoung half-sighs half-laughs, not strong enough to draw out his grousing. Having done this once—with Yunho—he’s not immune to the disbelief, but he finds it easier to handle with San right in front of him, touching him. His thumb brushes San’s jaw, and that easily overshadows the dismay—both the fact that Wooyoung can do it, and the way it feels so easy, San immediately leaning into his touch.

“I’m so stupid,” San says.

“Well, you’re not—” Wooyoung starts to say, but San keeps going.

“It’s the nicknames. If you didn’t keep using nicknames—”

“Remember Captain, San?” Wooyoung drops his hand in jest, raising an eyebrow. “If you came up with better nicknames—” he takes a breath, shaking his head. “We would probably still be here. Just like this.”

“Because we’re stupid,” San says. He’s still looking a bit too dejected for Wooyoung’s liking.

“Because it’s more romantic this way, idiot!” he says, punching San’s shoulder for a change. “Can’t believe I have to say that.”

There’s a second where he hesitates, after the words have left his mouth, wondering how a line like that will translate to real life and whether they’ve earned it. San just smiles, grabbing Wooyoung’s hand like he wants to defend himself—a good while after the initial attack.

“You’re right.”

Obviously, Wooyoung is just as unsettled by the web of connections he’s managed to overlook for years. He doesn’t consider himself stupid, but San has a point. Willfully ignoring a possibility and walking the other way—like with Yunho, like with knowing San’s full name, and his school, and his usual whereabouts—feels different from brushing past a possibility without even realising.

San keeps staring at him. Thankfully with more wonder again and less distress, though Wooyoung feels like he’s way more equipped to deal with the latter. His cheeks are warm despite the wet mess that’s become of his denim jacket. He squeezes San’s hand. “Do you want to get coffee, San-ssi?”

“Yes,” San says, almost before Wooyoung’s done asking.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really sure?”

“Young-ah.”

San sighs, smile not budging. He’s going to be so much fun to tease in person. Wooyoung tilts the umbrella slightly as he points in the direction of the company. The flat viewing and poor Seonghwa are the furthest thing from his mind.

“Let’s go then,” he says.

*

Wooyoung already regrets the americano as he’s drinking it; he’s asking for a blast, wired up and jittery with energy.

San—sitting next to him in the coffee shop instead of across the table—is probably trying to be a calming presence. He’s got his hand on Wooyoung’s knee, shoulders touching. It does the exact opposite, making Wooyoung suspect that San’s transferring his own nervous energy into him and he’s sending it back. Their own electric circuit. Wooyoung’s coffee might just cause a burst.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at San’s sudden starstruck expression. Telepathy can’t be a part of the energy loop. San has been quiet for a hot minute.

“Nothing.”

“What?” Wooyoung repeats, more insistent.

He gets why San’s decided to sit on the bench; their hands have stayed linked the whole walk to the coffee shop, like they both needed a tactile reminder of the other’s presence. Wooyoung, grabby by nature, is relieved about it, even if it adds to the feeling that he’s soon going to jump out of his own skin. He doesn’t like the way he has to crane his neck to see San’s face, though.

“Your laugh,” San fesses up, looking down at his own coffee.

Wooyoung, of course, laughs again. “You’ve heard me laugh before!”

“It’s different.”

“Different how?” He nudges San’s shoulder, tilting even closer into San’s space to catch his eyes. He’s obviously flustered.

“Louder,” San says, pausing for effect. “More annoying.”

“Cool.” Wooyoung says. “I’ll make sure to laugh more. Just for you.” He demonstrates right away, and shuffles a little further away from San, testing a theory. He smirks when San follows after him.

The coffee shop is just a street away from the company and Wooyoung goes there almost every week. He tells San, joking that, if he’d ever dipped in for a pastry on Thursday afternoon, he’d likely run into Wooyoung in his practice best.

San doesn’t seem to find it funny. He stays quiet, the thoughtful kind that doesn’t immediately make Wooyoung wonder if he’s just a whole different person off the apps, but it makes him nervous because it highlights what he’s trying to take in stride—that this is certainly not just another Thursday afternoon.

“Why are you mad?” Wooyoung asks.

San’s eyes widen at the insinuation. “I’m not.”

“You’re frowning.” Wooyoung brushes his pointer finger over San’s forehead, leaving behind a wet imprint from the condensation on his coffee cup. “Sorry not sorry if you’re disappointed. Took me years to perfect those angles.”

He pretends to snap a selfie from above, and that’s when his joke seems to click. “No. You know you’re…”

San doesn’t finish, so Wooyoung doesn’t let up either. “I am…?”

“You’re you,” San says, making Wooyoung’s preemptive cackle disappear from his throat. “You don’t have a bad angle.”

Now, he makes sure to hold Wooyoung’s gaze, so dreadfully sincere about his words that Wooyoung practically feels the crackle, somewhere between their touching knees and San’s lingering hand. He slaps his own palm over it.

“Yah! Such a sweet talker!”

San huffs. “I try.”

“I can tell,” Wooyoung says, and then he’s hit with a thought. “San. San-ah. Ohhhh, are you mad because of Saturday?”

“No,” San says. For the first time, he moves in a way that puts more distance between them.

“God, you totally are!” Wooyoung hates himself for making him frown harder, but also not. San looks cute with his frown of denial, lips pinched. “You’re mad your secret first meeting plans got ruined.”

“I’m not mad.”

“It’s okay. We can share now.”

San holds his silence.

“Or not. We can pretend today never happened.” Wooyoung shrugs, talking out of his ass. “Let’s just call it a day. Go home. Text like normal. And then on Saturday, we can—”

“No,” San cuts in, clasping Wooyoung’s knee tighter as if to prevent him from standing up. “I don’t want that.”

Wooyoung nods, smug to see his strategy working, and he just keeps talking about whatever springs to his mind—morning practice, rain, how long the person from the corner table has now been standing in front of the toilet door—almost like when they’re chatting online. San mellows out, interjecting at times. The umbrella actually used to be his grandma’s, so he’s grateful that Wooyoung saved it, and also, being back in his dorm after the five-star family service in Namhae is apparently very disappointing.

“You still get homesick,” Wooyoung notes with a smile, mostly to himself.

“I—” San opens his mouth to protest, and he deflates fast. “Yeah,” he admits.

The coffee disappears as they talk, but the tension doesn’t. Not leaking into Wooyoung’s words, it burns him where San’s hand slides a little higher on his leg, just above the knee, and wherever his eyes rest: the hair that’s falling over Wooyoung’s forehead, his earring, his mouth. Wooyoung only minds because it means he can’t be equally shameless. When he’s done pretending he’s just talking to the empty air on the other side of the table, he smirks in San’s direction.

“You’re staring.”

San straightens his shoulders, caught in the act, but he chuckles under his breath. “Can you blame me?”

“I guess not.” Wooyoung shrugs. Like he’s making it a competition, he twists in his seat to face San properly. “Is this what we’re gonna do? The whole evening?”

San’s eyes flick towards the windows at that, obviously taken aback by the oncoming sunset. They’re back on Wooyoung in no time. “Sounds better than my previous plans.”

“Which were?”

“Dinner at the dorms. Gym. Chatting to this guy I know.”

“You’ll skip gym for me?” Wooyoung preens, laying on the bashfulness. If he makes a show out of it, it’s easier to hide how much it’s affecting him—just sitting there with one knee touching, looking at each other.

“You better appreciate it.”

He uses the opportunity to get ahold of San’s shoulder again—very offensive in his plain white T-shirt—and hums appreciatively. “The highest honour.”

Cheeks growing pink, San clears his throat. Wooyoung doesn’t drop his hand. “What are your—were your plans?”

Wooyoung keeps his expression neutral even as he remembers the flat viewing again, and Seonghwa with his company car. He wouldn’t want to live in Yeonhuidong with a bank worker he doesn’t even know, and Seonghwa is the most adult and well-adjusted of his friends. Wooyoung could’ve at least texted, but he doesn’t feel too guilty. Not with San as his reason for flaking.

“A quiet night in,” Wooyoung says. “Just me, my Airbnb, and chatting to this guy I know.”

“Will he mind your change of plans?” San asks.

“I don’t know.” Wooyoung averts his gaze for a moment, like he’s considering it. “I might invite him over, actually.”

San sucks in a breath. “You mean—”

“I think he’d like the view,” Wooyoung says, shrugging. “He gets excited about these things. Don’t ask me why.”

“He’s also scared of heights,” San says.

Wooyoung cackles, squeezing San’s shoulder before finally letting go. “Of course he is.”

It seems a mutual and unspoken decision that they’ve done enough staring in public, and they stand up at the same time. San disposes of the empty coffee cups while Wooyoung grabs his denim jacket and sighs at the state of it, still very much wet in patches. He’s twisting his neck around once he puts it on, looking for San like he can’t bear a second with him out of sight. It spells a terrible future for Wooyoung; he can’t bring himself to care.

Outside, the rain is a heavy curtain, air cold and stale with the rush of evening traffic. Wooyoung, who’s taken it upon himself to guard San’s grandma’s umbrella like the precious token it is, puts it up once they’re out the door. He waits for San to take the hint and step under it so that he can lead the way. San seems frozen, blocking the coffee shop entrance.

“San-ah?”

He responds to the call, stepping to Wooyoung’s side. Instead of letting Wooyoung move, though, he wraps a hand around Wooyoung’s on the umbrella handle, keeping him in place.

“What is it?” Wooyoung asks, before he realises what a stupid question that is.

With the umbrella pulled low, almost touching his hair and blocking out the entire street, San’s face is just a flash of purple shadows and a pink smile. The kiss is fleeting. San’s lips touch his and then pull back so fast, Wooyoung could try and blame it on his imagination. Another silly daydream, the kind Wooyoung’s tried to forbid himself from having for years, the kind that’s taken up a permanent spot in his mind over the past week.

It’s real, though.

The merest touch setting his heart racing, and San’s bashful smile turning into a lethal grin—eyes disappearing, dimples popping out—the moment Wooyoung beams back at him.

“What was that for?” Wooyoung asks around a laugh.

San shrugs. His fingers twitch on the umbrella handle. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Choi San.” Wooyoung tries to say his name with disapproval, but it turns fond in his mouth. He’s never said San’s full name out loud. He shakes his head as he repeats it, embracing the cloying fondness. “Choi San.”

“That’s me,” San says, eyes tracking Wooyoung’s mouth again.

“Don’t get all smart on me.”

Wooyoung turns around, teasing.

It takes a lot of hidden effort when all he wants to do is kiss San again; more like he’s done it in his daydreams, a deeper kiss where he’d let himself cling to San, holding onto his frame for balance. Wooyoung could easily do it, stomach unruly with the knowledge that San would let him. It’s not even the fact that they’re in public that stops him, the umbrella making it easy to believe it’s just the two of them on the busy street. But Wooyoung can see where this is going, five years of evidence and San handing him the final clue. The confidence comes with a thrill.

Before he starts walking, he feels San’s arms settling over him, draping around him from the back, and Wooyoung doesn’t think he could be more lucky.

*

They dawdle to the same subway station San was originally headed for, taking their time.

It’s not the easiest thing to walk with a man of San’s bulk clinging onto him, but each time Wooyoung complains about it, he holds onto San’s wrist to say what he really means: don’t you dare let go. He folds the umbrella once they’re inside the station but San still keeps an arm over his shoulder. In the subway car, their fingers intertwine around the handrail.

Wooyoung catches an older man looking at them with a slight frown and all he wants to do is frown back. I’ve known him for years and this is the first time we met, he wants to burn through the man’s skull, you will not judge me for this. He turns to San instead, and finds him already looking. Dopey and oblivious, and still suspiciously quiet, though Wooyoung is not fussed about it.

Online, all they’ve done is talk. They’ll talk again. Wooyoung’s well versed in the language of touch, but not with San, who seems equally eager to learn it—five years and spare change of a deficit.

They do eventually allow some distance. Once they’re in front of Wooyoung’s temporary home, he swipes them in with the guest card and leads San through the lobby.

“Bet this one will be the fastest,” Wooyoung says, pointing the wet umbrella at one of the three elevators.

San grins, eyeing number two. “No way.”

He turns out to be right, them and half a dozen strangers squeezing into the smallest elevator in the middle. Touching, again, almost head to toe.

“I win,” San gloats into his ear, and Wooyoung purses his lips at the shiver it sends down his spine.

“I’ll pay for your subway fare,” he says.

“It’s prepaid.”

He sees San’s grin in the elevator mirror. His own face is stupidly giddy. “Change for your piggy bank.”

San visibly tries and fails to come up with a witty answer, but the elevator saves him, announcing their arrival on the 17th floor. Wooyoung presses through the cluster of passengers, setting a brisk pace. He hears San trailing after him but doesn’t stop, quick to swipe his card again and leave the door open.

“Sorry about the mess,” Wooyoung throws behind his shoulder, half-heartedly, not looking around.

He’s forgotten about the artful tower of beer cans on the coffee table and the takeout boxes he was meant to clean in the morning. He doesn’t care about impressing San with his cleanliness; as soon as he toes his shoes off and hangs up the jacket, he pretends tidying is of extreme priority. Clang after clang, he starts throwing the cans into a bag, sneaking glances at San closing the door and leaving his own jacket next to Wooyoung’s.

“Can you put the umbrella in the bathroom?” Wooyoung asks, pointing at the door to San’s right. He watches while San’s got his back to him and gets engrossed in the cleaning again, once San turns around. “What do you think of the view?”

San looks through the window like he’s noticing it for the first time. Wooyoung smirks.

“It’s beautiful,” San admits but doesn’t make a move to look at it more closely.

It would be an underwhelming reaction if Wooyoung wanted him to study the skyline. The perfect reaction for what he’s after. He ties the garbage bag and puts it by the door, brushing past San and feeling him rotate on the spot. Wooyoung evades him again as he heads towards the kitchen cabinets, and once more when San tries to stand behind him, shuffling sideways to the fridge.

“Iced tea? Water?” he asks, holding the empty glass up while San sends it a dirty look.

“Water.”

“Water, please,” Wooyoung trills, and laughs when San just shifts the look upwards, lips pressed into a thin line.

He nearly gets caught when he passes the glass over, San’s fingers grazing the inside of his wrist, but Wooyoung manages to slip away. He holds San’s gaze, walking backwards, almost like it’s a dance. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, ignores the messages on his lockscreen, plugs it in to charge.

“Won’t be needing this,” he says, feeling San’s gaze burn his nape.

“Young-ah.”

There’s a sharp thud, glass hitting the countertop. The flat is tiny. Changing his course towards the bedroom, Wooyoung has no excuse in mind. He doesn’t want one and he doesn’t have to think of one, San taking his chance and crowding him against the wall.

Close enough that Wooyoung can see the tiny smile lines around his mouth and feel the breaths in his chest, San holds both his wrists and doesn’t cave into the pull. Wooyoung’s skin tingles. He wonders if his hair is sticking up and decides that no, it can’t be, because San’s expression is way too serious.

Then again, he might just be too distracted to notice.

“I see how it is,” Wooyoung says, letting his words stretch. “Staring really does it for you.”

San swallows, suddenly shy. The contradictions will do Wooyoung’s head in, in the best possible way.

“Can I—”

He pulls San in for the kiss.

Threading his fingers through the hair at San’s nape, Wooyoung doesn’t try to pace himself this time. He pulls until he’s pinned, until San’s wrapping one arm around his waist and bringing the other up, like he doesn’t want Wooyoung’s head hitting the wall. He pulls and he licks at San’s bottom lip, finding easy entry. It’s a lot more like Wooyoung’s forbidden daydreams, immeasurably better. It’s real.

San kisses less clumsily than the version of him Wooyoung had first jerked off to, years ago. He kisses less desperately, too, claiming Wooyoung’s mouth over and over. Deliberately, turning each kiss deeper, thigh soon pressing between Wooyoung’s legs.

“Not bad, Sunny,” Wooyoung says, drawing back. His voice is raspy and he chases the words with another kiss, grinning when San hums into it. He moves away again and chuckles, studying the pool of want in San’s dark eyes. “Is it like you imagined?”

He relishes having the upper hand, setting the pace and making San work for it, because he knows it won’t last long. Wooyoung’s control is like a candlewick, burning down rapidly and leaving the rest of him a melted mess.

“Better,” San mumbles.

Wooyoung cups his cheek and stops him from leaning in again. “What was that?”

San’s hand flexes at his back, thumb digging in. “You’re meaner,” San says, looking none too disappointed about it.

“I warned you, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, punctuating the words with another soft kiss. He can play hard to get all he wants but he can’t truly follow through—not now that he knows what San’s lips feel like. He’d be an idiot to deny himself the privilege. “Not like you mind.”

“I don’t.”

“So honest,” Wooyoung murmurs. “So sweet.”

He lets San press in again, hands set on exploring the planes of his back while Wooyoung’s comfortably cornered. San mimics him, palm settling over the swell of Wooyoung’s ass and squeezing, ever so slightly. They stay there for some time, growing breathless, like they’re testing the limits. Chasing after each other every time they part, like not doing so would cause the other to disappear.

But there’s a proper bed just behind the door and, eventually, Wooyoung works up enough restraint to shift away and look towards it with an unspoken question. “We don’t have to—”

“Please.”

Somehow, they stumble into the bedroom and he gets San to lie on the mattress, crawling in after him. Kissing like breathing, by now it’s effortless. Wooyoung can feel San’s cock pressing against his hip when he folds down, but he’s set on ignoring it for the time being. He wants San to make it his problem, once the neglect gets unbearable, and Wooyoung is content to take it slow or stop if San pulls the brake; unlike any hookup he’s ever had, unlike his first time with Jae, he takes his time kissing every single freckle on San’s neck like he’s been wanting to do since the days of his silly Chuseok crush.

“Wooyoung-ah.” San arches his back, holding onto Wooyoung’s nape. “It tickles.”

Wooyoung hums against his lips, luring San into a false sense of security; then he puts twice as much effort into mapping out San’s neck, nipping until San grabs him by the hips.

“Stop,” he says, weakly. It’s a clear dare for Wooyoung to continue.

Picking a random freckle close to San’s jaw, he shoves his face against the sensitive skin and sucks. San’s fingers twitch, bringing him closer instead of dislodging him. Just like Wooyoung thought; he hums again, harmonising with San’s little whimper, and blows a raspberry into the crook of his neck.

San yelps and jolts under him, grip almost bruising. Wooyoung’s still laughing when he gets rolled over, world spinning and his back hitting the mattress. San blinks at him from above.

“That’s not fair,” Wooyoung says, letting his voice lift into a goofy whine.

“You would know,” San says.

He’s hovering, touching from the hips down, definitely aware of Wooyoung’s own erection. Just as set on ignoring it. He descends upon Wooyoung’s cheek first, the softest brush of lips. Then he kisses the skin under Wooyoung’s eye, thumb tickling the same spot as he moves low again, sucking on Wooyoung’s bottom lip.

He bites down, gently, and Wooyoung’s eyes close on cue. He feels San’s other thumb pull on his lip and linger on the freckle there, like he’s drawing an invisible line between Wooyoung’s moles. He wonders how much San has stared at them in the photos Wooyoung’s shared, and if they’ve been driving him crazy all this time—the same way San’s freckles have, or his ridiculous waist, or the arms that could definitely hold Wooyoung down if he tried to tickle his way out from under San again. Too much effort, he bites into San’s thumb instead.

“Yah!” San yelps.

Wooyoung catches San’s hand before he pulls away, pecking the bite. “You started it,” he says, and speaks over San’s protests. “Are we not copying each other?”

“You’re—”

He cuts off whatever compliment or insult San’s planning to bestow upon him; given San’s showy dimples, they’d all amount to the same thing. Winding his arms around San’s neck, Wooyoung forces him to bend down again and lay over him like the world’s best blanket. Comfortably heavy and custom-made just for him. He kisses San until his lips are swollen and shiny with spit, the dusk outside turning into night, the lights of the cityscape painting the outlines of San’s face in neon.

One moment, Wooyoung truly feels content with that. Just kissing, the solid but not crushing weight of San’s body over his, a chance to take his time and learn all of San’s little noises. Like a switch getting flipped, it stops being enough when Wooyoung thrusts his hips up and elicits a breathy whine. It travels through him like electric shock, all nerves alight, and burns away all of Wooyoung’s patience.

“Shit,” San says under his breath.

The swear tickles Wooyoung’s temple and he smirks, pulling on San’s t-shirt and finding his way underneath, finally tracing the expanse of San’s back. He can feel the muscles rippling under his palms, all the warm skin that he’s never seen. He rucks the fabric up just as San rolls his hips, digging his nails in.

“Off. San-ah, get it off.”

San complies easily, flinging the t-shirt aside without care. He’s so efficient about it Wooyoung barely gets a glance in. That won’t fly. He evades San’s mouth, forcing him up by pressing on his chest. There’s clear confusion in the set of San’s eyebrows but he goes, straddling Wooyoung as he sits up, waiting.

Wooyoung doesn’t explain. He lets his eyes rove over San’s chest, his abs, the small wrinkle above his belly. His hands follow the same path and Wooyoung could swear San’s skin gets even warmer, like he can feel him blushing to the tips of his toes.

“You know,” Wooyoung says, voice airy, “I used to get annoyed whenever you abandoned me for the gym.”

San scrunches up his nose. “I always brought my phone,” he says, thumbs sneaking below Wooyoung’s own shirt and rubbing circles over his hip bones. “So, really, I always took you with me.”

“Nuh-uh. You ignored me for your pull-ups and squats.”

Wooyoung swipes a hand over San’s nipple and watches his abs contract. He grins and does it again, and then again, expecting to get his hand slapped away. San just sits in place and lets him carry on.

“Bench presses, too,” he says, after a pause so long Wooyoung’s almost forgotten what he was teasing him about.

“And bench presses,” he nods, mock-serious. “I guess it was for a good cause.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re so hot,” Wooyoung says, not giving into the urge to roll his eyes. San must know what he looks like. He should also know how Wooyoung feels about it. “So handsome, San-ah.”

San’s face softens and his fingers stop brushing Wooyoung’s skin. “You too,” he says.

“Me too what?”

They press into his sides, San shuffling backwards. He tugs at Wooyoung’s t-shirt, helping him pull it off and kissing the corner of his mouth in reward. “That.”

Copycat, there’s another taunt on the tip of Wooyoung’s tongue, but it dies under San’s admiring gaze. He’s locked his self-consciousness out of the bedroom years ago, knows his insecurities and infinite strategies for masking them. He’d be lying if he said San’s wonder isn’t affecting him.

Having San be an intangible presence in his life, always at a distance, real but only in fragments—it could never be enough, but it came with a certain ease. He knew Wooyoung but he didn’t know all of him. He could judge the parts he knew but he couldn’t judge him whole. Now he can, and Wooyoung knows he won’t, but he still feels his chest tremble when San kisses a path up from his navel. Featherlight, it burns more than if he was marking Wooyoung with his teeth.

Despite still being separated by too many layers, all their modesty seems to vanish when San rolls his hips down and Wooyoung bucks up into him. Shared space, shared breaths, shared rhythm. Wooyoung buries his face in the crook of San’s neck as their dicks touch, licking at the salty skin by his throat.

“Fuck,” San hisses, hot breath ghosting over Wooyoung’s ear.

“Excited?”

“Don’t even—”

His words cut off, replaced by a weak hitching sound.

It’s happening exactly like Wooyoung imagined it would, he realises somewhere between San pulling off their jeans and underwear, and Wooyoung himself reaching towards the nightstand. Slow, his head dizzy with it. San rolling his hips forward, deliberate and heavy, mouth turning into a thin line once their cocks slide together.

“You’re so wet,” he says, sounding dazed.

Wooyoung hums, sucking on his earlobe. “For you.”

A break in San’s slow movement, he jerks forward and slides his thumb over Wooyoung’s slit. “Young-ah, you can’t just—”

“What?” Wooyoung bites down on San’s ear, causing another jerky thrust. “Tell you how much I want this? Want you? Do you know how long—”

“I know,” San breathes out. “I know, baby.”

The word shoots sparks through Wooyoung’s gut, making him whimper right into San’s ear. San playing by his own dirty rules will be the end of him; that, or San’s slow blinks when he gets the lube thrust into his hand, the way he warms it up between his fingers, the drop that runs down Wooyoung’s crack and makes his hole twitch before San even touches him.

Helping Wooyoung splay his legs, San just watches. Wooyoung clicks his tongue. “Before it dries up, San-ah, please.”

San pinches the skin of his inner thigh but does as told, spreading the lube over Wooyoung’s entrance. Maddeningly, it’s all he does for a while, running his finger back and forth and watching Wooyoung’s muscles contract as they try to draw him in.

“You can’t be—”

Sab dips his pointer finger in, up to the first knuckle, dissolving Wooyoung’s complaint into a whine. Somewhat immune to Wooyoung’s bratty attitude by now, or growing good at posturing, San takes his time opening him up like it’s a delicate task that can’t be rushed, fighting Wooyoung’s impatience with his own stubbornness.

“Come on. That’s enough. Just…” Wooyoung holds his breath, San three fingers in but brushing against his prostate for the first time “Fuck me, please. You can do this another day.”

“Promise?” San asks, mouth curling up.

“Whatever you want,” Wooyoung says, hooking his ankles around San’s calves to make a more compelling argument. “If you get your cock inside me right now.”

Wooyoung tries to turn around while San’s busy with the condom, just for a laugh. It bursts out of him when San pins him back down, looking almost distressed. “Wait, don’t—”

“I knew it,” Wooyoung says, helping San by hitching a pillow under his own hips.

“Wha—”

“I knew you’d fuck all sappy.”

San frowns, mouth opening like he wants to protest. He lines himself up instead, chest brushing Wooyoung’s as he cages him in, noses brushing. “Like this?” he asks.

“Yea—aah.”

Wooyoung’s head rolls back as San’s tip catches on his rim, smearing it with more lube as he starts pressing in. The blunt pressure and the heat make Wooyoung’s heartbeat flutter. Exploring mostly by touch, he realises he hasn’t even gotten a good look at San’s dick. Shelves that for later, focused on the way it feels: a good stretch, a torturously slow drag against his walls, hot and thick and perfect as San bottoms out.

He pulls San’s mouth on his, muffling his own whine. San breathes through his nose, into Wooyoung’s cheek, and starts moving at a languid pace.

“Like this?” San asks again, linking his fingers with Wooyoung’s as his hips roll deep, deep, deeper.

“Yeah.” Wooyoung nods, squeezing his hands. There’s no derision to his words, no mocking, only need. “Exactly like this.”

With San keeping up the same steady thrusts, Wooyoung decides to help himself where he can—locking his legs around San, trying to get him even closer. It’s impossible but it scores him a better angle, and the lewd sound of their skin slapping together makes him shiver.

“You feel so good,” San murmurs into his neck, kissing up the jaw. “You’re so beautiful.”

At some point, he’s brought Wooyoung’s hands up, still interlaced, holding them down against the pillow. Wooyoung shelves that for later, too, cock leaking uselessly against San’s tummy and desperately craving more friction. He doesn’t ask for it. Grinding down on San’s cock, he wants to make him fall apart first.

“Come on, baby,” he says, feeling triumphant when San hits his prostate on the upstroke. “I can take it.” He knows he’s struck gold when the motion repeats, San’s hips stuttering and finally picking up pace. “You feel better—ah, better than I imagined. Just perfect. I could never—”

His babbling cuts off as San slams forward. Burying his face in Wooyoung’s neck, he trembles through his orgasm, mouth open and damp. Wooyoung wishes he could see. He tries to untangle a hand from San’s grip, to thread through his hair, but San squeezes and refuses to let go. He lies on top of Wooyoung, catching his breath, and tries to apologise when his capacities return.

Wooyoung clicks his tongue. “Don’t be stupid,” he chides, kissing San where he can reach, just by his temple. “You did so well, San-ah.”

“Let me…”

In a move that Wooyoung definitely shelves for later, San pins both of his wrists down with one hand, sneaking the other down to his swollen cock. Distracting Wooyoung with one, two, three perfect strokes, he slips out and Wooyoung’s back arches at the loss. It hits the mattress, fast, San jerking him off with none of the gradual intensity of his fucking. He kisses Wooyoung, digs his thumb into his wrist bone, and Wooyoung comes like that.

He spills in San’s fist with a low moan, legs spasming and uncoiling from their hold on San’s hips. Arms freed, he loops them around San’s back, ignoring his protests. The words are weak from the get go; Wooyoung couldn’t care less for the mess of his own sticky come.

They lie there in silence for a while, Wooyoung’s vantage point providing the perfect view of the cityline and him completely ignoring it. Eyes closed, he finally runs his fingers through San’s hair, playing with the sweaty strands at his nape. He feels the rawest he’s ever been. Struck to the core by San’s electric pull and left addicted to the spark, immediately wanting more.

“Good first round,” he says, a bit of a joke to get San to look up. His breath hitches when San does.

“Think we can top this?” San asks, with the world’s most devastating smile.

“We have to try,” Wooyoung says.

*

Though the same tingling undercurrent of energy still rushes through his veins, temporarily subdued, Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long time. He runs his fingers along the base of San’s skull, dragging his blunt nails over his scalp. San turns his head to accommodate him, looking towards the window.

Now, Wooyoung expects him to comment on the view.

He doesn’t, the first words out of his mouth a playful question: “So, you’ve imagined this?”

Wooyoung keeps stroking through his hair, unphased. “Many times.”

“Me too,” San says, like he’s admitting something new. “When have you…”

Even without finishing, Wooyoung knows what he’s asking. A knot unfurls in his chest, the one that’s been holding all his secrets. Now, one by one, he can set them free. “The first time?” he asks. “Remember the time I dyed my hair red?

He feels San stiffen in surprise. “That early?”

“Careful.” Wooyoung smirks. “If it took you longer, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ll happily believe—”

“No! It was before…” San twists his head, chin digging into Wooyoung’s sternum. His gaze falls, adorably shy, like they’re not lying in a naked and messy tangle of limbs after taking each other apart. He doesn’t provide Wooyoung with a more specific answer—something to work on—but he thaws, looking up again. “That was years ago, Wooyoung-ah. I didn’t realise.”

“I told you I liked you,” Wooyoung says, and his voice dips with a sigh. This particular secret isn’t the easiest to revisit, but the sooner he does it, the sooner they can move ahead. “It’s why I didn’t want to meet you.”

He expects the hurt to flash through San’s eyes, but it’s fast, replaced with something like understanding. Perversely, it’s how Wooyoung knows he had been right, all those years ago—if he’d met San, if they had talked and hugged and San had looked at him with his horribly earnest eyes, all of Wooyoung’s resolve would have vanished. He would’ve risked his dream for San, and maybe he would’ve been happier for it—like Seunghyuk’s roommate, Junyoung, married with a kid on the way.

Maybe Wooyoung would have ruined everything.

“I was cocky, you know. Thought I had my life all planned out,” he says, slowly letting his fingers move again and watching San shiver. “What I felt for you—I wasn’t sure how to make it fit.”

Wooyoung doesn’t doubt that San believes the opposite; that they would’ve made it fit if they had tried, somehow, out of sheer will. San doesn’t admonish him, though.

“So you liked me back then,” he says, nodding, uncaring of how sharp his jaw is and how it pokes into Wooyoung’s chest. “What about now?”

“What do you think, silly?” Wooyoung rolls his eyes, bringing San up for a kiss.

“I think,” San smiles against his lips, “you still do.”

“Hm.” Wooyoung only pretends to consider the answer for a second. He takes a page out of San’s book, letting the mask drop; he deserves all of Wooyoung’s sincerity and more. “I like you even more now.”

After that, other secrets come easy. Wooyoung admits that he’s jerked off to his own sex advice, the time San got his first boyfriend. San admits he’s done the same, confirming a long-held suspicion—or hope—and doing Wooyoung one better, saying he broke things off with the boy right after.

“He wasn’t you,” he says, like it’s that simple.

Wooyoung tells him about how he kept going to the same restaurant for months—the one San wanted to meet him at, before Wooyoung pulled back—hoping to run into him by accident. “All my friends got sick of bean sprout soup.”

San tells him he used to go on walks around Wooyoung’s old company, hoping for the same thing. “Yunho thought I was dating someone in secret.”

“We could’ve met at the studio,” Wooyoung says. “Whenever you hung out with Hongjoong-hyung, we could’ve—”

“We could’ve met at one of Mingi’s gigs,” San cuts in.

“Like you go to those.”

“I’ve been to a few!”

“Not the best one,” Wooyoung says, a corner of his mouth twitching. He’s referring to a set Mingi played about four months ago, the most infamous gig within their friend group and—at two and a half songs—also the shortest.

San immediately pouts. “I had to study.”

“Doubt the exam was worth it.”

“It was my phonology—”

“He just froze, San. Leapt off the stage to lay one on Yunho, like he just couldn’t help it.” Wooyoung shakes his head, chuckling, the memory vivid like it happened just yesterday—the strobe lights and the gaping faces, and the pre-chorus of Fantastic Baby looping for two minutes straight before a staff member plunged the entire club into silence. “I wish I had it on video.”

“At least I got a good score.” San sighs. He keeps pouting. Then, in a flash, his entire face changes, calf brushing against Wooyoung’s shin as he shifts in his hold. “You better be ready for game night,” he says, squeezing Wooyoung’s side. “I think we could take them at Codenames.”

“Only if we play drunk,” Wooyoung teases.

San grunts and shifts, a weak escape threat that Wooyoung handles by twining his fingers through San’s hair again. It’s soft. San almost purrs when he caresses his scalp.

Their web of missed connections, Wooyoung knows, would infuriate him to no end if this hadn’t been the inevitable outcome—the two of them slotting together like puzzle pieces, talking about a future where their lives could combine into a perfect jigsaw. He doesn’t let himself think about having this earlier. He latches onto the present.

The now, where he can run his hands down San’s sun-kissed skin, study all the different tones of pink in his blush, and get San to call him baby like he means it.

*

A joke, perhaps, but Wooyoung knew what he was doing, not letting them clean up properly and only wiping San down while still trapped in bed. There’s a point at which it could all become overindulgence, collapse caused by greed to have and hold, but not for them. In their case, it’s a necessity. The only way. It’s catching up on years of impossible touches, both of them equally starved.

“I thought it would be the collarbones,” he says, pressed against the headboard with San straddling him.

He’s been attacking Wooyoung’s neck for the better part of the last fifteen minutes, taking revenge or marking him up, Wooyoung doesn’t care to ask. “Them, too,” San mumbles into his skin, nuzzling lower, like he’s reassuring Wooyoung’s collarbones they’re an equally worthwhile hiding place. “Your neck, though…”

“Copycat,” Wooyoung happily taunts this time, leaning back to give San easier access. When he sucks at Wooyoung’s pulse point, licking up the vein, Wooyoung moans.

It gets San to sit back on his calves.

“Why’d you stop?” Wooyoung asks, hand reaching out. “I don’t mind you copying me, San-ah, there’s enough necks for—”

“You’re so loud.”

Not an accusation, not a reprimand, San states it as a simple fact and his body betrays the rest. Cock at half mast and twitching, Wooyoung smirks and considers taking matters into his own hands—literally—but then thinks of something better.

“Do you mind?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No. No, I just—”

“I think you do,” Wooyoung says, slowly. “I think you don’t want others to hear.”

San holds his eyes and gulps, catching onto Wooyoung’s game. He nods, fingers trailing over the marks he’s left. They’ll bruise and he’ll look obscene, Wooyoung thinks, thrilled at the prospect. He presses down on San’s hand, trying to feel the sting.

“Enough sharing, right, San-ah?” he asks, not expecting a verbal response. He’s issued his challenge, and San is responding to it, staring at his mouth and throat in turn. “You want me to shut up for once.”

Sweet, sweet San, he almost protests on instinct. Swallowing again, he licks over Wooyoung’s mouth like he’s apologising for the words he hasn’t said. Wooyoung chuckles before he flips them over, keening even louder than before, not letting up until San clutches at his sides.

“Young-ah.”

“I know just the trick.” Wooyoung pecks his cheek before he moves lower, gripping the base of San’s cock to announce where the path is meant to lead. Tongue swirling over a nipple, dipping between San’s abs, over his tummy and hip bone and upper thigh—

Wooyoung holds still, suddenly paralysed.

In the dim light that’s streaming in through the window, it’s little more than a dark blur when Wooyoung first spots it. A scrape or a birthmark, he would’ve thought if he wasn’t kissing-distance away from the inky letters on San’s thigh, just above his knee. Heat crawls down Wooyoung’s spine, his hands suddenly struggling for purchase.

“Woo?” San asks, noticing his silence. “Everything okay?”

Dum amo, vivo, the tattoo reads. In a simple script, just about the length of Wooyoung’s pinky. While I love, I live, he traces the words with his fingertips and gnaws on his lip to hold back all his questions.

“You got a tattoo?” he ends up asking, croaky.

Refusing to read himself into it, Wooyoung finds it a fitting phrase for San; he breathes love for everything, from a perfectly cooked pork-rib to the sound of snow underfoot. The tattoo is small and plain, hopeful without being saccharine. A phrase that’s meaningful without having to mean anything special.

Still, Wooyoung’s head is dizzy.

“Oh.”

San pushes himself up on his palms, hastily, studying Wooyoung’s face to understand his reaction. Fair enough, Wooyoung feels a little hysterical and his wide eyes probably give it away.

“You know,” San says in a small voice, “for the mall.”

Wooyoung blinks at him. He stretches his mouth side to side. Then he bursts into laughter, the surprise and the disbelief and the affection all bubbling out of him in a single stream. He kisses the tattoo as soon as he regains some composure, lifting up to mirror San’s posture.

“What if it was winter?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even wear shorts? San-ah, this thing is so small, I wouldn’t notice it if it—I didn’t notice it. I can’t believe—” He cuts himself off, laughing again at San’s obvious confusion. “You didn’t notice either, did you?”

“Notice what?”

Wooyoung looks down again, at a similar inky font on his own leg. They even got that to match, he tries not to laugh again—right leg, above the knee, just a few centimetres off from being in the same exact spot. The sun will rise, Wooyoung’s skin proclaims. His first tattoo, the one he got on a whim but never regretted.

“Oh my god.” San’s palms frame it, eyes wide and searching. “You—how—”

Wooyoung hums, still too stunned to move. “I got it after my contract ended. When I left the company.”

As a reminder that everything would work out, one way or another, but if that was all Wooyoung wanted it to mean, he’d have gone for a different phrase. Per aspera ad astra, he remembers scribbling over his school notebooks—something latin for the cool factor, or for the nostalgia of his younger self finding it cool. Or 칠전팔기, basic and overdone, but he wouldn’t have ever needed to explain it.

Wooyoung’s choice had been deliberate.

The quote, because he wanted to believe there would always be light at the end of the day. The sun, because there was one person who always tried to make Wooyoung believe it.

“I got it when I started university,” San says, his voice still faint.

Two years ago. Almost at the same time.

Overwhelmed, Wooyoung realises he’s ruined his own game. He doesn’t know what to say, the tattoos shutting him up before San’s dick could rise to the challenge. Biting back a chuckle, he decides to go with the initial plan. He leans down to kiss San’s tattoo and then continues on to his original destination, blowing warm breath over the tip of San’s cock.

“Don’t—baby, we should talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” Wooyoung brings his hand around the base, stroking up once before he laves his tongue over San’s slit. “We’ve got matching fucking tattoos, San-ah. There’s not much to talk about.”

“But—”

“You don’t even like tattoos,” Wooyoung says, lips skimming the sensitive skin.

“I never—I never said that.”

“Was it out of spite?” he asks. “You needed to get a rebellious phase out of your system?”

“No.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No.” San bucks up involuntarily, holding onto Wooyoung’s nape. Neither here nor there, he doesn’t pull Wooyoung off and he doesn’t press him closer either. “No, I just…” He pauses. They both wait. “Liked the idea.”

Wooyoung makes the decision for the both of them, spreading San’s thighs and taking him down as far as he can without choking. It’s been a while. He’s just warming up. San obviously doesn’t need to hear any excuses, fingers lacing through Wooyoung’s hair.

Now, there’s a thought.

Wooyoung redoubles his efforts, suckling at San’s head and sliding lower with each bob of his head. Spit gathers at the corners of his mouth and slides down over San’s skin, his ragged breaths and the wet click of Wooyoung’s throat replacing the earlier moans. Not quiet, but only for them. As soon as Wooyoung gets comfortable with taking San’s entire length, he pulls off with a pop.

“You can pull,” he says, feeling a spike of arousal at the dumbfounded look on San’s face. His gaze is fixed on Wooyoung’s lips, and Wooyoung can only imagine what they look like. Shiny and red, he smiles in a way that exposes the freckle on his lower lip and brings his mouth close to San’s dick. “I like that.”

Diving back down, he plays with San’s slit again, hands braced over San’s thighs. Waiting, waiting, he’d laugh in delight when San starts pressing on the base of his skull but holds back, not wanting to gag. He mewls when San’s cock hits the back of his throat and then San pulls him back up, gentle but firm. Wooyoung doesn’t mind it rough, but he also knows he’s already testing the limits of San’s experience. They’ve got time.

When Wooyoung glances up to make eye contact, San’s free hand cups his cheek, over the bulge of his own cock. His face screws up and he tugs Wooyoung off. “I’m too close. I’ll come—”

“Do it.”

Wooyoung’s words come out scratchy, throat starting to burn. He still takes San down again, imploring him by hollowing out his cheeks. San’s legs tremble and then he breaks, hot come spurting down Wooyoung’s throat as he breathes through his nose, squeezing his eyes, getting used to the taste; it’s come, bitter and not that different from Wooyoung’s past encounters. He swallows every last drop, overwhelmed with the thoughts of San, here, his.

He rests his cheek on San’s inner thigh afterwards, hand locking over the tattoo like it needs to be protected.

“You’ll kill me,” San says.

“Hope not.” Wooyoung shifts his nose into the soft skin, content to close his eyes. “I need you to toughen up, big boy.”

“Woo.”

“For round three.”

“You didn’t even—”

“It’s fine.” He preens when San brushes the wet hair back from his forehead. “I don’t need to copy you in everything, San-ah.”

*

San does, in fact, get him off one more time before Wooyoung institutes a break. It’s when he’s still rough with the aftershocks, with come drying over his belly, and he hears San’s own stomach growl under his ear.

“Time to impress you with my cooking,” Wooyoung jokes, knowing there’s next to nothing in the fridge.

They do a hasty job cleaning up, almost ramming into the umbrella when they spill into the bathroom in a handsy tangle. Wooyoung winces, turning on the light, but there’s a lot to be gained when his eyes adjust—San, naked, more stunning and even more real under the fluorescent light. His own reflection in the mirror, perfectly ravished.

San pulls on boxers but nothing else when he joins Wooyoung in the kitchen; Woooyung decides to be shameless, too, parading around in San’s t-shirt. There are two beer cans in the fridge, soy milk, a bottle of iced tea, and a kimbap roll. The clock above the TV says it’s almost 2am, but there’s a 24/7 store downstairs. Wooyoung hates the idea of leaving the flat.

Two ramyeon cups with a splash of milk and terrible peel-sausages, San watches him boil the water like he’s preparing a five course meal, sneaking behind Wooyoung to squeeze his waist and kiss his temple.

“Smells good,” he says.

“Smells like food,” Wooyoung allows, leaning back against him.

Without a table, they take the food back to bed.

The sheets are already dirty, the nest of pillows comfortable, and it smells like sex—which should be foul, but Wooyoung finds it the opposite. He’s still far from sleepy, and the food perks him up even more. Terrible time to be making decisions, but he gets up to retrieve his phone while San finishes the last piece of kimbap, dealing Wooyoung’s ass a parting slap.

“Hey!” Wooyoung pretends to mind, very weakly. “I’m about to cancel my plans for you.”

“I thought I was your plans,” San says, one corner of his mouth red with sauce.

Wooyoung wipes it off and pokes his dimple. “We’ll see about that.”

San has classes in the morning but he insists there’s no point in going, and Wooyoung doesn’t have it in him to be a good influence. He winces at Seonghwa’s texts—encouraging, mostly, but calling him an ungrateful dummy after the sixth one that’s gone unread—and then composes an artful sequence of apology texts that goes:

(you)

calling in sick

can u cover for me??

best hyung forever and ever ❤️‍🔥

dinner on me when you’re back!!

Seonghwa’s group is leaving for Japan in the afternoon, so the morning practice would be rushed anyway. The dance crew isn’t flying out with them, and practices for the new title track have been postponed until after their fansign. It’s the perfect opportunity for Wooyoung to claim a three-day weekend and hunker down with San. Even if it means skipping more flat viewings and landing himself in a cheap hostel come next Wednesday.

“I could go with you,” San suggests, once they’ve placed the empty bowls aside and Wooyoung’s made himself comfortable—sitting between San’s legs, back pressed against his chest.

“Is that what you had in mind for our Saturday?” he asks. “Flat hunting?”

“No, but—”

“Very bold of you, San-ssi.” He cranes his neck to catch San’s eye, petting his cheek. “Lucky for you, I like my men bold.”

It’s an impossible idea to entertain beyond a joke; San’s campus is far from the downtown area that makes up Wooyoung’s search radius, he’s got his dorm, and they’ve spent less than 24 hours in each other’s presence. San might not even be in Korea next semester.

Wooyoung pushes the thought deep into the back of his mind, refusing to let it spoil his happiness. It’s not that hard. He feels the same deep-rooted certainty about them looking for a place together one day that he’s felt about meeting San. Audacious, certainly, but it’s not hard to believe when he’s got San’s arms wrapped around his chest, flicking through the flat options on Wooyoung’s phone, commenting on each in a way that reminds Wooyoung that they know each other.

“I like this one.”

“I don’t think it comes with the puppy, San-ah.”

“The kitchen is nice. Big. Kind of.”

“It’s got a single bed.”

San shrugs under him. “Cosy, but we’d make it work.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Wooyoung says, scrolling to another studio in his bookmarks.

“Sure you don’t.”

“I just think there are some things you shouldn’t settle for, as an adult.”

“Like single beds and—”

“Fake plants,” Wooyoung proclaims, pointing at the artificial bouquet of sunflowers in the next photo. “Either take care of it or watch it die, but at least own up to it and get the real thing.”

San’s chest shakes with his laughter and Wooyoung relaxes further into him, melting into the warmth.

For round three, Wooyoung delivers on his promise and lets San finger him into overstimulation. Wet, because Wooyoung asks for it. Messy, because they both seem to be into that. Almost running out of lube, Wooyoung jerks San off with some of his own come slicking up the drag, and San collapses against him like he’s had his strings cut; a solid weight, Wooyoung helps him rearrange his limbs before he crawls all over him.

They stay up talking until the buildings outside dim their lights, a short period of darkness blanketing them before the imminent dawn. Wooyoung considers drawing the blinds but San doesn’t let him, saying he wants to watch the sunrise.

“We won’t see, dummy,” Wooyoung says, tugging on San’s fringe. “We’re facing the wrong direction.”

San tenses under him with a weak grumble. He fights off Wooyoung’s hand when it brushes his hair up.

“Don’t be like that.” Wooyoung’s fingers fall to the same spot anyway. At the moment, there’s nothing he wants less than to leave the bed. “I think we could see it from the corridor if—”

“It’s not that,” San says, catching Wooyoung’s hand again.

Wooyoung looks up to see him pouting, cheeks flushed. He immediately lifts himself on an elbow and goes for San’s hair again, to test his reaction. San winces, locking their fingers together.

“I have a bald spot. There,” he admits in a tone one would use to confess they’ve got three months left to live.

All things considered, Wooyoung puts a heroic amount of effort into keeping a straight face. It’s a doomed endeavour. He leans towards San’s mouth, changing the trajectory halfway and looking at San’s alleged bald spot in great detail.

“Hey!”

He’s still laughing when he gets tossed off San’s lap and smothered into the mattress, pretending he minds, arms flailing as if he wants to escape. Immobilised by San simply wrapping himself around him like a koala, Wooyoung laughs and laughs and then he finally falls asleep, the skies turning a soft pink.

*

The sun streams into his eyes over the slope of San’s back.

It’s the first thing Wooyoung sees when he wakes up, and he flinches, mind fuzzy with the consequences of a sleepless night. His eyes feel small as he blinks the shock off. Tickling his neck, the rest of Wooyoung wakes up to the steady rise and fall of San’s breath, his own leg hiked over San’s thigh, arms linked under San’s shoulder blades.

Wooyoung smiles, relieved.

Dreamless sleep without any nightmares, he’s glad that, right after regaining consciousness, there’s not a single second where he’s allowed to doubt that everything had been real. San is a furnace, he smells like sweat in the best way, and that’s definitely his morning wood pressing against Wooyoung’s hip.

Except the fact that Wooyoung’s phone shows it’s almost two in the afternoon. He wakes San up about it, none too gently.

“How about kissing me awake instead?” San whines, eyes still pressed into crescents and refusing to let Wooyoung go.

“My leg is going numb,” Wooyoung says.

“Good morning, San-ah,” San chants into the pillow. “Hope you’ve slept well.”

“I need to pee.” Wooyoung slaps his butt and finally manages to manoeuvre himself to the edge of the bed, straightening up. “And shower. We stink.”

“We, huh?” Pillow pressed to his chest like he immediately needs to fill his arms with something soft, San finally opens one eye.

“I’m not waiting for you, Sunny,” Wooyoung says, raking up the borrowed t-shirt as he goes.

The shower isn’t big enough for two people, something to consider for future flat viewings. San obviously delights in him saying that, enough so that he doesn’t retaliate when Wooyoung sprays cold water down his spine. They both end up smelling like the centella body wash Wooyoung’s mum got him for Chuseok, and he flings a pair of his own sweatpants at San.

“For modesty.”

“No shirt?” San pops a dimple.

“For my viewing pleasure.”

San ends up wearing one of his oversized t-shirts anyway, when Wooyoung orders a supply run to the CU downstairs. Middle-of-the-night ramyeon aside, they’ve barely eaten in over a day, and Wooyoung wants to show off. Just a little.

Holding hands all the way down to the building’s lobby, Wooyoung thanks a nonexistent deity again for making San just as clingy as he is. Perhaps, at the end of their long weekend, coming apart will hurt that much more if they stay attached at the hip. Wooyoung takes his chances, though, pressing his chin into San’s back as he deliberates over the selection in the snacks aisle.

“What’s the issue?”

Wooyoung can practically hear the gears turning inside San’s mind. “I’m not sure if I want sweet,” he moves his head, careful not to bump Wooyoung away, “or salty.”

“Mm, a great dilemma.” Wooyoung digs his nose in before reaching around San’s side, snatching a box of cookies. ”Get me the shrimp chips,” he says as he heads towards the counter.

San insists on paying, which Wooyoung doesn’t try to argue about. “Thank you, daddy,” he whispers with a grin, exploiting San’s dumbstruck pause to throw a bottle of lube in with their groceries. “Don’t forget this.”

There’s a rice-cooker in the flat and a bunch of sauces, so Woooyoung decides to go for gyeranbap. Simple but dependable; he can wow San with his sous vide machine—which he’s actually only used twice since he bought it—when he finds a place and gets his stuff from Seonghwa’s basement. Another day, he can find himself a driving school and make carrot-less japchae.

Cooking playlist on and water splashing as Wooyoung washes the scallions, he doesn’t even realise he’s singing to himself until another voice joins in, San returning from the bathroom.

“Why’d you stop?” San asks, cocking his hip against the counter.

Wooyoung shrugs, letting BTS wrap up the rest of the song. “Bad at multitasking.”

“Uh-huh.”

San stands in the same spot, watching him wash some mushrooms and start chopping. He hoists himself up on the counter, humming the opening notes of the next song. Too close to someone who’s brandishing a knife, way beyond the perimeter Wooyoung usually lets others enter when he’s in the kitchen. He wouldn’t dream of complaining when San starts singing again, his voice smooth and warm and achingly familiar. After a momentary battle, Wooyoung’s own voice picks up again.

They carry on through a couple of songs, until the rice cooker’s beeping, the mushrooms are sauteed, and the eggs are done, sunny side up. Wooyoung turns off the music.

“I love your voice,” San says. He has a talent for it, making his words drip with earnestness that unsettles Wooyoung’s stomach.

“Thank you,” he pushes out.

“Your singing voice,” San clarifies.

Gingerly, Wooyoung starts plating their food and waits until he feels less tender to snicker. “Cool, I’ll stop speaking now.”

San also waits, tracking Wooyoung’s hands. It’s a good thing they’re not shaking. He grins when Wooyoung looks back at him, posturing. “Like you could.”

Wooyoung swats the kitchen towel at San’s knees to get him off the counter and scores himself a nape caress. Endless praise as San’s cheeks bulge with the rice, hunched over the coffee table. A promise of a kiss-the-cook apron and a peck to the cheek, like San’s not willing to wait until his birthday.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung drawls, when San jokingly asks him for seconds. “You’ve been skipping the gym lately.”

“I don’t know,” San echoes, stretching his arms and letting his shirt ride up, exposing a sliver of his belly. “I’m feeling pretty sore anyway.”

Choi San, Wooyoung only sighs, will definitely be the end of him.

*

There’s not much cleaning to do but they split the chores—Wooyoung drying and San washing, because he claims it’s more demanding and Wooyoung’s already cooked.

He’s slow with it, scrubbing at the AirBnb bowls like he’s trying to polish them to perfection. He uses way too much dish soap, stray bubbles floating up from the sink. His hands look small, holding the pan.

“It’s clean, San,” Wooyoung says, motioning with the towel. “Pass it over.”

San hums.

“And don’t—” Too late, San squeezes two more pumps of soap into the rice cooker pot. Wooyoung sighs. “You shouldn’t use that much. It’ll make the rice taste weird.”

San doesn’t say anything, shooting Wooyoung a guilty smile as he pops a bubble by his elbow. He moves onto the next dish, scrubbing diligently, all leftover foam.

Wooyoung matches his pace.

He can’t help but think of the first time he’d made breakfast for Jae. How the man offered to do the dishes and kept the water running the whole time, getting splashes of it all around Wooyoung’s sink. How, instead of saying anything, Wooyoung just decided not to let him wash the dishes again. How the complaints eventually came spilling out of him, snappy and overblown, two date nights before the break-up. They were never very good at talking.

Wooyoung’s thoughts simmer down when he hears the sound of a shutter.

“I forgot to take a pic,” San shrugs in explanation, “of the food.”

He’s holding his phone close to Wooyoung’s face, dishes and hands and sink all dry. Wooyoung realises he’s been wiping the same pan all this time and he quirks a brow, amused. “So you took one of my face?”

“You know—” San smiles, studying the photo, turning his phone around to reveal a snap of Wooyoung’s profile, his eyebrows drawn and mouth an angry-looking line “—your face gets very intense when you’re thinking.”

“Scary, right?”

San nods, but there’s not a hint of fear in his eyes. A terrifying amount of fondness. “I’ll picture this is what you looked like, reading all my greatest hits.”

Wooyoung chuckles. “Such as?”

“Me not liking men. All the drunk texts.” San skims a hand over Wooyoung’s nape, leaning closer until the words tickle his ear. “Calling you a good friend.”

Wooyoung almost drops the pan.

“Can I share it?” San asks, later, pointing at his phone.

There’s a yes ready to roll off Wooyoung’s tongue, not needing further context. It’s far from his most flattering photo, resting bitch face and all, but San was the one who took it. San wants to share it. San is asking for his permission, a hopeful glint in his gaze, like he wants to show Wooyoung off.

“No.”

He steals the phone out of San’s hands and opens the camera app, raising his arm. Winding the other around San’s waist, he smushes their shoulders and cheeks together. Across the ten clumsy shots, he watches San’s gasp of surprise morph into a pleased smile. He passes the phone back.

“Good call,” San says.

Flicking through the gallery, there’s a new pink to his cheeks, and Wooyoung wishes he was better-read so that he could name it. He wants to take photos of it, and of all the other shades, documenting them for easy comparison. Plaster them all over his social media, boasting, and delight in the ones he gets to keep private.

“Mingi says hi.” San smiles, and then he puts his phone away, crowding into Wooyoung on the sofa.

*

“It’s contrived.”

“It’s romantic.”

“No, she could just tell him the truth and save us—” Wooyoung pauses the movie, checking the running time “—thirty-eight minutes.”

“Are you rushing to be done?” San laughs.

“Maybe.” The main character leaves the scene in tears while her will-they-won’t-they boyfriend gazes mournfully at the camera. Wooyoung shakes his head. “They’re just lying to each other to keep the audience hooked.”

“That’s how these dramas work.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Well, you could’ve told me the truth, too.”

The comment drops out of San like a coin rolling off a table; he freezes, mouth falling open and eyes flying away from Wooyoung’s, two steps ahead and already apologising. That’s the worst part, Woooyoung thinks. That the words must’ve been bubbling under San’s surface for a while to spring up uninvited, and he’s still trying to push them back down, like he can just recline back into Wooyoung’s arms and Wooyoung can pretend not to feel the tension in his shoulders. He wishes they had stuck to his original movie pick, watching San squirm through a horror film had been a lot more enjoyable.

But—Wooyoung sets his jaw—he and San are good at talking.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re right,” Wooyoung cuts him off.

As much as he believes that—were he to meet San earlier—he would’ve fallen for him headfirst, Wooyoung doesn’t necessarily regret not running the risk. He regrets depriving himself of everything San stands for, of torturing them both with years without a resolution. All the same, Wooyoung knows he was in a different spot five years ago.

More immature and vulnerable, he’s not sure he would’ve held onto San tight enough. If San had tried to hold onto him instead, it might’ve just sent Wooyoung running in the opposite direction.

“I’m sorry,” he says, simply. “I could’ve told you.”

“No, I’m—” San lets out a disgruntled sigh, bringing his foot up to twist on the couch and face Wooyoung. “I could’ve told you, too. I should’ve.”

He means it in a different way, Wooyoung thinks.

Where San sees a list of possibilities they’ve let slip away, Wooyoung sees the possible breaking points. No dating rule getting them in trouble. Fear of getting discovered eating away at his feelings. He couldn’t have told San when his whole life was going through upheaval, dragging him into the mess, and he couldn’t have told San when San was dating someone else. So close, but always two steps to the left. Maybe Wooyoung can explain it properly one day when—

“I know it wasn’t the right time,” San says, like he can read his mind. He looks put out by the concession but honest, picky with his phrasing. “I’m not blaming you. I just—” he pauses, looking around the room for invisible support “—keep thinking about it. Having this earlier.”

Wooyoung swears his heart breaks and mends at the same time. “San-ah.”

“It’s okay,” San says. “I have you now.”

“And you can have me as long as you want,” Wooyoung says, a little stunned at how easily the mush comes out of him but also not.

He means it. It’s what he needs San to hear. He kisses the soft junction of San’s neck and San’s shoulders unwind. There’s a small freckle there; it might just become Wooyoung’s favourite. Feeling safe and strangely brave, he decides to rip the bandaid off.

“And next year,” he says, turning slightly so that his voice is audible, “when you’re in Australia—”

“I’m not going to Australia.”

“What?”

Wooyoung leans back. Thoughts running a mile a minute, he tries to remember if he’s blocked something out. A conversation they’ve had online, his defences kicking in and making him ignore the very mention of it—the elephant in the chatroom—or mind too overcome with the intensity of the past day, wiping his memories to compensate.

“But you—I—” He doesn’t know what to say. “Is it because of me?”

San seems unbothered. He tilts his head. “Do you want me to say no?”

“San.”

“Why are you not going to the US?” he asks, squinting up at Wooyoung.

“Because it doesn’t feel right.”

“Exactly.”

“But you can’t—”

“It’s my choice, Wooyoung-ah. I told you I wasn’t sure about it,” San says, nonchalant except for the way his last exhale comes with a stubborn hiss. “Now I am.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth and closes it.

The girl in the movie had lied to her love interest, self-sacrificing to the point Wooyoung wanted to turn the whole thing off. He’s made his own choices, has followed his gut. At the intersection of his own selfishness and San’s future, the second is obviously more important. But—

“It’s a great opportunity,” he says at last, voice dull.

“And it’s the wrong time.” San shrugs.

Wrong door, his face seems to imply, and the possibilities that attack Wooyoung’s heart are abrupt: months of this, years of this, San playing frisbee with Kyungmin once the weather warms, Wooyoung toasting San’s cousins for his birthday.

Earlier, maybe, when all the Namhae flowers bloom.

Before he has a chance to get himself in check, San’s eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to slap himself in the forehead. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I completely forgot.” Chuckling, San’s face splits into a grin. “I didn’t tell you why I was at Hongjoong-hyung’s.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was because of Jongho-ssi.”

Wooyoung perks up, almost dislodging San in the process. “You’ll get the feature?”

“No.” San laughs. “He’s not putting a nobody on his track.”

You’re not a nobody, Wooyoung’s inner voice supplies, but he’s still a realist—one with a severe case of daydreams. Blaming San, he purses his lips. Waits for San to elaborate and explain the lack of disappointment in his voice. It takes a proper bite into his tongue. He’d be much worse in San’s spot, if he knew he had the upper hand.

“Hongjoong-hyung said he could maybe get him as a guest,” San finally says.

“A guest?” Wooyoung asks, eyes widening. “Wait—”

“For my channel.”

It will be perfect, Wooyoung can already see it so clearly: San hitting it off with the singer right away, maybe bonding over all the snacks San will no doubt provide, maybe over Jongho’s notorious arm wrestling skills. They’ll sing some noraebang songs and Jongho’s latest OST and San’s favourite ballads, and their voices will go so well together, Wooyoung will have to fight the puddings in San’s comments for days. Their numbers will double, triple, and Jongho will call San back to—

“You’ll have to drop school, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, gravely, fighting to keep a smile off his face.

San snickers. “Let’s not get carried away.”

Shaking his head, Wooyoung glides a hand under San’s shirt to pinch his side. “No. Trust me. You’ll be crying over soju on KBS. With Im Changjung himself.”

The snicker turns into a rumbling laugh. “By next year?”

“By February.” Wooyoung hums, but then he digs his nails into San’s skin. Looking down, he pretends to turn more thoughtful. “All that fame at your fingertips, all those amazing connections, but only if you…”

San brushes his chin to tilt it up, curious. “Only if I?”

“Get a proper filming setup.”

He expects an eye roll and jokey dismissal, but San’s eyes light up, bright and sincere. Squeezing into Wooyoung’s side, he nods; pliant like when they were still arguing about the movie’s forced plot, no lingering stiffness.

“You can help with that,” he says, casually, pressing play on the remote. “I’d pay you well.”

“You don’t have a job.”

“There are other ways.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I meant English lessons,” San lies, so flimsy Wooyoung just snorts. Then, as the movie transitions to another romantic montage overlaid with a song, San softens his voice again. “Maybe I could have other guests on the channel. I mean—not to pay you back for helping—just—”

“Maybe,” Wooyoung shuts up his babbling.

He’s surprised by his own reaction—the nervous spark not making his stomach flip with alarm, instead settling there and fading into comfortable warmth. Maybe it’s because the idea is so far-fetched and distant. Maybe it’s because he can’t stand the thought of shooting San down.

Maybe, if he lets himself try, Wooyoung can enjoy singing again.

*

When the laughter first starts up, gurgling inside Wooyoung’s chest, San stops moving and holds down his hips.

“Young-ah?” he asks, concern palpable. “What’s wrong? Are you—crying?”

With the overhead lights on, Wooyoung can see the creases on his forehead. San looks so guilty, and it’s so unfair, but Wooyoung can’t help it. The worry pushes him over the edge, laughter spilling out of him like someone’s released a pressure valve. He takes advantage of the way San’s surprise loosens his grip and lifts up—only to slam himself down on San’s cock again.

“Oh my god. Wooyoung.” San groans, eyes falling shut when Wooyoung clenches around him. “Are you laughing?!”

“So—” Wooyoung giggles, punctuating each syllable with another upwards bounce “—rry.”

“You’re laughing,” San repeats, as if to himself. Letting Wooyoung do all the work, his fingers are still slack over Wooyoung’s hips, his mouth almost a pout.

“Sorry, Sani.” It’s obvious he doesn’t mean it, smushing his face into San’s neck to laugh right into his ear. It’s half intentional, half just him falling forward when he takes San particularly deep. “I just remembered—your face. When the ghost jumped out. And you—”

The rest of his sentence turns into a cackle, San’s full-body tremor at the stupid jumpscare seared into Wooyoung’s memory. He had jolted himself, true, but it had nothing on San, almost becoming one with the sofa, asking Wooyoung to change the movie right after.

“You’re getting fucked,” San says, making Wooyoung face him by tilting his own head, “and you’re laughing.”

“Seems like it.”

He groans, knees knocking into Wooyoung’s sides.

“To be fair,” Wooyoung says, all teeth and good intentions, “I don’t know who’s fucking who.”

It works like a charm.

One moment, he is dragging himself up again, bit by agonising bit. The next, he’s on his back, head at the foot of the bed and San kneeling above him, holding onto the divots above Wooyoung’s ass. Wooyoung gives himself a moment to appreciate the image—and the stretch that comes with the new angle, turning his sounds less exuberant and much more breathy—and then he loses it again at San’s serious expression, covering his face with his arms.

“You’re unbelievable.”

San’s voice travels to him from behind the barricade, equal parts fond and perplexed. Turned on, too, if the force with which he slams forward is any indication. It jostles Wooyoung’s whole body, the crown of his head almost slipping off the mattress. “You love it,” he teases.

The fact that San doesn’t respond is confirmation enough.

Wooyoung can picture him without watching: the concentrated frown, the lip between his teeth, and the high flush. How very stupid not to watch when he’s given the chance, he lets his hands fall by his head and grins at San with as much innocence as he can muster. “There you go. That’s more like it.”

Even in his roughness, San’s gaze stays gentle. Watchful. He whimpers like he’s the one being pierced apart, mouth slack. His grip will leave bruises and Wooyoung knows his ass will need a break after this, a satisfying ache starting to spread through his insides, but all he wants is more.

One thrust, two, and—since the pace is doing wonders turning Wooyoung’s spine liquid—he wants to laugh again. The sound that falls out of him is a filthy approximation, eyes rolling back when the next thrust pushes him further off the bed. He can see the view this way. Upside down, the blurry lights look just as magical. More, perhaps, because Wooyoung can feel his balls drawing in, all nerves firing up and turning even the drag of the sheets under his skin into something pleasurable.

“Keep going, Sannie,” he whimpers, feeling San’s hips slow. “I’m close. I—”

San barely does anything—a shadow of a touch, the air falling over Wooyoung’s leaking cock when San’s hand moves forward—and it’s enough to make his body arch. The lights disappear from view but sparkle behind Woooyung’s eyelids, his head lolling off the bed and getting caught in the cradle of San’s palm, the aftershocks of Wooyoung’s orgasm rippling through him in the same staccato rhythm as his earlier laughter.

When he gets his bearings, he’s fully on the mattress again, San leaning over him with a hard-to-read expression. For others, that is, because Wooyoung immediately knows to brush his cheek and smile.

“Are you okay?” San asks. The idiot. “You—Sorry. I got carried away.”

“Never felt better,” Wooyoung says, voice weak. Post-orgasmic exaggeration or the truth, he’s not even sure himself. He knows he absolutely won’t have San doubting giving him what Wooyoung wanted. “It felt so good, San. So so so good.”

“So…” San says, a hint of a smile growing more smug, “...good?”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitches. “Come on,” he says. Feeling honestly fucked out, he lifts his hands experimentally, wondering if they’ll work. They do. “Come here.”

“Uh.” San clasps his fingertips, saving Wooyoung the effort. “I came already.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“I see,” Wooyoung says, and then he laughs again.

Like coming full circle, except this time San deals with it by laughing along, and then helping Wooyoung up, effortlessly lifting his sore limbs. Wooyoung thinks about how thoroughly he’ll have to wash the sheets before he leaves the flat; perhaps buying a new set would be the better idea. Proud of his sexual prowess, he concedes it’s always been vastly overstated. Wooyoung’s never had this much sex in a day.

Again, he’s struck by his own luck.

He can imagine someone else sneering at him, making fun of Wooyoung’s seeming goal to squeeze five years worth of abstinence into one weekend. There’s no reason for it, no rush, no need to hold San close just in case he’s about to disappear in the morning. But San seems to understand, too, taking everything Wooyoung gives him and giving even more. His perfect match.

“It’s Saturday,” Wooyoung says, voice betraying the onset of his sleepiness.

San hums. “It is.”

“We’re ahead of schedule.”

He chuckles against Wooyoung’s bicep. “I don’t think I could’ve planned a better date, honestly.”

“I agree,” Wooyoung says. Then, because he’s been wanting to ask for hours and kept getting himself distracted, he opens his eyes a crack to look at San. “Do you want to come with me to the dance studio? Later?”

“At your company?”

“Mm.” He’s got some questions, Wooyoung can see. San leaves them unvoiced, probably recognising how close he’s trailing to sleep. “Got something I should work on. Want you there.”

Silence. San’s smile against his skin and a nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Wooyoung shifts deeper into the pillow, now truly content. “Wake me up in five. It’s my turn.”

“Your turn?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “With your cute butt.”

The last thing Wooyoung hears—feels—is San’s own laughter. Well aware that this particular plan will have to wait, Wooyoung lets himself go, sinking into the fuzzy pattern behind his eyelids.

*

Saturday, as it turns out, was never meant to be their day.

It starts off idyllic enough—lingering kisses in bed, late breakfast, and planning the strangest first date Wooyoung’s ever been on. There’s the flat viewing at two, and then the trip to the studio, and then dinner at the restaurant San’s booked; they go back and forth about it for a while, Wooyoung trying to appeal to San’s love for good beef, San refusing to provide any details about the place he’s picked.

Wooyoung ends up cancelling his own reservation after San calls in the stupid elevator bet. He can’t say he minds.

“I was really sick last morning,” Wooyoung says, later, filling San in on his truant backstory. “Food poisoning. Just play along if anyone asks.”

“Will the dancer hyungs be there?”

“Probably.” Workaholism—or, the constant push and pull of wanting to be better, train harder, spend more time immersed in music—is like a disease. Wooyoung is no stranger to it. “But they’re nice, don’t worry.”

“Won’t they mind?”

“No,” Wooyoung assures with a soft smile. “I’ll fight them if they do.”

He plays the secret title track for San to get his two cents on the mood, and finds that they both agree the choreo should be a bit more provocative, a bit more tongue-in-cheek. Wooyoung feels good about it, the prospect of dancing in front of San, with San. It has his stomach in delightful knots.

“And then dinner?” San asks.

“Then dinner,” Wooyoung agrees, letting San have his one surprise but hoping it won’t involve oysters. Or cucumbers. He smiles to himself at that, knowing he can count on San not to involve the devil’s spawn.

Before they even get dressed, the rest of the world comes crashing in.

“Hongjoong-hyung,” San says when his phone starts ringing, and he turns the screen around for Wooyoung to see. “I should—”

“Answer.”

The way San’s face flies through five different emotions in the span of a minute, Wooyoung can practically hear Hongjoong’s part of the conversation, even as he pretends to be busy wiping the countertops and rearranging cutlery. ‘I’m with Wooyoung’ and a rosy blush, Hongjoong has probably guessed that much. ‘Today?’ and San’s eyes flicking up, excitement battling it out with equal uncertainty. “Young-ah,” and San covering the microphone, looking up at him with eyes Wooyoung could never refuse anything. “Jongho-ssi wants to meet up. To discuss the—”

Wooyoung leans towards him and pushes San’s thumb off the mic. “He’ll be there!”

“Yah, Wooyoung-ah!” Immediately, Hongjoong’s tinny voice shouts back through the speaker: “Call Seonghwa!”

“Yes, hyung!” Wooyoung snorts, fond.

Before San even ends the call, his own phone starts vibrating on the coffee table. Seeing Yeosang’s name on the caller ID, Wooyoung mouths: “Should’ve thrown these away,” and then shuffles into the bedroom.

“Morning, Sang-ah,” he chirps, drawing out the name. “You won’t believe what—”

“Do you remember Daeho?” Yeosang cuts him off, oblivious to all the news Wooyoung’s itching to share.

“Daeho?” Wooyoung turns the name over in his head. “Snorey Daeho from the bottom bunk?”

“That’s the one.” A traínee from the days at Wooyoung’s first company, he can barely remember the boy’s face. Out of their room, only Yeosang’s made it to debut. Wooyoung almost congratulates him about it, but Yeosang keeps going: “I ran into him this morning. He’s renting a place in Hongdae. I sent you pictures.”

Checking, Wooyoung sees there are five unread messages from Yeosang in their chat. Two bedroom, shared, with a small patio and a nice kitchen. The shower looks pretty big, too. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“I know it’s Saturday,” Yeosang says, with due emphasis. “But he’s got more people coming to see the flat in the afternoon, and I think you should get in touch.”

The price Yeosang shares with the contact is a steal. A little further from work, but it’s Hongdae, and the only bad thing Wooyoung can remember about Daeho is his snoring. Easy to fix if he’s in a separate room. Given San’s own phone call, Wooyoung sends Daeho a waving sticker while he’s still on the line.

“Right, good luck later! You know he’ll love you, Woo, so don’t stress and don’t—”

“Sang-ah,” he says, interrupting Yeosang with an aching grin. “I’ve met him.”

“Daeho-ya?”

“What? Not—do you think I can teleport?” Waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come, Wooyoung sighs. “Sannie. I met Sannie.”

Yeosang’s exhale is careful, expectant. It morphs into a swear that takes Wooyoung by surprise, making the bedroom ring with his guffaw. “Fucking finally.”

He softens straight away, asking Wooyoung for details like the supportive best friend he is, and Wooyoung knows he deserves them, what with having the privilege of watching everything unfold at close range. Later, though. When San isn’t leaning on the doorframe with his eyebrow raised, hair dishevelled from combing through it during Hongjoong’s call.

“He’s perfect,” Wooyoung says, smirking.

At a loss for words, poor Yeosang sounds relieved when Wooyoung promises to call back another time. He puts the phone down, walking towards San like a magnet pulled into his field. “So,” he says, “change of plans.”

“Yeah.”

Nodding, San turns from resigned to pouty. Wooyoung knows exactly how he feels, and also knows it’s for the best. They can’t stay in the rented flat forever, and this is much closer to what their usual days might look like: two different tracks, twining and melding into each other, not always touching but always only a text away.

Less than a text.

Wooyoung tilts his head, going easily when San loops a hand around his waist. “Do you know when you’ll be done?”

“No.”

“Just text me. We can meet at the studio—or at the restaurant, if you let me—”

“I’ll text you,” San promises. His frown of distress doesn’t let up.

“It’s fine, San-ah. We still have all day tomorrow.” And all the time in the world after that, he doesn’t add.

“I know. I…” San glances behind Wooyoung’s shoulder, at the mess of sheets and dirty clothes that Wooyoung’s been steadfastly ignoring, then back to Wooyoung’s chest and up. He sighs. “Young-ah, I don’t know what to wear.”

Wooyoung leans into him until they both collapse against the doorframe, laughing.

*

(you)

hey babe

need ur help

i think i

lost something

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

I’m sorryyyy

I didn’t realise I took my hoodie

It was still dark…

(you)

not your hoodie

but i do need that back, too 😠

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

I’ll return it tonight!

(you)

cool

thanks

i actually can’t find

my boyfriend

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

…

(you)

176cm

toned af

loves to be called

a good boy

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Young-ah…

I’m in class

(you)

i last saw him

in my bed

but then

i woke up and hed

disappeared???

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

ㅋㅋㅋ

You were sleeping

SO peacefully

Didn’t want to wake you

(you)

soooo

u just left me here

cold

sore

alone

with the world’s saddest sandwich?

[photo]

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

ㅠㅠ

I was running late

(you)

well

daeho-ya

loved it

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

It was made for you

(you)

too bad...

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

With love

(you)

love can’t fix

the blandness

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

I even cut my pinky!!

(you)

i don’t care

for blood

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

ㅠㅠ

(you)

should’ve put in

more cheese

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

So damn ungrateful

(you)

that’s me

ur favourite brat

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Don’t…

I’m in the front row

(you)

relax

im on the bus

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

ㅋㅋㅋ

Like that would stop you

(you)

like youd really mind 😘

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Did you eat anything else?

(you)

yeah

i stole your smoothie

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Oh right…

(you)

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

I forgot it…

(you)

that’s karma for u

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

For letting you get good sleep?

(you)

yeah

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

On your big day?? 🥺

(you)

put those away...

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

[photo]

(you)

NOT FAIR

anyWAY

if you see my boyfriend

tell him to stop by

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

6pm?

(you)

yeah

we’ll be having

a sandwich making masterclass

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

OK

It’s a date!

— ⩊ —

(you)

OK

freak!

bring your hoodie back!

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Sure sure

Wooyoung-ah

(you)

well

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Wait

(you)

i have to go

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

You know that

You’ll do amazing

Right?

(you)

i’ll tryyyy

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

You’ll knock their socks off!!

(you)

mmmm

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Go charm them all!!

(you)

yeah

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

Let me know how it goes!

(you)

will do

love you, san-ah ❤️

Sannie ❤️‍🔥

You too! ❤️

Notes:

If you’re still going down with the sinking ship, re-tweetable here!

I can’t believe it’s done?? 😭 This chapter got sappy enough, I shouldn’t add to it in the author’s note, but I’ve spent so much time working on this fic over the last three months, posting this chapter feels very bittersweet 🥹

Thank you everyone for reading and your comments, I hope you enjoyed this last bit ❤️

And thank you again anonymous prompter!

Notes:

Also comes with a playlist!

Thank you Alisa for giving me advice on the texting styles—I didn’t follow all of it, but I really appreciate it! Thank you Em for all the cheerleading when this fic was but an idea that I got obsessed with! Thank you Id for reading through the fic when you had so much else going on, and for being so encouraging!

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