Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wooyoung climbs the stairs to his fifth floor apartment wearily. His calves burn, not in the good way they will after a thorough workout but the way they do right before they stop doing their part to hold you upright. He’d overdone it (again) and hadn’t stopped practicing until he’d been trembling with fatigue (again) and really, isn’t twenty four old enough to just magically know how to perform self care?

It should be, if it isn’t. There should be some kind of rule book or manual, even one with those crap IKEA stick figures: Adulting for Assholes, or How Not To Work Yourself Into The Ground: A Guide To Self Care For the Terminal Overachiever. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to lower himself carefully to the top step at his landing  and press his forehead against the cool metal balustrade until his head stops spinning.

He hasn’t eaten, either. Wooyoung knows that’s half his problem, he hadn’t even packed a damn cliff bar or a protein pouch and instead of stopping midway and grabbing something from the 7-11 next to the studio he’d just thought one more run through, just one more and I’ll get it, I’m almost there, just one more.

The next thing Wooyoung knew it was midnight and he’d been next door to dead. He knows self care isn’t his strong suit, that his drive to succeed can and will block out everything but the goal, to the detriment of his health and emotional well being. But he just can’t seem to stop.

He’s sitting there with his arms wrapped around the newel post, sweaty and exhausted and probably dehydrated, when his apartment door opens behind him. Figuring San had heard him stagger up the stairs, Wooyoung throws himself backward onto the floor, pouting with his eyes squeezed shut and his arms in the air.

“Pull meeee,” he whines. “Don’t leave me here to perish on the landing.” He makes grabby hands, waving his arms until his hands are caught and he is dragged into his apartment.

When the momentum slows, Wooyoung whines again. “At least get me out of the entryway way, damn.”

There’s a huff from above him and that’s…odd. San usually curses up a storm, lecturing and nagging and all the other things he feels are within his purview as Wooyoung’s bestest best friend. He’d never just huff like that.

Wooyoung opens his eyes, and shrieks.

A strange man is dragging him into his own apartment by his wrists, a man in a backwards cap and a black hoodie, but he drops Wooyoung’s hands like they’ve burned him the instant Wooyoung starts shrieking. 

San comes flying out of the bathroom with a towel slung low at his hips, looking wildly around as Wooyoung hauls himself upright. “What the fuck is happening?”

Wooyoung points an accusatory finger at the strange man, then hisses through his teeth when he sees the man is pointing at him in turn.

“This…this person was dragging me—” Wooyoung begins.

“He collapsed in front of me and then told me to drag him,” the strange man says to San, but he is scowling at Wooyoung with undisguised unease. 

Wooyoung’s eyes narrow. “I thought you were someone else,” he grits out.

“Obviously,” the stranger snorts.

San’s lips are twitching. Instead of looking outraged on Wooyoung’s behalf as expected, he’s sharing knowing smiles with the jerk in the hoodie as if Wooyoung is the unreasonable one in this scenario.

Wooyoung crosses his arms and glares at them both.

“Hongjoong, this is my roommate you’ve just assisted into the apartment,” San says, his voice clearly wobbling toward laughter. 

The jerk in the hoodie— Hongjoong, apparently —tips his chin up in the barest approximation of a greeting. Wooyoung arches his eyebrow and looks him up and down before dismissing him.

“Wooyoung,” San says warningly, through a toothy grin that looks rather strained, “this is Hongjoong. He’s my project partner for Music Theory.”

“Enchanted,” Wooyoung deadpans. “Maybe keep your hands off next time.”

“Next time I’ll leave your carcass in the stairwell to rot, don’t worry.” Hongjoong shoots a grin San’s way. “It’s been real, but I gotta go.” He moves past Wooyoung and their shoulders brush as he pauses to step back into his boots.

Wooyoung sniffs and goes back to glaring.

Hongjoong throws a sardonic half-smile over his shoulder as he opens the door. “You’re about as intimidating as a kitten, you know. You might wanna work on that.” As Wooyoung’s mouth falls open in shock, Hongjoong raises a hand. “See you tomorrow, San.” Then his gaze slides over Wooyoung, slow and appraising. “Bye, Kitten.”

Wooyoung stares at the closed apartment door in stunned silence. He’s quiet so long that San mutters something about having his shower now that the crisis has been averted.

Wooyoung whirls on him. “Who the fuck was—”

San sighs. “That was Hongjoong. I literally just introduced you.”

“I know that.” Wooyoung shrugs out of his jacket and kicks off his sneakers. “I meant, why was he in our apartment?” And why did I have to make myself look like a fool in front of him?

“He’s my project partner,” San says again, as if this was all the reason needed to invite a strange dude into one’s actual home. He gestures down at himself, at the towel he’s clutching tightly at the hip. “Can I go shower now? Or is the interrogation not over?”

Wooyoung smirks. “So it was a booty call.”

“No! God, I can have friends I don’t fuck.”

Wooyoung, pausing in the act of opening the fridge, snorts out a laugh. “Since when?”

“You’re my friend, I don’t fuck you!”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “That’s because I turned you down once in freshman year when you were off your face, and I didn’t want to deal with the potential of liquor dick and the emotional fallout that would have triggered.”

San opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, frowning. “Wait, you told me it was because you valued our friendship too much to be FWB. Was that a lie?”

Wooyoung laughs fondly as he emerges from the fridge with a cheese stick, which is apparently the only food they have that doesn’t need to be cooked first. “Oh my god, go shower. See if you can’t scrub some sense into your brain while you’re at it. I don't have the energy for this tonight.” He busies himself with trying to wrestle the wrapper open.

San’s hand reaches over his shoulder and snags the package, opening it in two quick pulls. He taps Wooyoung on the nose with it before handing it back. “I’m sorry. I should have told you Hongjoong was over, but I figured you’d wouldn’t care. You never have before.”

“I’ve never been manhandled by your friends before, that’s probably why.”

San makes a wry face. “An entire lie. Don’t make me break out the list. Besides, he said you told him to pull you.”

Wooyoung chews grumpily. “I don’t recall.”

“He’s not quite the villain you’re trying to make him into.”

Wooyoung shrugs. “I don’t like him. He’s got an attitude.”

“You think someone has an— You know what? Nevermind. I’m showering. Sweet dreams.” San disappears around the corner into the bathroom. 

Wooyoung hears the shower turn on as he finishes the cheese stick. He's so damn tired, but now he’s also keyed up and irritated because he’d been embarrassed and he’d overreacted, but instead of being able to articulate that like a whole ass adult, he’d defaulted to DEFCON: BITCH like a hormonal teenager. 

The result of course is that now he can never allow Hongjoong to perceive him ever again. He’ll have to rearrange his schedule to ensure they never cross paths while Hongjoong is working with San on their project. There’s half a semester left; Wooyoung thinks he can manage it, with a little luck. If San is cooperative and gives him a warning of any impending Hongjoong-ness, so much the better.

Wooyoung steps into his own bathroom. He looks longingly at the cramped little tub, thinking of hot, scented water soothing the tension from his neck, back, and legs. Then he heads for the shower because in his current exhaustion he’d probably fall asleep in the tub, and so far as he knows, accidentally drowning isn’t on his social calendar this week.

/

Spring is coming; the calendar says so and today, the weather does, too. Wooyoung knows it’s a false spring, knows it’s only the beginning of February and they have at least another month to be overshadowed by the potential for cold and snow and sleet, but today he ties his hoodie at his waist and lets the warm breeze blow his hair back off his forehead as he walks down the main avenue bisecting campus. It is lined with cherry trees that are still bare, the benches beneath them full of students taking a moment to soak up the warmth and sunshine. 

Ahead, at the bench right before the stairs that lead down to the campus gates, Wooyoung spots San. Wooyoung starts to jog toward him, but pulls up short as he takes in San’s posture and body language. He’s talking to someone sitting there, and as Wooyoung watches he ducks his head, his dimple flashing in a bashful smile.

That’s San’s flirting stance. Not the for-fun flirting either, where he’s cheesy and over the top and he throws his whole ass into it because it doesn’t mean a damn thing; this is the real deal. Shy glances, sweet smiles, not a trace of a corny pickup line…whoever San is talking to must be someone really special. The shrubs beside the bench hide whoever it is, but San is very obviously smitten and it’s actually sort of cute.

Wooyoung stops short in the middle of the concourse with the sudden realization that if he walks up to them, he’s bound to ruin whatever moment they’re having. He doesn’t want to be that guy, and is about to detour to sit on a closer bench with a space available, when someone crashes into him from behind.

Wooyoung whirls, ready to apologize for stopping in the middle of the pathway, but his eyes narrow immediately when he sees who had slammed into him.

Hongjoong stands there, looking aggravated and harried and yet somehow still cool. The backward cap is in place again, blond hair peeking out above the band. Unlike Wooyoung, Hongjoong still wears his hoodie. There are ludicrously large headphones around his neck.

Wooyoung realizes that he’s spending entirely too much time cataloging all this because Hongjoong is scowling at him, rubbing an absent hand over his midsection. “What the fuck do you keep in that bag, a spiked bat? You’re not supposed to have weapons on campus.”

Well fuck you too, buddy. Wooyoung scoffs. “They’re books.” And San’s football cleats, but those don’t bear mentioning. “Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow and all at once Wooyoung  wants to punch him in his stupid face. It comes over him suddenly and completely, and his right hand actually twitches into a fist for a moment before he wrestles control back from his lizard brain.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going? Then you don’t need to worry about my bag,” he says instead, and congratulates himself on avoiding violence.

“Put your claws away, Kitten, I’m too busy to play with you today,” Hongjoong says, and pushes past him.

Wooyoung watches Hongjoong walk away with his mouth hanging open. It’s been a long time since he’s met anyone who can match him quip for quip and dammit, he kind of likes that. Too bad the guy is an absolute dick, because added to his quick wit, his looks are…

Do not, Wooyoung tells himself firmly, absolutely do not go there. He could be the personification of Adonis himself, and it wouldn’t save his personality. Pretty outside doesn’t mean pretty inside and you know it.

Lord, does he know it.

But he watches Hongjoong walk away anyway because he’s a glutton for punishment apparently, and then nearly bites his tongue in half as the man makes a beeline for San and whomever his best friend has been talking to. San looks up at Hongjoong and takes a significant step back from the person on the bench, looking suddenly self conscious and unsure. Wooyoung watches for a moment more, grinding his teeth. Who the hell does Hongjoong think he is, barging in on a private moment that way? Can he not read body language? 

Huffing in frustration, Wooyoung jogs over. Just as he reaches the little group, the person San had been talking to begins to stand up.

And just…keeps standing. The man is a goddamn giant. He’s got at least four inches on San. He’s wearing reflective sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and he’s smirking at something Hongjoong is saying. Neither the giant nor Hongjoong notice the way San is gazing at the taller man’s profile, and thank fuck for it, Wooyoung thinks, because his best friend looks positively lovesick.

Wooyoung skirts the little group and comes to stand behind San, hooking his chin over his best friend’s shoulder and grinning at Hongjoong and the other man. It’s more a baring of teeth than a smile, toward Hongjoong at least, but all he gets in response is another raised eyebrow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says with a honeyed tone. “They just let anyone in these days, hmm?” 

“This is my friend, Wooyoung!” San says loudly, elbowing Wooyoung in the ribs and shooting him a look that says behave, or else. “Wooyoung, you’ve already met Hongjoong, and this is…Mingi.”

No one but a bestest best friend would have caught the minute hitch in San’s voice, the tiny pause before he’d said Mingi’s name. His friend is in deep.

Mingi glances at Hongjoong with a strange expression on his face. “This is—” He breaks off as Hongjoong clears his throat, and looks uncertain as he pastes a smile on his face and turns back to Wooyoung. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about— ow!”

“We’ve got stuff,” Hongjoong says shortly, ignoring the fact that Mingi is now crouched down holding his ankle. Wooyoung didn’t technically see him do it, but he’d bet a month’s rent that Hongjoong had kicked him.

“Oh,” San says, and Wooyoung hears the disappointment in his voice. 

Wooyoung glares at Hongjoong as Mingi stands up. Hongjoong glares back, smirking.

Mingi scratches at the back of his neck, clearly picking up on the sudden tension. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe? In class,” he says to San.

“Sure,” San says quietly. “See you then.” Then he shakes himself and calls, “Bye, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong, already walking away, throws a lazy peace sign over his shoulder. Mingi jogs to catch up with him, and they disappear down the stairs toward the gates. San watches them go.

Wooyoung snaps in front of San’s face twice before San notices him. “Damn, dude, you’re down bad,” he jokes when San finally turns to look at him.

To Wooyoung’s surprise, instead of laughing along, San looks kind of sad. “Shut up,” he mutters, sitting on the bench with a sigh. Then he looks up sharply. “Was it that obvious?“ He looks mildly panicked, casting a hunted look around him at the students milling past. “Do you think he noticed?”

Wooyoung, who privately thinks San’s heart eyes had been visible from space, makes a dismissive sound. “No way,” he scoffs, hoping he sounds supportive and not as if he’s reciting a line he’s memorized. “I just know you too well.” There. That sounds nice and reassuring.

The fastest way to get San to stop doing something is for him to become convinced he’s making a fool of himself. Wooyoung has been friends with San for about seven years and he’s lost count of the things he’s seen San talk himself out of wanting because he didn’t think he deserved them.

But Wooyoung had seen the happiness on San’s face when he’d been talking to Mingi, and if Mingi was a good guy, then Wooyoung would make sure San didn’t lose the confidence to shoot his shot. 

First step then, would be investigation. Wooyoung could just go over San’s head and stalk the guy’s socials, but he is a firm believer in taking the easy way when possible. Maximum results, minimum effort, and it’s served him well all his life. He’ll still stalk Mingi’s socials, but the more info San offers up beforehand, the less time Wooyoung will have to waste in weeding through people with the same name on campus. 

Wooyoung sits down beside San and starts looking through his bag. No eye contact is also the key to getting info from San. The less put-on-the-spot he feels, the more he’ll talk. Forget Adulting For Assholes, he could have a lucrative career penning such self-help titles as Investigating Your Introvert and Don’t Spook the Shy One. Maybe the psychology track is a mistake and he should have gone in for creative writing.

“Mingi seems nice,” he says off-handedly, as if it’s something that has just occurred to him. 

“Hmm,” is San’s response. He’s leaning forward staring at his hands where they dangle between his knees. 

Not exactly promising, but Wooyoung has come up against the wall of San’s stubbornness before and is, as yet, undaunted. He changes tacks and pulls out San’s football cleats. “You forgot these at home,” he says instead.

San looks surprised. “Oh, shit, did I?” He takes them gratefully. “I must’ve spaced.” A pause. “It’s Wednesday?”

Wooyoung huffs out a kind laugh. “All day.”

“Shit. That means I’ve got chem in ten minutes. I thought it was Tuesday and this was my free period!” San jumps up, then leans down and lands a smacking kiss on Wooyoung’s forehead. “You’re the best!” He shouts as he runs off in the direction of the sciences building.

Wooyoung watches him go, shaking his head, indulgent and fond. San is a brilliant dancer, intuitive and graceful and capable of making the most intricate movements look as easy as breathing and as fluid as a river. An actual genius, Wooyoung is pretty certain. 

Outside of music and movement, he’s endearingly scatterbrained. The complete opposite of Wooyoung, who consistently stays ten steps ahead of everyone else with all the exits mapped and a preconceived script rolling in his head at all times. It’s not his fault people are so predictable that they rarely deviate from it. 

Sometimes he wonders if he’s an extrovert simply because he’s constantly on the hunt for someone who will surprise him, refusing to adhere to the role Wooyoung assigns them in his head. The larger the pool the more chances of it happening, is his logic. His therapist calls him apathetic. Wooyoung just thinks he’s bored. Society has given young people certain molds to squeeze themselves into, and one by one they do, cutting off bits of themselves that don’t fit until suddenly there’s only like five types of people, all cookie-cutter, mass-produced replicas of one another. The same goals, the same methods, the same, same, same. 

It’s exhausting, and the worst part of it is, the call is coming from inside the house. Wooyoung is just as caught up in the rat race as the rest of them, with his double major and his hyperfocus and his butchered sleep schedule.

But still.

Wooyoung starts scrolling on his phone. It takes him less than a minute to find the Mingi San had been talking to. In under three, Wooyoung knows his birthplace, his star sign, his favorite color, and his blood type. His family name is Song. He breakdances. He’s failing English currently. He’s really close with his mother. He’s a lyricist. He wants to travel.

Seems like a normal, decent dude. 

Wooyoung pockets his phone and shoulders his bag again. Unlike San, he doesn’t have anymore classes now that lunch is over, so he’s heading to the dance studio. He has a vague idea that starting earlier will enable him to be done earlier, so he doesn’t have to drag himself up the stairs and nearly pass out on the landing again. 

Just before Wooyoung turns the corner into the little alley where his studio sits above a little flower shop, a man he’s passing shoves a flier at him. Wooyoung hadn’t been paying attention, had already been going through several of the more troublesome steps in his mind, and so the flier smacks him in the chest before he realizes what’s happening. His hands come up automatically to catch it with a surprised huff. The man walks on, handing fliers out to everyone he comes across.

Wooyoung looks down at the bright pink flier. It’s for a music show happening in a couple of weeks, some sort of underground rap-battle. That isn’t really his type of thing, but just before he crumples it up to toss into the rubbish bin on the corner, his eye snags on one of the headliners.

Song Mingi.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath. Nothing like this had come up on his surface search— the guy his best friend likes is some sort of rapper? Wooyoung snorts. San doesn’t even listen to rap. 

Still chuckling a little, Wooyoung scans the rest of the names. There are only two others in the bold font that denotes the headlining acts. One, he recognizes; Hope has been rapping since Wooyoung was in high school, and Wooyoung has seen him at a few festivals, including last year’s Pride. The other, someone called Captain, he’s never heard of.

Wooyoung folds the flier and sticks it into the pocket of his jeans. He’ll save it to show San later. Maybe he can even convince him to go see the show.

/

Thursdays are what they like to call Umbrella Days. If you take their names and mash them together, they make the word for umbrella. It’s a day when classes either end early (Wooyoung) or there’s no class at all (San) and so from three pm or so, they watch dramas or movies or anime or Vine compilations, and they cook together. They’ve done it since high school, because classes let out early on that day each week for teacher enrichment, and they’d simply carried the tradition forward to college. 

Wooyoung is folding his clothes on the couch and waiting for San to get back from the grocery store. He’s folding a pair of his jeans when he hears a crinkling sound. Frowning, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a bright pink piece of paper.

It’s the flier that random guy had handed him on his way to the studio last week. He unfolds it, surprised to find it mostly legible despite being both washed and dried. True to form, he’d stayed late at the studio that day again and had dragged himself home to shower and face plant on his bed for eight straight— he’d completely spaced on showing the flier to San, too. He smooths it out on his thigh and lays it on the back of the couch so it will catch his eye when he gets up to help San cook. 

Wooyoung is gathering the stack of folded clothes into his arms when he hears the beeping of the keypad. He hurries to dump the stack on his bed, so he can get back to the kitchen to help put the groceries away. He skids to a stop where the hallway opens up into the split kitchen/living room. There’s a bike helmet on their counter.

There’s a Hongjoong standing at the back of the couch, reading the hot pink flier.

“What are you doing here?” Wooyoung blurts out before he can stop himself.

Hongjoong finishes perusing the flier before sparing Wooyoung a glance, which is infuriating in itself, but then he looks Wooyoung up and down from head to toe without speaking, expressionless but for that fucking arched eyebrow that sets Wooyoung’s teeth on edge.

Twice.

Wooyoung looks down at himself. He’s wearing an oversized, fuzzy sweater, his softest pants, and his stripey socks. There’s nothing wrong with this outfit, damn it. He’s not planning on walking a Paris runway, he just wants to cook food and watch shitty tv with his best friend in the whole world. He glares at Hongjoong— and really, that’s becoming his default expression any time he’s unfortunate enough to be in the man’s company —and eventually Hongjoong purses his lips and turns away. He slaps the flier onto the counter, and Wooyoung assumes he’s going to take his big black bike helmet and get the fuck out of Wooyoung’s apartment, but to his dismay, Hongjoong hops up onto one of the stools at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

San straightens from where he’d been arranging the groceries in the fridge and slides a can of beer over to Hongjoong. Then he holds one out toward Wooyoung. Wooyoung, who has been trying to ask San just what the fuck is going on using only his eyes and his facial

muscles, gives up and snatches the can. He has to stand awkwardly, because the only other place to sit is the stool right beside Hongjoong and Wooyoung would rather endure torture. 

“What do you want for supper?” San asks.

What does he want? He wants the silently judging asshole at the counter to grab his fucking space helmet and go riding off into the sunset. Safely, of course. Wooyoung doesn’t wish him harm, he just wishes him gone.

“Ah…did you have anything in particular you shopped for?” Wooyoung asks, feeling out of place. He doesn’t know what the fuck it is about Hongjoong but his very presence makes Wooyoung feel like he’s tripping down a hill, and he doesn’t fucking like it. “Whatever you want is fine.”

“Lettuce wraps?” San suggests, setting his beer aside. “I got some beef, and some water chestnuts and things.”

Wooyoung nods and moves past San to the fridge. Anything more complicated than ramen, it’s better if he cooks. San is an excellent vegetable chopper, and his poached eggs are always perfect, but beef is expensive and it’ll be much better if Wooyoung handles that part. He sets the beef strips out on the counter to rest. 

“I’m going to get changed,” San says behind him. 

Wooyoung whirls around, but it’s too late; he’s alone with Hongjoong in the tiny kitchen. Hongjoong is watching him over the rim of his can as he sips. His eyes are dark and inscrutable. Wooyoung presses his lips together tightly and turns away, rummaging in the cabinet for seasonings and the other ingredients he’ll need for the braise. He lines the items up on the counter in silence. There’s an itch between his shoulder blades, and he scowls as he reaches up for the mixing bowl.

He feels as if something is missing, and he stares at the line of ingredients for a full minute before he realizes that the salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes are on the goddamn counter where Hongjoong is still seated. He takes a steadying breath, makes sure his face isn’t doing anything weird, and turns to reach past Hongjoong for the spices.

From the corner of his eye, Wooyoung sees Hongjoong shift slightly and lean in just as Wooyoung’s fingers close around the little jars. He freezes, turning his head to look sharply at Hongjoong.

“Did you just smell me?” he asks incredulously, his eyes wide.

Hongjoong leans back and crosses his arms, all unhurried ease. “You smell like a bakery,” is all he says. When Wooyoung only stares at him, he smirks. “Problem, Kitten?”

Wooyoung makes a tch sound and straightens up. “Stop calling me that. I have a name.”

“I’m aware,” Hongjoong answers, sounding amused. “Kitten suits you better.” He takes another long swallow of beer. “People’s names should suit them.”

Wooyoung returns the smirk. “Ah,” he says, as if he’d begun to understand. “So I should just call you Asshole, then?” he asks sweetly.

To Wooyoung’s surprise, Hongjoong throws his head back on a laugh. “I walked right into that one,” he chuckles. “Touché.”

Wooyoung turns quickly back to the mixing bowl. Horrifying as it is to admit, he’d felt an answering smile tugging at his own lips. That would never do. Where the hell was San? How long did it take to change into comfortable clothes, for fuck’s sake? He dumps the steak strips into the marinade, poking them down until they’re all covered with the sauce, and he’s so engrossed in this that he doesn’t realize Hongjoong has come up behind him until he speaks.

“You smell delicious,” Hongjoong says softly right beside Wooyoung’s ear. 

Wooyoung yelps, then bites down on his lip hard. He’ll be damned if he shows this ballsy motherfucker an instant of uncertainty. He stays very, very still, goosebumps rising all along his neck and jaw on that side. He waits, barely daring to breathe, for Hongjoong’s next move.

It never comes. He hears, “Catcha later, Kitten,” followed by the click of the door opening and closing. Wooyoung’s ears are ringing. He stares down into the bowl of marinade as if it holds the answers to what the hell had just happened.

San comes back into the kitchen. Wooyoung forces his shoulders to relaxed so he isn’t hunched over the bowl of beef like some weird fucking gremlin.

“Where’s Hongjoong?” San asks, pulling an onion and a carrot and the water chestnuts from the fridge and grabbing the cutting board.

“He—” Wooyoung breaks off to clear his throat. The word had come out like a croak. “He left. He said—”

You smell delicious 

“— catcha later.” Wooyoung tilts his head so he can itch his ear against his shoulder. He still has the goddamn goosebumps. It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous, letting some jerk get into his head like that. It’s infuriating. He’d had the upper hand, he’d made Hongjoong laugh, and then all of a sudden he’s frozen and all over goosebumps from a murmur beside his ear? Absolutely the fuck not.

“Hey, what’s this?” San asks, cutting into Wooyoung’s inner monologue. 

Wooyoung turns to look. San had moved his veg chopping operation to the breakfast counter, in the spot recently taken up by Hongjoong’s helmet. He’s looking down at the pink flier.

“Some rando gave that to me last week and I just found it again.” Anything to get his mind off that voice beside his ear. “Hope’s performing.” He sees the instant San’s eyes slide over Mingi’s name, because a blush heats his friend’s cheeks. It’s sweet, really. “Do you wanna go? It’s next Friday.”

“Yeah, um,” San stammers. He folds the flier carefully and slips it into his pocket. Wooyoung pretends not to see. “Yeah, why not. Could be fun, right?”

/

And it is fun, for a while. The warehouse where it’s held is large and filled with lights and sounds and people dancing and drinking and all manner of other shit that Wooyoung notices in his periphery and doesn’t pay much mind to. He dances, he has a drink or two since someone offered to pay for them, and after that he switches to water.

San stays by his side, dancing when he dances and drinking when he drinks, but Wooyoung knows it isn’t really his scene so while he’d like to lose himself on the dance floor with someone and forget about life’s bullshit for a little while, he doesn’t.

When the live performances start, Wooyoung starts leading San a little closer to the stage. His friend looks fucking amazing, and Wooyoung wants Mingi to see that while he’s up there on stage. Privately, Wooyoung prays that Mingi is at least passable at rapping— San may not listen to rap regularly but he knows music and lyrics and flow, and Wooyoung thinks it’ll be uncomfortable if the object of San’s affections gets up on stage and bombs. He doesn’t use a stage name, and that alone is concerning, but Wooyoung reserves his judgment as he watches the first two performers. 

He wants to see Hope, personally, but Hope is closing the show and Wooyoung supposes whether or not he stays til the end will have more to do with San’s experience than his own. If Mingi’s any good, if he sees San dressed in leather and looking like a fucking snack, if and if and if. 

Mingi’s set starts and Wooyoung is momentarily confused; there are two people on the stage instead of one. Mingi, he can make out even though the lights are down because the guy is huge. The other, Wooyoung can’t see very well because he’s further away from where he stands with San at center stage, but his frame is definitely more compact. 

Wooyoung slides his eyes San’s way and sees how his best friend’s eyes are locked on Mingi’s tall form. The beat is deep, and so is Mingi’s voice as the spotlight shines down on him. He’s in a baggy hoodie and ripped jeans, his cap pulled low. His voice is like a metronome, amplifying the beat instead of riding it, and it shouldn’t work but somehow it does. Wooyoung can see that it does because there is a grin spreading over San’s face as he watches Mingi. 

Satisfied, Wooyoung turns back to the stage just in time to see the smaller figure explode into movement. His voice is sharper, his delivery running circles around the beat that Mingi set like he’s toying with it. He works the crowd like a puppeteer and Wooyoung is so fascinated by his delivery that at first he doesn’t realize exactly who he’s looking at.

Then he and Mingi start trading beats back and forth, changing the energy and the flow in a way that has the crowd around them surging forward, screaming and shouting and chanting as the two performers hype them up. Wooyoung is pushed up against the stage at one point, and he elbows the person behind him viciously to maintain his space. San is like a rock amid the waves of people surging and ebbing around him, eyes locked on the stage.

Then the two rappers come to the front of the stage, still trading lines back and forth. The crowd surges again, pushing Wooyoung a little further from San, but he still sees the instant Mingi recognizes him. His face lights up and for just a moment he fumbles for his words. The second rapper fills the gap, drawing attention to himself until Mingi can recover, coming forward to work the crowd around Wooyoung. Wooyoung looks up, wondering who this guy is with his clever delivery and fast, fantastic wordplay.

And then he freezes. 

The crowd continues to flow around him, the lights pulse, the bass vibrates in his sternum and his eardrums as he stares at the performer in front of him, rapping so quickly Wooyoung can barely keep up with the layers of meaning in his words.

Because he’s staring, because he can’t move or even think much if he’s being honest with himself, Wooyoung sees the moment Hongjoong recognizes him, and his stomach gives one long, slow roll at the look in Hongjoong’s eyes. That knowing gaze, that arched eyebrow, that goddamned confidence is so ridiculously hot that Wooyoung wants to scream. Would scream, if he could just remind his lungs that air is necessary for life. Hongjoong looks him up and down, the way he had the last time Wooyoung had seen him, and then he winks. He fucking winks at Wooyoung, his tongue peeking out between his teeth. All charm, all charisma, and then the moment is broken as Hongjoong loses interest in torturing Wooyoung specifically and skips back over toward Mingi so they can finish their set, leaving Wooyoung to stare after him, incapable of stringing two thoughts together if one of them wasn’t just a series of upper- and lowercase A’s.

He’s good, is the problem. They’re good together, Hongjoong and Mingi both, working with and off one another as if they’ve been performing together for a decade instead of just since Mingi’s freshman year. 

But Hongjoong is…so far beyond next level he isn’t even sharing the same air as the rest of the performers, in Wooyoung’s opinion. Not that he’d ever admit that, not to anyone. Probably not even San. It would be too humiliating.

What the fuck just happened? Wooyoung thinks dazedly.

Then San is pushing his way through the crowd as the DJ takes over for the time between sets, pulling at him. 

“Come on!” he yells, and even though Wooyoung can’t  hear him over the music (and yes, okay, over the panicked buzzing in his brain) he can read lips well enough.

“Where?” he mouths back. 

“Backstage! Mingi invited us!”

Wooyoung is so surprised that he lets San tug him through throngs of people to the stage door. The music presses against his brain like questing fingers and everything feels sort of surreal, off-center. He wonders briefly if someone had slipped something in his drinks but he’d taken them straight from the bartender and hadn’t put them down until they’d been gone. He follows San dumbly as the security guard lets them through into a dim, ratty looking corridor. There are people milling around in a confusing way but no one stops them as San leads them confidently down the hallway almost to the end, where he knocks on a door.

Inside is a long room, garishly lit, with a flotsam of crates and industrial sized spools for wires being used as chairs and tables. The air is smoky, and Wooyoung can smell stale beer and soju. He doesn’t really want to be here, but San looks so excited as he tugs Wooyoung over to Mingi that Wooyoung doesn’t have the heart to turn around and go back.

The music is more muted here, no longer pushing against Wooyoung’s ears and brain and lungs and slowly the weird floaty feeling begins to leave him and he finds he’s blento focus on the conversation going on around him. 

Mingi, looking flushed and happy, is talking with San and several other people that Wooyoung doesn’t recognize. In the corner, Wooyoung catches Hope’s eye and lifts a hand in greeting. They’d met several times, and Hope had once hosted a hip-hop workshop that Wooyoung had sold his bike and stereo to get into, back in freshman year. Hope isn’t what Wooyoung would consider a friend, being a few years older than himself, but certainly someone to exchange greetings with.

Hongjoong is nowhere in evidence, and Wooyoung is dismayed to realize that relief isn’t the only thing he feels when he realizes it. He’s a little disappointed too, and that’s just unacceptable. He ignores it it as best he can, and when someone in the the group around Mingi and San strikes up a conversation with him he falls into it easily, accepting the cold beer the guy hands him and chatting.

The guy— Maddox, Wooyoung thinks he said his name was —is interesting enough that Wooyoung loses track of time for a little while. They have a second beer together, and a third, and Wooyoung’s mind is buzzing pleasantly. 

When Maddox is called away by a harried looking kid with a headset and a clipboard, Wooyoung looks around and realizes that San is nowhere to be seen. Mingi, either.

In fact, he doesn’t recognize any of the people now in the room. There’s a new set of performers, their friends, and others who are unfamiliar to him. Some of them look his way every so often, and murmur to each other.

Wooyoung doesn’t panic, but he understands that he’s not in a great position currently, so he begins moving toward the door in an unhurried way, hoping to escape everyone’s notice until he can get back to the hallway where there will at least be a staff member to help him find San.

Just as he gets to the door, someone steps into his path. He’s an older man in a sweat stained button down, the top three button undone in a way that Wooyoung is certain the man thinks is sexy but in reality just looks unkempt. 

“You lookin’ for your friend?” the man asks, slurring slightly. His breath smells like a barroom floor, ashes and stale beer and Wooyoung moves back a step in distaste. 

“Uh, yeah. My friend. Have you seen him?”

“Yeah,” the guy says, and Wooyoung is relieved to note that although drunk, the guy keeps a respectful distance. He begins to relax, if only slightly. “They went…” He trails off, looking sheepish. “It’s…comp…complicated to tell but I can show you?”

Wooyoung hesitates for only a minute. If this guy turns out to be a creep, he figures he can just run. He’s pretty fast, and considerably in better shape. He follows the guy out into the hallway, emptier now than it had been when San ahead tugged Wooyoung down it, and turns in the opposite direction of the stage and the public areas.

In all honestly that should have been Wooyoung’s first clue, but he has kind of an idea that maybe San and Mingi had gone somewhere with a little more privacy. He’s going to owe San a month of dish and laundry duty for interrupting them, but he doesn’t really feel good anymore and he really wants the night to be over so he can shower and sleep.

He’s still thinking of what kind of apology he’s going to have to make to them when the man grabs him by the wrist, tugging Wooyoung up against his chest. Wooyoung is caught so off guard that he stumbles into the man and then the guy's hands are on his ass and he’s grinding up against Wooyoung in the dim and empty hallway.

Wooyoung tries to push him away, but the guy is stronger than he looks and Wooyoung can’t get fully free, try as he might. 

“Come on, beautiful, why are you playing innocent? I saw you on the dance floor,” the man leers. “You were practically begging for it, and I’m gonna give it to you.” He grabs another handful of Wooyoung’s ass and uses his bulk to turn them so that Wooyoung finds himself in a corner.

“Fuck you,” he spits, because yeah, he’s scared, he’s fucking terrified, but he’s also pissed. This dude had tricked him, promising help, and the whole time this had been what he’d been planning.. from the practiced ease with which he carried it out, Wooyoung can tell the guy has probably done this before.

“Ssssshhhh,” the guy hushes him, and brushes his nose along Wooyoung’s cheekbone.

“You’re making a mistake,“ Wooyoung grits out, struggling even harder when he feels the man’s noxious breath wafting over his cheek.

“Oh yeah?” the man slurs. “ And what mistake is that, beautiful?“

Wooyoung leans back as far as he can while still in the man’s grip and grins up at him savagely. “You left my other hand free, dickbag,“ he snarls, and swings.

The pain as his fist connects is enormous, burning through the remaining haze that two drinks and three beers had drawn around his brain like gauzy curtains. The sudden clarity is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, startling in its brightness and that’s why Wooyoung doesn’t see the vicious backhand coming. It knocks him sprawling on his ass, and the soles of his shoes slips on the cement floor as he scrambles backward, trying to get to his feet while his head rings like a struck bell.

The man is advancing on him, his eyes murderous, panting and snuffling through a nose that is almost assuredly broken, judging by the amount of blood running down over his mouth. 

Wooyoung doesn’t know what he’ll do if the motherfucker gets hold of him now that he’s mad. He might be faster, but he has to be able to get up off the floor in order to run.

The man reaches down and gets a fistful of Wooyoung’s shirt despite his attempts to dodge it, and he squints his eyes closed against the expected fist to the face, but ends up falling backwards onto his ass again as someone barrels past him and the man lets go of his shirt.

It’s dim in this corner of the hallway, but not so dim that Wooyoung can’t see that someone is handing that scumbag his own ass in a very methodical, almost passionless way. He hears the meaty thud of fist meeting flesh at least five times before the man slides down the wall. It occurs to Wooyoung even as his head is still buzzing from the backhand he’d taken that the man had been cornered in the very same way he’d tried to corner Wooyoung and it fills him with a strange sense of triumph.

Hands are on him then, one on his shoulder and the other under his elbow, helping him to stand. Wooyoung lets them, still a little muzzy around the edges. His shoe slips on the concrete again and looking down, he finally sees why. There’s blood, rather a lot of it, and it’s making the floor of the hallway slippery. He shudders, and turns away.

A face fills his vision and he flinches back instinctively.  He doesn’t understand how the man could have gotten up after that, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not the man at all. 

It’s Hongjoong. His blond hair is mussed and falling over his forehead and he’s breathing hard.

“Are you okay?” Hongjoong asks. “Hey,” he says more sharply when Wooyoung doesn’t answer. He shakes Wooyoung just a little. “I asked if you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yes. Stop,” Wooyoung says, and shrugs Hongjoong’s hand off his shoulder. Being touched at the moment makes him want to puke, makes him want to curl into a ball and sob, but he’ll be goddamned if he does either in this dim, musty hallway with some asshole in a groaning heap, bleeding in the corner.

And damn sure not in front of Hongjoong.

“Can you show me the fuck out of here?” he asks. “I want to go home.” It occurs to him that he still doesn’t know where San is, but the idea of staying in this building for another minute, let alone however long it’ll take him to find his friend, makes him want to scream.

Hongjoong holds up a finger and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Yah,” he says after a moment, “get me security.” There’s a groan from the corner, and Hongjoong tilts the phone away from his mouth for a moment. “Stay the fuck down,” he says to the man on the floor. His tone is bland, conversational. Wooyoung thinks maybe he must’ve gotten hit harder than he thought and all this is just some hallucination. Maybe someone really had spiked his drinks.

Someone must pick up at security then because Hongjoong turns back toward Wooyoung and starts speaking rapidly into the phone, giving their location in the rabbit warren of corridors. “No, the scumbag’s still alive,” Hongjoong says, in a tone that clearly indicates he’s unhappy about it. “Yeah. No. I don’t know, I’ll ask.” Hongjoong tilts the phone away from his mouth again. “Do you want to press charges?”

Wooyoung shakes his head. He doesn’t want to stay here any longer than he must. He wants to go home and forget today even happened. He leans against the wall while Hongjoong finishes his phone call, keeping his eyes closed and breathing slowly and purposefully in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Are you gonna throw up?” Hongjoong asks.

“Nope,” Wooyoung manages. At least, he doesn’t think so. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Okay, then. Come on.”

Wooyoung follows Hongjoong further down the hall, barely paying attention to where they are or what they’re passing. He thinks dimly that maybe this isn’t smart either, but somehow he just can’t picture Hongjoong doing what that man had tried to. Hongjoong would be the type people offered themselves to, or even threw themselves at. He wouldn’t need to force someone. He might be an asshole, but Wooyoung doesn’t think he’s a creep.

Wooyoung shivers, and wraps his arms around his middle as it gives a lurch. Maybe he’d been mistaken when he’d told Hongjoong he wasn’t going to be sick.

Then Hongjoong opens a metal door and the fog in  Wooyoung’s brain is quickly cleared by a blast of very chilly air. The warehouse is near the river, surrounded by other warehouses. The day had still been moderately warm when he and San had arrived for the show, and Wooyoung had been counting on being warm from dancing and drinking for the walk back to the train and hadn’t worn a coat.

A sleek, silver car is parked in the alley between this warehouse and the next, and as Hongjoong approaches it the alarm beeps and the doors unlock audibly. He opens the passenger door and tips his head to Wooyoung. “I’ll take you home.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to protest, to say he’ll take the subway as planned, but the idea of the long cold walk to the station in the dark, alone, makes his stomach lurch again. After another minute of hesitating, he sighs and slips past Hongjoong into the car.

/

“How did you…” Wooyoung breaks off, his teeth chattering so hard that speech becomes impossible. He doesn’t think it’s cold enough to warrant this type of reaction but he can’t seem to stop.

“Find you?” Hongjoong finishes for him, cranking the heat and turning down the stereo which had begun blaring The Weekend the moment he’d turned the car on. “I was looking for you, and Maddox said he’d left you in the green room.” He glances at Wooyoung as he pulls out into traffic, and his expression is unreadable. “What the fuck possessed you to go running off with some asshole?”

Wooyoung grits his teeth. He’d been asking himself the same thing, but it stings more coming from Hongjoong. “I was looking for San and Mingi,” he snaps defensively. “They were gone when I stopped talking to Maddox and that guy said he saw where they went.”

Hongjoong looks like he wants to say several things at the same time, and none of them are very nice. That’s fine, since Wooyoung is pretty sure Hongjoong isn’t a nice person. It makes sense he wouldn’t say nice things.

That’s a shitty way to think, his mind pipes up. Especially since he basically just saved your ass. Literally.

“Mingi and San went back to our place,” Hongjoong says finally, maneuvering the car onto the freeway and breaking through Wooyoung’s internal monologue. “I told them I’d get you home.”

The vents are blowing rivers of warm air in Wooyoung’s direction, and he doesn’t fully register Hongjoong’s words right away. He blinks at the taillights ahead of them. “You told them you’d take me home,” he repeats slowly, struggling to process and feeling like an absolute idiot. “Why?”

Hongjoong is silent for a while, but the streetlights they pass beneath show Wooyoung that a muscle is ticking in his jaw. He drags his eyes away when he realizes he’s staring. Damn, he must have been hit harder than he thought.

“Jury’s still out on that,” Hongjoong says finally. Then he smiles, shark-like. “Maybe I’m just invested in making sure my cousin gets laid every once in a while.” He aims a smirk at Wooyoung. “Agreeing to take you home removed an obstacle to that.”

“An obstacle,” Wooyoung repeats. “An obstacle?” he says again, incredulously. “Me? Who the fuck do you think made San come to the show so he could see Mingi in the first place?” He huffs disbelievingly. “If anyone is an obstacle to them getting together it's you, if you keep interrupting all their little moments like you did the other day!”

Hongjoong is grinning as he pulls up in front of Wooyoung and San’s building. “There he is, snarky as always,” he says, sounding inordinately pleased with himself. “You had me worried there for a minute, thought maybe you’d hit your head. You were almost nice to me like three times.”

Wooyoung gapes at Hongjoong for a minute before getting out of the car and stomping up the steps to the building lobby. The fucking nerve of Hongjoong to tease and make fun of him after the fucking night he’d had. He punches in the passcode and wrenches open the lobby door, then jams his thumb repeatedly on the elevator up button until he realizes it probably still hasn’t been fixed. 

He swears loudly. He’s going to have to hoof it up five flights of fucking stairs, when all he wants to do is lay down on the floor and try to forget tonight ever happened.

He’s just rounding the corner to start flight three when he realizes that Hongjoong is right behind him. It’s a testament to his muddled state that he hadn’t realized it before now. “What do you want?” he puffs, not caring how rude it sounds at the moment.

“Just now?” Hongjoong asks, and it infuriates Wooyoung to realize he’s barely winded. “For your building’s super to grovel for my forgiveness. How long has the fucking elevator been out?”

Wooyoung works on breathing through his nose even though it burns. “No one asked you to drop me at my actual door,” he wheezes ungraciously. “Besides, it’s good for the glutes.”

“Yeah, it is,” Hongjoong mutters.

Wooyoung doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he catches himself almost smiling and gives himself a mental kick.

They reach the fifth floor landing just as Wooyoung is considering giving up on life entirely, and he’s near to weeping with relief and fatigue as he punches in the code to his door. “Thanks,” he says over his shoulder, because his mama raised him to have manners even if he doesn’t always put them into practice. 

Hongjoong just grunts, and pushes past Wooyoung into the apartment. 

“Um, what are you doing?” Wooyoung asks, struggling out of his shoes as Hongjoong disappears down the hall. He hadn’t thought the night could get any weirder or more terrible, but somehow being alone in his apartment with Hongjoong just makes everything even more bizarre and awful. He wants to cry, wants to throw himself on the couch and sob for a little bit before he gets in the hottest shower known to man and burns the touch of that slimy asshole off his skin, and he can’t do any of that while Hongjoong is in his space. 

Hongjoong comes back with the first aid kit San’s sister had given them as a housewarming present. Even if it was just student housing, she’d insisted, it was still their first apartment and so she’d brought soju and cake and a rice cooker and the first aid kit on their first night there.

“Sit down,” he tells Wooyoung.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Wooyoung says, but he sits anyway, sliding onto the closest stool at the breakfast bar and hating himself for it. What the fuck is it about this man, that he can just bark out an order and Wooyoung will start obeying before he’d even realizes what he’s doing? He doesn’t like it, not one bit. Wooyoung gives orders; he doesn’t follow them. 

It’s been a stressful night, he tells himself, and watches Hongjoong rifle through the first aid kit. His pinky finger is painted, a deep matte black. Wooyoung opens his mouth to ask him about it and then remembers that he doesn’t even like Hongjoong and therefore shouldn’t care if the man has one nail painted or all ten. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Hongjoong takes his hand, and Wooyoung almost snatches it away before he gets a good look at his own knuckles. They’re bruised, and the middle one is split open. Hongjoong squeezes some kind of ointment onto it and then plasters a bandage carefully over it. 

Then he takes hold of Wooyoung’s chin, and Wooyoung does pull away, staring at Hongjoong like he’d gone crazy. Does the man think he can just barge into his apartment and… and… manhandle him?

Hongjoong just makes an impatient noise and grabs Wooyoung’s chin again, this time squeezing a little harder until Wooyoung stops trying to pull away. “I’m trying to help you,” he mutters, rifling through the kit while holding Wooyoung’s chin immobile. He looks back at Wooyoung as he tears open a small packet with his teeth. “This is gonna sting a little,” he says, not sounding apologetic in the least. His eyes are heavy lidded, like he’s bored. 

It does more than sting, it burns like fucking fire. The corner of Wooyoung’s lip feels like Hongjoong is holding a flame to it and the odor of rubbing alcohol fills his nose. He hisses in a breath and in the next moment it turns to a squeak as Hongjoong leans in close and blows on the spot. The stinging in his lip disappears, traded for a rapidly accelerating heart rate. Hongjoong’s face is still very close to his and Wooyoung tries to pull back again but Hongjoong holds him still.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this aware of his own skin before in his life. 

“Stay, I said.” Hongjoong’s voice is low, his gaze weighty, and Wooyoung’s heart kicks up another notch, rabbiting so hard in his chest he’s surprised Hongjoong can’t hear it. Perhaps he can. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so smug, as he draws his thumb along Wooyoung’s bottom lip, careful to avoid the split corner. 

Wooyoung’s lip tingles in its wake. His eyes flutter closed.

Then all at once, Hongjoong releases Wooyoung’s chin. Wooyoung’s eyes pop open again. Hongjoong grins at him and sits back, packing things back into the first aid kit as if nothing at all had happened.

Well, nothing had happened, technically.

So why does Wooyoung feel as if he’d just been kissed senseless?

“I don’t like you,” he murmurs. It sounds weak to his own ears, whispy. Breathy. He clears his throat. “I don’t like you,” he repeats, and his voice is stronger this time. More forceful. More himself.

Hongjoong snorts, snapping the first aid kit shut. “You don’t want to like me,” he clarifies, and taps Wooyoung’s nose with a finger. “There’s a big difference, Kitten.”

Wooyoung is still spluttering when Hongjoong lets himself out of Wooyoung’s apartment.

/

Wooyoung is still in bed when San gets home, but he isn’t sleeping. He hadn’t slept much at all, and he refuses to believe it has anything at all to do with Hongjoong getting him all flustered before just… leaving. Again.

He’d had a no good, very bad night, and that is the only reason he’d slept poorly. It’s to be expected. Nothing out of the ordinary.

San comes in and practically throws himself over Wooyoung, pressing exaggerated kisses all over Wooyoung’s blanket clad shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” he wails, pressing his forehead against Wooyoung’s collarbone. “Joongie told me what happened, I never would have left you there alone, but you were with Maddox, and I was a selfish bitch.” He scoots up so he can grab the edge of the blanket and pulls it down before Wooyoung can stop him. His eyes zero in on the split lip and his eyes fill immediately. “You’re hurt!” he nearly shouts, his tone almost accusing. “Hongjoong didn’t say you were hurt, what the fuck!”

“It’s fine,” Wooyoung groans, flapping his hands at San. “I’ve had worse tripping over my own feet. I’m fine.” It’s sort of a lie, but he doesn’t want to rehash the whole thing, definitely doesn’t want to think about getting slapped to the floor, and absolutely doesn’t want to think about Hongjoong touching his mouth in the kitchen at midnight. That way lies madness. “Tell me about your night.”

It takes Wooyoung a good half hour and a thousand cuddles before San will stop blaming himself and finally spills on the details of his night with Mingi.

“I really like him,” he sighs, hooking his chin over Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

“And did you tell him that?”

“Noooo,” San whines, hiding his face against Wooyoung’s back. Then his lifts his head, humming thoughtfully. “I sucked his soul out through his dick, though. That’s kind of the same.”

“It is not the same,” Wooyoung protests, giggling helplessly. 

“How would you know?” San is laughing too. “You haven’t caught feelings since like… freshman year of high school.” He pokes Wooyoung in the ribs. “That doesn’t exactly make you an expert.”

“Excuse you, yes it does,” Wooyoung insists. “People are hella predictable, Sannie, how am I supposed to fall for a carbon copy of at least twelve other dudes I know?”

San sighs. “Mingi’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met, ever.”

Wooyoung might roll his eyes a little at that, but it’s safe because his back is to San and what Sannie doesn’t know can’t hurt his feelings. “I’m sure he’s amazing,” he says mildly.

San whacks him on the arm. “You forgot to take the patronizing tone out of your voice again,” he says, but Wooyoung can hear the smile in his voice. He rolls over and stretches. “Ugh, I need a shower.” He rolls over Wooyoung, planting a loud kiss on his cheek on his way.

Wooyoung makes a show of scrubbing the kiss off. “Don’t kiss me with dick breath!” he wails, and smiles to himself when San laughs so hard he walks into the door.

Last night might have sucked for him, but at least San had a good time. It could have been way worse. If Hongjoong hadn’t showed up when he had…

No. Wooyoung refuses to think about that in general, and Hongjoong in particular. It could have been worse, but it hadn’t been, and that’s an end of it.

/

On Wednesday, San forgets his cleats again, but it’s okay because late February is back with a vengeance and it’s snowing steadily by the time Wooyoung leaves campus. It had been pretty in December, when everything had been decked out for Christmas. Now it’s just a joke he’s heard a hundred times, and he’s getting damn tired of it.

Especially since he’d believed the weather report, which hadn’t said a goddamn thing about snow, and only worn a hoodie.

When he reaches the studio, he’s surprised to see one of his teachers armed with several screwdrivers and eyeballing the control panel for the PA system like he thinks it might run away. 

“What’s up?” Wooyoung asks, brushing snow off his sleeves absently.

“Stupid system is on the fritz again,” Xin grouses. “It keeps letting off these horrible feedback noises at random times throughout the day, but the electrician can’t make it here until next week.”

Wooyoung peers at the control panel, then at the screwdrivers in Xin’s hands. “I don’t think you should be using metal inside an electrified box. It’s kinda like sticking a fork in a toaster, don’t you think?”

Xin scowls. “What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

Wooyoung thinks a minute. “Why not call the theater department? Probably they’ve got at least one student who understands this stuff.”

Xin sighs. “You’re a lifesaver, Wooyoung. If someone can come fix it today, I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Wooyoung laughs, and heads upstairs to practice.

He stays late again, because he can’t seem to help himself. He’s been working on a series of moves that includes him needing to use his hands, bearing his weight for a few seconds. But then last Friday happened and now he feels like he has to learn them all over again because his hand won’t work right. He’s wrapped it, he’s iced it, he’s taken pain relievers and anti inflammatories, and still the pain shoots all the way up past his wrist every time he gets to that point in the choreo.

After falling for like the sixth time, he lets out a string of pretty inventive curses and just stays down, breathing heavily and glaring at his reflection in the wall of mirrors. He doesn’t have time to be injured. The Spring Showcase is in two months, and he doesn’t have any wiggle room.

“Fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself, glaring at his flushed and sweaty refelection. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Not to interrupt this fascinating convo of one,” someone says from the doorway, startling Wooyoung so badly he yelps, “but do you have the key to the basement?”

Hongjoong is leaning nonchalantly in the practice room doorway, smirking at him.

Great.

“What do you want?” Wooyoung demands with narrowed eyes, struggling to sit up. He thinks he does a pretty good job of sounding annoyed instead of being scared shitless. He can feel his heartbeat in his eyeballs, practically. 

“The key to the basement,” Hongjoong repeats slowly, as if Wooyoung is a three year old and not a grown ass man doing grown ass man things.

“Why the hell would I have that?”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes and blows his hair up off his forehead. “How the hell should I know? But it’s late, and I’ve been here for hours, and I can’t finish up unless I can access the fuses in the basement.”

Wooyoung blinks, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. “Wait, what?”

“You’ve been a great help,” Hongjoong deadpans. “Thanks so much.” He turns from the door, and Wooyoung hears him jog down the stairs to the first floor.

Wooyoung stares after him for several minutes, trying to make sense of what had just gone on. Then he remembers— the PA system. Xin must’ve taken his advice, but…

Was Hongjoong in the theater department? Mr. Big Bad Rapper? Wooyoung just can’t see it. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he grabs his bag from the corner and starts down the stairs.

He finds Hongjoong trying futilely to use what looks like a credit card on the door to the basement.

“Are you serious?”

Hongjoong shoots a look over his shoulder that’s half amused and half frustrated, and it should absolutely not elicit a slow roll of lust in Wooyoung’s belly, what the fuck.

“If you don’t have a key, or a tire iron, or some fucking plastique,” Hongjoong adds in a hiss, “then maybe we can reschedule today’s song and dance to another time?”

He stands, and gives the door a kick out of sheer frustration. 

Wooyoung makes a dismissive tch sound and comes closer to the door. The building is old, and while the outside doors have been upgraded to passcode locks, the door to the basement has a traditional knob and keyhole. “Got a hair pin?” he quips. 

“Do I look like I— wait. Would a safety pin do?”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to say no, when a large and ornamental safety pin he’d noticed on Hongjoong’s jacket appears in his field of vision. The pin part is sturdy, more like a darning needle than anything else. Wooyoung crouches by the door. “It’s gonna get ruined, are you okay with that?”

“Whatever, my night was already ruined, so.”

Wooyoung snorts, carefully bending the pin so it’s straight. “Hot date?”

“In a manner of speaking.” 

“Aww, and you’re stuck in a cold, dark studio with me instead.” Wooyoung pouts up at Hongjoong. “Poor you.”

The smirk Wooyoung is used to seeing on Hongjoong’s face slowly spreads into a grin, mischievous and knowing and just a tiny bit dangerous as he looks down at Wooyoung. Wooyoung realizes belatedly that he is literally on his knees in front of Hongjoong, and he turns back to the door so fast he almost drops the pin. 

“You’re seriously going to pick the lock?” Hongjoong murmurs.

“If you’d shut up for a second, I’d already have it done,” Wooyoung shoots back. He wiggles the pin again, finally feels the resistance of the lever inside the locking mechanism give, and pushes.

The door pops open, swinging inward, and Wooyoung flails out for the doorframe to regain his balance. His hand encounters Hongjoong’s instead as Hongjoong reaches out to steady him. 

“Easy, Kitten,” he smirks. “No need to add ‘falling down the basement stairs’ to your list of injuries.”

Wooyoung uses Hongjoong’s hand to help him stand up again and then shakes it off ostentatiously. “Gee, thanks.”

Hongjoong just snorts and flicks the light switch. Nothing happens. Flicks it again. Flicks it a third time, and swears. He rummages in the bag at his feet and comes out with a flashlight. He turns it on and shines it down the cellar stairs, then looks over at Wooyoung. “Ready?”

“I’m not going down into a dark basement with you,” Wooyoung says, backing away. “I learned my lesson about going into dark places with strange men, thanks.”

Hongjoong just looks at him, until Wooyoung starts to fidget under the weight of his stare. 

“I want to go home,” he says in a small voice, and okay, where the fuck had that come from?

Hongjoong shrugs. “Suit yourself, but the trains stopped running about twenty minutes ago.”

Wooyoung looks at his watch and does a double take. It’s almost fucking one in the morning. How the hell had that even happened? He groans.

Hongjoong snorts. “Sit tight. When I’m done here I’ll take you home.” Then he heads down into the dark basement and Wooyoung is alone in the empty, chilly studio.

He pulls out his phone and opens the Uber app, hoping against hope that someone is still available to give him a ride, but it’s one a.m. on a damn Wednesday night— or Thursday morning, he supposes —and nothing pops up on his Near Me screen no matter how many times he refreshes it.

Fuck. 

It’s not that Wooyoung doesn’t think Hongjoong will take him home, it’s that he doesn’t want to be in such close proximity to the man for any longer than he has to be. He doesn’t like the way he feels when he’s around Hongjoong, constantly on edge and hyper aware of every word, every move, like his entire system goes haywire any time Hongjoong’s within five feet of him. He can’t think of another person who has ever unsettled him the way Hongjoong can with nothing more than a smirk. It’s frustrating, and that’s bad.

It’s addicting, and that’s worse.

Wooyoung likes having the upper hand in social situations; sure, it gets boring sometimes, but he thinks boredom is infinitely preferable to being kept on his toes constantly, wondering where he stands, wondering why he cares. It’s out of his comfort zone. It’s exhausting.

It’s infuriating.

It’s… fucking hot, is what it is, and that’s the worst part of all.