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Chapter Text

dangerous play

(in football) an action that, while trying to play the ball, threatens injury to oneself or an opponent, or prevents an opponent from playing the ball for fear of injury.

⚽︎

The first time San was placed on Ulsan KQ’s starting line-up was the fifth game of the season, four years ago.

A game against Gangwon FC, he could barely believe it when Coach Eden told him he’d be their leading forward. San was more confident in his skills by then, knew some players from the U-21 team and found easy camaraderie with the others through pre-season. Still, it was his first real game in the big league. A rookie, a new face, perhaps a dark horse.

The day before the game, San’s teammates filled the bus with balloons, a display of slightly to incredibly embarrassing slogans, all to cheer him on. His parents drove up for the match, and so did many of his dad’s former teammates, and they made it clear that they’d be taking photos. The pressure of the opportunity felt heavy when San hugged Shiber in his hotel room.

But the moment he stepped onto the field, it all fell away.

A dream come true, San could do what he loved doing most, and he could show what he did best. He was finally there, playing football in the country’s most prestigious league, with all the people he cared for supporting him. The pressure stood no chance in the face of his excitement. Everything about that game got etched into San’s memory: the earthy smell of the grass, the section of the stands with his parents, every pass and call and goal.

They won the match 5-0.

“See, San-ah?” Seonghwa hugged him after the final whistle. “You did it!”

“You might be playing a lot this year,” Coach Eden said in the lockers with a cryptic hum.

“You were right, Jongcheol,” his father’s teammates teased when they came to congratulate him, “he’ll be a better player than you one day.”

San had many good games after that one, many memorable ones. But, for the longest time, the Gangwon game was the one. The proof that San was doing what he was meant to be doing, the perfect example of how simply playing could make him feel like he was on top of the world. And later, he thought of it as a reminder.

When the doubts started creeping in , the pressure overtook excitement, and San started wondering who he was playing for, after all. He thought of that game, looked at photos from that day, and told himself that if he’d felt that joy before, he would feel it again.

Because he loved football.

He just had to stop forcing it.

‿

“San-ah? Are you with me?”

“Mhm.”

San isn’t—he only acknowledges Seonghwa with a hum once the other man waves a palm in front of his face, making the rest of the locker room fade into view. Object permanence has been a bit of a struggle all week; longer than that, if San is being honest, but at least now he knows exactly where he can lay the blame.

“What did I just say?”

“You were talking about your laundry detergent,” San says, only a little hesitant, recalling the way Seonghwa had scrunched up his nose when he got a whiff of San’s club-washed jersey. Where San’s number one priority was simply that it didn’t smell of sweat, Seonghwa has always aimed higher. “Saying I should get a—”

San knows he’s got it wrong before Seonghwa cuts him off, his slip-up betrayed by the grin that Wooyoung—several teammates and half a room distance away—sends in their direction.

“That was two minutes ago.” Seonghwa doesn’t sigh. Going by his expression, San knows it must be costing him a lot of effort.

“Sorry, hyung.”

“I was asking about the workout reel,” Seonghwa says, graciously skirting around the apology. “I’m almost done editing it, so I can send it to you before I post it?”

“No need.” Seeing a flash of surprise on Seonghwa’s face, San hurries to add: “I trust you, hyung. You’re good with this stuff.”

He looks back at Wooyoung as he says it, mimicking his smug grin. Wooyoung might not know that it’s a warning, but he’ll know soon enough. San has seen snippets of what Seonghwa filmed during their Thursday gym session, and whatever the reel looks like, it’ll be good revenge for the photos Wooyoung posted on the same day: misleadingly innocent to his mass of followers, displaying too much of his neck and collarbones for San not to feel like they were a personal attack.

“Actually, hyung—you should go with the first song.”

Seonghwa, brows already furrowed, lifts one of them. “Huh? But you said—”

“I know, but I listened to it again and, uh.” San pauses, trying not to blush. That would go against the whole idea of why he is doing this. Wooyoung doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but he still has eyes. “You were right. I think the fans would like it.”

He almost takes it back—Seonghwa grumbling that he’ll have to re-cut half the reel again—but then decides he’ll just repay the favour by arranging another LEGO night. It’s worth it, San thinks, watching Wooyoung lean his body weight on Yunho’s frame, just barely avoiding eye contact.

Good revenge for the thirst traps and the way he’s been acting the whole week.

They haven’t spoken a single word about the stunt they pulled in Gwangju. San has thought about it—it’s been occupying at least three quarters of his waking thoughts, and his dreams more than make up for the missing quarter—but he hasn’t brought it up. He wouldn’t really know what to say if he tried; Wooyoung hasn’t even given him a chance to.

Him blowing hot and cold, San thought he’s grown used to it over the time they’ve known each other. It’s become a whole new ballgame now that he knows Wooyoung is doing it on purpose.

A touch to San’s back on the field—just fleeting enough to steal the ball from him, followed up by a loud cackle and whatever nickname Wooyoung’s picked for the day. A too-long gaze in the locker room—travelling the planes of San’s body in a way that mirrored his own stolen glances, never something that could be addressed before Wooyoung latched onto another teammate and left for training. A ticking bomb, except San isn’t trying to deactivate it—he’s brushing against Wooyoung on his way out of the shower, he’s winking at him after stealing the ball back, and he’s giving likes to an Instagram account he’s not even following.

Each day, in each shared space, it hangs unspoken in the air—the deal Wooyoung has proposed that Sunday when they crossed the line, and the call for San to walk over it again.

And he will, he knows.

He just refuses to quit the game before Wooyoung meets him halfway.

“Hey,” Seonghwa says after a longer pause, when most of the team has already made their way out after the coaches. “Do you want to hang out a bit after training, San-ah? Get your mind off tomorrow?”

San—in the middle of deciding whether to be sensible and wear his jacket or be an idiot in the name of showing off—immediately hears there’s more to Seonghwa’s question. He tries to deflect. “Can’t drink before a match, hyung.”

Seonghwa clicks his tongue. “You know I swore off drinking.”

San winces. He still doesn’t know what happened between Seonghwa and Hongjoong that last night in Thailand, but he suspects Seonghwa has remembered more than he’s letting on. Perhaps San could pry it out of him, gently, if he agreed to hang out. In the name of helping his hyungs.

But Seonghwa could just as well try to pry things out of San, and he’s not ready for that.

“Maybe another time,” he says, shooting Seonghwa an apologetic smile before he stuffs the jacket inside his locker. “I promised Coach I’d get a good night’s sleep.”

It’s not even a lie, not really: San has promised Eden that the match against Daegu wouldn’t go the same way as the disaster in Gwangju. His parents are coming all the way from Namhae, Bora will be in the stands, too, and San already knows tomorrow will be stressful. Feelings overload—if Wooyoung is right—San will have to try his hardest to shut them out.

Somehow.

Seonghwa relents, and San throws an arm around his shoulder as they rush to catch up with the team.

‿

“Can’t you see?” Mingi yells, arms thrown into the air.

“No, I can’t!” Yunho yells back.

The team’s laughter grows louder when Mingi sighs at the betrayal, lowering the arms to his hips like a disapproving mother. Yunho’s grin wobbles. He rolls his eyes, gesturing to everyone else. “Let’s do it properly, hm?”

Before San knows it, he’s part of the circle in the middle of the locker room—manhandled by Yunho, clutching at Jongho’s waist, bent over slightly as people squeeze themselves into the tight space and extend their right arm towards the growing tower of hands in the middle.

“Can’t you see?” Mingi repeats.

The team, this time, responds with uneven but enthusiastic shouts: “I’m a warning sign!”

More laughter, more back pats, Wooyoung’s bark of amusement making San smile despite himself. At this point in time, he feels like he’s more nerves than man, but it’s not all bad. Their first official official match at Ulsan Munsu, the stadium is vibrating with an energy that’s both an electric current and a soothing hug at the same time.

San hasn’t seen his parents yet; his mum has messaged after their arrival, and again, to relay his dad’s good luck wishes after they’ve found their seats. Bora has done the same, sending a whole pep-talk of a voice note, and then a cat good luck sticker that San immediately bought for his own account. From all that he has seen of the Ulsan fans, they are out there, they are excited, and they are loud.

On the field, they’ll have to be San’s lifeline if his head tries to match their volume.

“Five minutes to the warmup,” Eden announces, walking out of the room with hands in his pockets.

He’s a hard man to read, usually, but San can see the tension in his posture, the defensive stance to make himself look larger than he really is. It doesn’t help his own predicament. Chewing on his lip, he gives the backpack in his locker a quick pat, and then he almost jumps on the spot when the metal door closes and reveals Wooyoung right behind it.

“Oh my god!” San blurts before he can help it.

“Am I that scary?” Wooyoung asks, but his smirk looks unsure. That’s not a good sign. “You got a minute?”

At that moment, San wants to say no. The last thing he needs is for his fraying nerves to catch on fire, for Wooyoung to say something that’s going to send his mind into a tailspin before the game. Five minutes, it should be easy to delay whatever conversation Wooyoung wants to have.

“Sure,” San says instead, a glutton for punishment.

There are more worrying signs as Wooyoung heads out into the corridor, as their teammates’ loud voices fade and their elbows brush, and San feels like the shower incident has done nothing to get this thing out of his system—he’s all risky wiring and Wooyoung doesn’t have a reputation for being patient. San follows, anyway, passing by stadium personnel until they find an empty office.

It’s the one that mostly gets used for storage, too small for meetings and with too many inviting shelves. Dusty and cramped, the window is blocked with the bric-a-brac, but neither of them turn on the light, making do with a soft strip of sunshine that paints the wall. Wooyoung stands close to the spot, leaning on the wall where the light just grazes his face, outlining it. He moves his mouth side to side. San awkwardly pulls at the fabric of his shorts, forcing his hands to stay put.

“What is it?” he asks. Softly, despite being short on time, because he’s peeved by Wooyoung’s silence.

“I saw your reel.”

Ah, that.

The admission sets off a nice kind of explosion in San’s stomach, little fireworks of victory. He cocks his head and grins, apprehension forgotten. “My reel?”

He won’t tell Wooyoung that he’s been hoping for it, stalking the comment section on the club’s official Instagram long after his self-imposed lights out. Seonghwa has done a great job, fast despite the last-minute song change; he’s picked flattering shots, set them to Lah Pat’s Rodeo, captioned the post as San sending workout motivation to the fans.

Perfect revenge.

San waits for Wooyoung to say more—not praise, he knows better than to expect that, but at least a snarky comment that San can turn against him. When it doesn’t come, San nods. “Of course you did,” he says. “You’re my biggest f—”

“I have a proposition,” Wooyoung says.

Though San lets go of his shorts, he stays still. It takes a lot of effort. Four minutes, maybe less, he reminds himself. “Oh?”

“Assuming you’re still interested.”

“Interested in?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, refusing to make any more concessions. San supposes that’s fair—Wooyoung did take the first step, and with the way he’s looking at San, it would be hard to misunderstand what he’s talking about.

Still.

“You didn’t seem all that interested,” he says, playing up the doubt. “The past few days.”

“I didn’t want to distract you.” Wooyoung’s eyes move to San’s grin and up, crinkling with his own smile. “I knew you’d be stressed about the game.”

“The one that’s about to start,” San half-states, half-asks. “Wow, Wooyoung, your timing is really—”

“I just had an idea. I think you’ll like it.”

San waits, again.

They keep falling into the same pattern: Wooyoung interrupts, San pretends to mind, Wooyoung stalls for time to rile him up, San pretends to be unaffected. He can recognise it by now, and he’s convinced he’ll break it if it keeps repeating. Not this time, though.

Not a couple of minutes before they have to face off against Daegu.

“How about this—since you are still interested,” Wooyoung says, pointedly taking a step across the already-small distance. San isn’t sure when but he must’ve lost his battle against stillness. The sun hits Wooyoung’s right eye, painting his eyelashes golden. “A repeat of last time. Whenever works for you, wherever, just—not in the showers.”

San swallows down a quip about having a thing for bathrooms, mind already short circuiting despite wanting to keep the upper hand. A proposition, he waits for the other shoe to drop. “But?”

“But only if we win,” Wooyoung says with a fake shrug.

Cruel.

Tempting.

San speaks before he thinks. “I could play terribly and we might still win.”

“Right. Thank you.” Wooyoung laughs. “Let me rephrase, then. A repeat of last time, but only if you play well.” Playing well could also mean a myriad different things, and Wooyoung seems to realise, suddenly forthcoming. “Keep your cool. Don’t leave the midfield behind if you don’t have to. Help me score,” he lists off. “Can you do that, golden boy?”

The question comes with a grin, teasing, a huff of breath that tickles San’s jaw. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

Agreeing is stupid in so many ways: there’s enough pressure weighing San down without adding another condition, one that’s linked to feelings, the very thing he’s supposed to be blocking out for the sake of playing better football. His parents are in the audience. The prospect of losing a chance to touch Wooyoung again, of having to content himself with one hasty indulgence in the stupid showers—perhaps San should take the threat more seriously.

But accepting doesn’t seem scary. It gives San the kind of rush that makes him feel like he could bicycle kick a goal from the halfway line, keep running for ninety minutes without losing his breath once.

He nods again. “Yeah, it’s a deal.”

It’s not the kind that calls for a handshake, not one Wooyoung wants to leave at a nod. San is of half a mind to let him seal it with a kiss—they’re close enough now, and the week has been long and torturous—but he’s got to uphold his part of the push and pull. He can hear the fans growing louder and louder in the stadium, can visualise the countdown in his head. One more minute ticking down, Wooyoung licks his lips and San moves just in time to make him groan, the kiss landing over a cheekbone.

“Cute,” he says, rushing to open the door as Wooyoung’s curses trail him out into the corridor.

“Oi, Choi San!” he yells—particularly shrill, faintly amused. “Fuck you!”

There’s Yunho standing a few metres away, his concerned look morphing into something that should make San feel concerned when he sees them.

But San doesn’t let himself think about it.

“You’d love that, I’m sure!” he throws behind his back, not checking to see Wooyoung’s shouts stutter, running the rest of the distance towards Yunho. Once he’s got him by the elbow, San keeps going—fast, loud, rolling towards the field with the kind of reckless excitement he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

‿

The crowd explodes into a deafening roar, the volume usually reserved for dirty fouls that demand a red card, or for beautiful goals that demand appreciation.

It’s the latter this time, and San wishes he could watch a replay of it from the audience’s perspective: Wooyoung’s skilled dribble, the smooth volley, the ball flying above the goalkeeper’s head. A cause for celebration in its own right—it pushes them into a two-goal lead and sends Wooyoung flying across the field, collecting his customary hugs—and doubly so for San, who’s contributed the perfect assist.

He’d never considered himself particularly sex-motivated.

Sure, sex has always felt good, and no, San wasn’t bad at it—but it never dictated his life. It was something kept inside the bedroom, like cherry blossoms were meant for spring and candles only belonged on a birthday cake. But San has been learning a lot about himself in the past months, and—fifty-three minutes into the Daegu game—he’s learning even more.

He doesn’t get a hug, not even a word, just a knowing smirk when Wooyoung runs past him before the game restarts. The same smile he’s given San for several good passes, for the way he’s stolen the ball from a Daegu midfielder, for the trick he’s pulled to get Yeosang scoring in the first ten minutes. Not bad, it seems to say, but it’s much more than that.

A challenge, an inside joke, a promise.

San would be lying if he said the hugs no longer irk him, but not with the same sting as before. Yunho can pat Wooyoung’s nape and Wooyoung can play-tackle Yeosang to the ground, but San’s the one who’ll get to kiss that smirk off Wooyoung’s face. Hopefully.

It isn’t a perfect game.

Daegu manages to break through their defense and narrow the gap, San forgets himself a few times and loses possession. Even with some of the good passes, Wooyoung doesn’t always turn them into a good charge, and San, with the deal echoing through his mind, has to keep reminding himself that there are other players he needs to work with.

That’s for later to ponder—when the whistle blows, the crowd roars again, and San knows it’s the best they’ve played this season so far. A 4:2 win, fans chanting from the stands, red figures fluttering around the field to converge in a celebratory huddle.

“Good game, San-ah,” Hongjoong says, freeing himself from the tangle but still giving the players appreciative pats, one by one.

He skips Seonghwa, San realises, but there’s no time for him to dwell on that.

“Not bad, honey,” Wooyoung says, exceedingly loud like he’s trying to get others in on the teasing.

He succeeds, Yunho and Mingi crowding into San to shower him with all the pet names they can think of; even Seonghwa throws in a baby cheeks to make San grumble, his smile almost believably carefree.

The joys and celebrations—from the field to the locker room and beyond—are a bit excessive for the second game of the season. But San can tell that the team needs it, just like they had needed the win. It’s a reassurance to all—and to San himself—that they can play well. They weren’t the runner-ups last year by a fluke.

It’s hard to find a quiet moment amidst the frenzy, though.

When Bora leaves San after her optimistic brief, Wooyoung is talking to someone, and then they’re giving their soundbites to the press, and then San’s mum is texting him a bunch of heart stickers and letting him know they’re in the car. Meant to be going out for dinner, San has already left them waiting for close to an hour, and he scrambles to say his goodbyes to the team, silencing his disappointment when he can’t find Wooyoung around.

San can message him, he thinks, and then scolds himself. He’s not that desperate—or, even if he is, there’s no reason to let Wooyoung know. They have training tomorrow. His dick can wait.

“You did so well, San-ah!” his mom greets him in the parking lot, patting his cheeks with her gloved hands.

San, blushing, squeezes the wool to his skin before wrapping her in a hug. He’s glad the game went well. If it was another disaster, there wouldn’t be much stopping him from breaking down in her arms.

“Thank you for the tickets,” his dad says, after delivering his routine shoulder pat. “Big crowd today. Bet the club is over the moon.”

“How was the drive?” San asks.

His dad shrugs, recounting a bad traffic jam on their way out of Jinju, the rest of the journey smooth sailing. His mum had slept through most of it, apparently, and they’ve only had convenience store food for a quick lunch. San offers to drive them to the ganjang-gejang place he’s booked for dinner—leaving his own car behind—embarrassed to keep them hungry.

He knows he’ll get a little more praise at the restaurant, once his dad is done with the crab and ready to analyse the game in earnest. San knows it’s for his own benefit, too. Compartmentalising.

“Sannie-hyung?”

It’s Jongho who makes them all turn, but he’s flanked by Yeosang and Wooyoung. The former has changed into a fluffy white jacket that makes him look like a cute sheep, the latter is head-to-toe in black—with a black face mask to boot—and Jongho is Jongho. He starts the greetings, bowing to San’s parents, and the others follow suit. Polite small talk on both sides, football and weather and dinner plans, yet San finds himself watching it with a bubble in his chest, key ridges marking his palm with a deep zig-zag.

Wooyoung admits the three are going out to celebrate, and he tells San to rest well, and San doesn’t know if he wants to read into that or keep his thoughts pure with his parents right next to him. He’s expecting more, though he doesn’t know what. A picture of politeness, Wooyoung bows again as the trio is about to leave, complimenting the gloves San’s mum knitted herself, telling San’s dad it’s been an honour.

“You’ve played well today, San-ah,” he says, eyes catching on San for just a second.

It’s all the encouragement he needs.

“Do you have time tomorrow after training?” he asks, satisfied at the sight of Wooyoung’s surprise. “For the, uh, driving lesson.”

Yeosang raises an eyebrow in Wooyoung’s direction. Jongho scowls in San’s. Wooyoung blinks, smiles, and lies just to be annoying. “I’m not sure yet,” he says. “I’ll let you know tomorrow?”

They leave. San forces himself to stop humming, knowing he’s already been suspicious enough that Wooyoung will have to deal with the others’ curiosity. He makes sure to keep his ridged palm hidden as he gets into the driver seat, mum at his side.

“Seems like a sweet boy,” she smiles.

“Like you said, San-ah,” his dad adds from the back, “very talented.”

“He is,” San says, putting all his focus on reversing the car out of a tight spot.

‿

“Wipes?”

“In the glove compartment. No—there, under the glasses case.”

“Thanks.”

Just as he says it, Wooyoung is extending one of the wipes towards San, squinting at the dome light like San has flashed him with a torch. It does feel a bit stark to San, too. His eyes have grown used to the dark, and they’ve been closed for most of the fumbling, other senses heightened.

In the dimness, it was more important for San to hear the hitches of Wooyoung’s breath and his playful sneers, turning the whole thing into a competition. More important to taste him again, peach soda on Wooyoung’s tongue and the tang of his skin just below the jaw. Most important to touch him, the same way San had done in Gwangju, letting Wooyoung return the favour this time and see whose hand could beat the game, getting the other off faster.

Wiping the evidence off his softening dick—and an unfortunate splatter off Wooyoung’s sweatpants—San isn’t sure who the winner is.

He was certain Wooyoung would best him, for the longest time, muffling his groans into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck as he fought to stave off his orgasm. But just as San had given up, letting the pleasure take over, he felt Wooyoung collapse against him in a shuddering heap.

Maybe they’re both winners, then.

Maybe neither is, if the car now fills with awkwardness.

“You wear glasses?” Wooyoung asks, adjusting himself and putting the hand wipes away, his voice a bit rough.

“Not really,” San says, looking towards the leather case. He adds a self-deprecating: “I should.”

“Put them on.”

“Nah.”

“I won, and I’m asking you to—”

“Who says you won?” San squints, pretending to take offence.

“Please, Sannie.” Wooyoung smirks. “Like your tiny ever hands stood a chance.”

“They’re not tiny.” San looks down at them just to check. They’re perfectly decent. “If you want to compare sizes so badly—”

“You know I won,” Wooyoung cuts him off. “It wasn’t even close. I could feel you shaking.”

“Funny that.” San slams the glove compartment closed with the heel of his palm, twisting in his seat. “I heard you whining. Right into my ear—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—fuck, San, I’m so close. I’m coming. Just like—”

“I do not sound like that!”

It is a tie, San decides, both of them soon breaking out into laughter, Wooyoung wrestling the glasses off his own nose, San putting them on with a long-suffering sigh.

Almost nine, theirs is the only car in the parking lot of an abandoned office building that Wooyoung has somehow discovered in his few weeks living here. When he’d first proposed the location, San laughed him off. But Wooyoung refused to go to San’s place, and San didn’t ask to go to his, and, unlike other vices—alcohol, sugar, making football bets with actual money—San has found a while ago that his restraint and caution don’t apply when it comes to this.

Whatever this actually is.

It’s dreadfully unromantic for a date, San thinks, but that’s fine because it isn’t one. Parking lot handjobs don’t qualify as a hangout either, and it was never meant to be an actual driving lesson.

A booty call, he decides.

He doesn’t love the term but he’s fine with it, Wooyoung making fun of him for looking like a hot nerd—his words, not San’s—and sharing a bag of shrimp chips he’d picked up from the convenience store. He then fiddles with the radio, and San wipes his mouth after taking a sip of the leftover peach soda, and it’s still not romantic but San thinks it’s not not romantic either.

He shakes the thought off.

At the very least, he’ll have a new experience to share in his next round of truth or dare.

“How did you know?” San asks, just barely avoiding a nervous chuckle when Wooyoung turns to look at him. “Know that I wanted to—uh.”

“Get down and dirty?” Wooyoung asks.

San is so glad the car is dark, he feels his face warm again. “Yeah.”

“You stare a lot.”

He cringes—inwardly, and probably screwing up his flaming face, too—and does his utmost to focus on a singular spot in the car. The windscreen. The wheel. Far, far away from the person next to him. He can sense there’s more coming, that Wooyoung’s mouth opens with a small pop, and he wonders how he’d answer the same question if Wooyoung asked. He doesn’t feel brave enough to just say the truth—I felt something, or, I hoped for something—so he’s glad when Wooyoung doesn’t try.

Instead, he just steals the soda back from San and busies himself gulping it down, and San contributes to the noise by rumpling the chip bag, extracting a whole handful.

“God, you’re such a slob,” Wooyoung chuckles when San drops a chip and then accidentally crushes it in his efforts to pick it up from the car floor.

“Lucky for you,” San says, pointing at the stain on Wooyoung’s thigh. “Hitch a ride with Seonghwa-hyung if it bothers you.”

Wooyoung huffs, the breath dislodging his bangs and making them fall over his forehead. San catches himself almost reaching out. He redoubles his cleaning efforts, bending down to collect the crumbs and smiling at Wooyoung’s soft: “I don’t think I will.”

The silence doesn’t grow uncomfortable, after, with a Seventeen song playing on the radio and Wooyoung finishing the last of the chips. San doesn’t know what comes next, though. He thinks he should probably get the car started and drive them back into the city, remind Wooyoung to have a proper meal, and respond to Bora’s messages about a potential sponsorship.

Instead, he clears his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows rise up, a grin following suit. Even in the dim light, San can see it’s more of a grimace, like Wooyoung is steeling himself for an attack. “Shoot,” he says.

“How did it feel, winning the cup last season?”

The question lingers in the air for a good few seconds, making San think he’s either not getting an answer or only getting a mockery of one. He almost regrets asking, Wooyoung turning his face towards the windscreen and clenching his jaw. He sighs in the end.

“Satisfying, I guess,” he says. “But also—disappointing? A lot more than I expected.”

San blinks at that. He’s wary of prodding further, Wooyoung’s tone genuine but clipped. He takes the risk. “Why?”

Wooyoung shrugs.

“Gimpo—it’s not the kind of team Ulsan is,” he says, fiddling with his fingers. “They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but they—I don’t think they would’ve won the league without me.” He pauses, not looking up from his thumbnails. “And I’m not saying that to be cocky, okay? I made sure of it. I busted my ass off for the team, and I pushed, and I—”

Wooyoung’s words start coming faster as he speaks, more agitated, more of a rumble until he simply—stops. He moves his lips side to side, jaw set, but San can see that he’s run out of what he wants to share. Despite the startling cut-off, he’s shared enough that San can stitch the hints together.

Satisfying, Wooyoung said, but also empty.

“You really did bust your ass off,” San says, slowly, winning himself a sideways glance. He’s not sure if Wooyoung wants the reassurance or if it’s going to make him lash out, but it’s an instinctive thing—the words flow as San watches Wooyoung’s bottom lip turn pale from the pressure of his teeth. “That hat trick in the last game? Textbook goals, all three of them. The last few matches, really, it was clear you were carrying the team.”

San isn’t exaggerating—Wooyoung’s skill has simply become a fact of life.

Through San’s extensive research, through watching him play in real time, it’s one of the reasons San has seen him as a threat long before he realised the dangers went beyond football.

“I’m glad you signed with Ulsan, you know,” San says, and rushes to cut down on the implications before they even form in his head. “I wasn’t—obviously—because it scared me how good you are. But now, I’m so glad I don’t have to play against you—” he pauses, fixing the glasses on his nose “—because of how good you are, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung twists the bulky ring on his index finger, quiet for another beat. It’s a relief when he smiles, though a part of San wants to sigh, already recognising the gesture for what it is: a deflection in the making.

“Thank you, San-ah, but you don’t have to sweeten me up.” Wooyoung leans back against his seat, facing him. “You can just ask if you want a second round. I’m easy like that.”

“You know that’s not—”

“Actually, I can’t wait to play against you,” Wooyoung continues, almost bumping San’s knee with his own. “I’ll learn all your tricks by then. Take you down a peg.”

San doesn’t need taking down; he can also read the room. “Is that a promise?”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung nods, transparent with how the cogs start turning in his mind. “We’re going to have a great season, right? The cup will be ours by September. You’ll stop overthinking, have the whole country swooning over you like you’re the second coming of Son Heungmin.”

And you’ll stop acting like you’re out there on your own, San doesn’t say. He joins the make-believe with a chuckle. “You’ll score another hat trick for the books.”

“We’ll be at each other’s throats, like always, but we’ll play well together,” Wooyoung says. “You’ll get called up for the Korean friendlies again—”

“You too.”

“—and then you’ll get that offer. The one that’s gonna get you out of here.” He hums, eyes briefly losing focus. “Spain? England? You’ll be spoiled for choice. Your agent will get you such a good deal, Sannie, one season and you’ll be set for life.”

San reaches up to fix his hair, gulping and hiding his face behind his own arm. The words brush against a sore spot Wooyoung has no idea about. He pretends he just needs the time to come up with more wild predictions.

“Then we’ll get to play against each other,” San says, not entirely content with the contribution but also not trying to match Wooyoung’s fervour. “In Europe.”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung’s smile flickers before he repeats himself with more certainty. “Yeah. Let’s shake on it.”

“Not a pinky promise?”

“We’re not twelve.”

San snickers and holds out his hand. Wooyoung doesn’t take it.

“Not a boring handshake,” he says.

“Oh, right. A special handshake,” San drawls, “since we’re not twelve.”

It takes a while to come up with something convoluted enough for Wooyoung’s liking, yet simple enough that San stops screwing it up at step three. A snap, a slap to the knuckles, an actual shake and then a pull that San overdoes in their last run-through, tugging Wooyoung over the central console. It brings their faces so close that San feels his breath jump.

“Maybe we don’t need the last part,” Wooyoung says, voice pitched low.

San’s lashes flutter, eyes falling to Wooyoung’s mouth. It’s not his fault. He’s convinced he’d go cross-eyed, trying to look anywhere else.

“Maybe not.”

By now, they’ve kissed enough in the car that it shouldn’t be a big deal. San hesitates to close the distance, holding out for a sign from the other shore.

Perhaps because he doesn’t feel the same kind of hunger as before; there’s something in the air between them, heavy and undeniable, but it’s not the sweeping desire that’s become an easy excuse to rely on. San wants to move the rest of the way, yes, but it’s to peck Wooyoung’s lips, gently, and pretend that’s the final part of the handshake. He smiles when Wooyoung reaches up, expecting him to touch San’s cheek or cup his jaw but—

His fingers skim San’s ear and then he’s taking the glasses off, folding them and sitting back in the passenger’s seat that could as well be an ocean away.

It’s a signal San can’t ignore, no matter how much he’d like to. He contends himself with remembering the dusty Munsu office, telling himself he’s the one who set this ball rolling. A proposition has its terms, and so does every game he and Wooyoung play.

“I’ll drop you off,” San says after twisting the key in the ignition, the car coming back to life.

“Thanks,” Wooyoung says, quickly typing the address into San’s navigation.

The drive takes less than twenty minutes, Wooyoung’s place a walkable distance from San’s own. They talk a bit about their earlier training, about Yunho’s upcoming birthday, about Yeosang’s newfound crusade to get Wooyoung to sign up for the same gym. It’s not awkward, but it’s also clear they’re trying to avoid a possible silence.

“There’s a good gym in Taehwa-dong,” San says.

“The one you go to?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

“I’m not signing up for the same gym as you,” Wooyoung says, then changes the topic without elaborating.

San doesn’t push.

They’re in front of Wooyoung’s flat now, and the street is busy with people and empty of parking spots. He slows and Wooyoung reaches for the door, giving San a flash of a smile.

“Until next time,” he says.

“See you tomorrow,” San corrects, pretending Wooyoung’s words haven’t made his pulse speed up.

When Wooyoung leaves the car—his training bag slung over a shoulder, soiled pants, and a trash-filled convenience store plastic bag in hand—a thought flashes through San’s mind that this is exactly how rumours start. One person seeing and drawing the wrong—right—conclusion, one clandestine photo to continue Wooyoung’s streak of tabloid headlines and throw San’s name into the mix.

It’s absurd—nobody should care.

But San knows that people do, and he sucks in a deep breath, telling himself that if this becomes a thing—if the booty calls continue—they both need to be a lot more careful.

Wooyoung must know, he’s always a few steps ahead. He doesn’t look back at San, single-minded about escaping the frigid air, and that’s exactly the right thing to do. Exactly how this is meant to go.

Exactly why San doesn’t feel disappointed that their whole night ends like this.

Not even a little bit.

‿

They lose their next game against Jeju, 2:1, decided in the final five minutes. It puts a damper on everyone’s mood but, selfishly, San is glad the result has little to do with him.

He doesn’t turn out as well as he had against Daegu—whether that’s because there’s no explicit proposition motivating him, he tries not to wonder—but they’re playing a majorly defensive game for the full ninety, the ball rarely making it towards the opponent’s box.

Bad luck, missed chances, the match is something to learn from but otherwise easy to get over. It would be a short blip on San’s radar—a medium blip, perhaps, for the beautiful scenery and another show of Wooyoung’s exhibitionist kink in a utility closet of their hotel—if not for the Hongjoong incident.

In Jeju, it’s the captain’s name on everyone’s lips, and his turn to have a private chat with Eden as soon as he’s off the field: in the seventieth minute of the game, to be exact, when Hongjoong gets his second yellow. The first for tripping, another for talking back to the referee, they’re a man down for the rest of the game.

A 2:1 is not bad, all things considered. San earns another assist for the individual rankings, Wooyoung earns another goal, and Ulsan stays in seventh place in the overall table.

Not bad, not great, not terrible.

‿

In the following days, San can’t stop thinking about Hongjoong’s slip-up.

Through all their years playing together, he doesn’t remember the captain getting red carded. He’s the opposite of an aggressive player, passionate but with well-established boundaries, always preaching respect for the game and its rules. A role model in many ways, it’s obvious the others are also shaken by the fact he’ll have to sit out the next game—Yunho’s joke that vice-captain call-ups should come with a warning falls flat the moment it leaves his lips, and Seonghwa steals even more worried glances than usual.

Back in Ulsan, the first training after, Hongjoong acts like nothing’s happened.

It’s the first springlike day of the year, jackets scattered over the field as more and more players lose them. They’re done with their drills, San has just completed his one-on-ones with Yeosang, and he’s staring at Hongjoong who’s sitting by the touchline, wondering how—and if—to broach the topic.

Suddenly, a pain flares up his backside; the sound of the smack is loud but nothing compared to Wooyoung’s cackle.

“What—Jung Wooyoung!”

He’s on the run before San even turns, a slow calculated pace that clearly invites a chase. San doesn’t have to think twice.

“You punk!” he yells. “What was that for?”

“Zoning out!”

“Just wait until I—”

“Not a chance!”

San tries to keep his face stern as he runs after Wooyoung, less for the appearances and more because it makes Wooyoung laugh harder and inevitably slows him down. He still struggles, mouth threatening to curve into a smile the whole time, two laps up and down without a ball to steal. The fastest he’s had to run all day, Wooyoung doesn’t let him have it easy.

That’s what makes it so satisfying when San finally catches up and lands his own slap over Wooyoung’s ass. The thrill of the chase, the triumph of revenge, an excuse to touch him in broad daylight; it falls short in comparison to the last time—when San got a chance to fondle Wooyoung’s ass in the utility closet—but it scratches the itch.

It also passes for what San considers acceptable training antics when it comes to the two of them.

Yes, Yeosang gives them a funny look when Wooyoung yelps and tries to trip San up, and sure, Mingi teases that they should do that in the next match to confuse their opponents, but it’s not that different from their typical tug-of-war. Not something the others wouldn’t do. And when it comes to shows of affection, San still falls at the very bottom of Wooyoung’s list—below Ollounder, even, who got a very enthusiastic Wooyoung hug after calling for their last water break.

A stupid rivalry turned friendship, rough around the edges. It’s what the team needs them to be, what Yeosang hinted at and Hongjoong hoped to see. No one has to be the wiser and everyone gets to benefit.

“What’s wrong with you, dimples?” Wooyoung asks, cross-legged on the grass as they catch their breath after the stupid chase.

“Nothing,” San says.

Too-quickly to make it believable. Too-late, he realises he could’ve just mentioned the Hongjoong thing. Wooyoung is standing up by then, humming under his breath and sprinting away, and San wants to sigh at what feels like an irrational sting of rejection—like he’s only good enough while he’s playing by Wooyoung’s whims, useless the moment he commits the sin of becoming boring, of failing to hold Wooyoung’s attention.

A ball rolls up to San, Wooyoung following. He stops it with his heel and offers a hand to pull San up, completely derailing his train of thought.

“You know the move you pulled just before halftime? The one after Yeosangie’s corner kick?”

San nods, letting Wooyoung help him. He dusts off his butt, watches Wooyoung’s eyes narrow, grins. “Yeah.”

“I think we should practice that,” Wooyoung says, already setting the ball into motion. “It almost worked.”

The move in question had been largely accidental. One of the rare moments that they managed to hold possession and San could charge towards the box—Wooyoung had missed out on a chance to run ahead and Yeosang got blocked by the Jeju defenders. Another one of them was ready to square off against San, jumping into his path, but San looked over his shoulder instead. Caught Wooyoung’s eye. Passed the ball back.

In Jeju, Wooyoung’s shot went just above the crossbar, but San immediately perks up at the suggestion. It did almost work. It could be a good move. They could—

“No, no, you have to make it look casual!” Wooyoung scolds, after trying to mimic the scenario for a few minutes. “That’s the whole point, San-ah. That they don’t see it coming.”

“I just looked at you,” San shrugs, dribbling the ball to a stop, “like in the game.”

“No, you looked at me like we have a secret.”

We do, San doesn’t say.

Don’t stare, don’t pout, don’t give the game away. It’s a lot of self-denial for one man, but San is practised. Even if his discipline keeps chipping at the edges, he still knows when to reel himself back in. At least in public.

That’s why he just redoubles his efforts, copying the same trajectory as before and keeping the backwards glance so subtle that, this time, Wooyoung completely misses it.

“Maybe a different signal?” San offers. “I could drop my shoulder a bit. Or do a—”

“No, this will work.”

Wooyoung is stubborn, and they run the action a couple more times before he’s dragging Mingi and Jongho along to be their test subjects. The defenders—like the rest of the squad—have long since caught onto why Wooyoung and San are ignoring the rest of them, but they’re good sports. They make them sweat a bit. They stop after Wooyoung scores three times in a row, his and San’s movements about as synchronised as they’re gonna get in training.

The cue is subtle, the pass is smooth, Wooyoung catches it each time.

Whether they can do the same thing in a real match, with an actual goalkeeper and a lot more on the line, only time will tell; San still feels giddy after the third goal, and Wooyoung does a similar routine to his usual celebrations—back-hugging Jongho and letting Mingi lift him off his feet.

“You should think of a name for it,” Wooyoung says, returning to San but keeping a wide distance.

“A name?”

He nods, two steps closer and a pause. “Yeah. Our secret signature move.”

“That defeats the purpose,” San says, pouting.

“Not if the other team doesn’t know.” Wooyoung shrugs. “If we manage to pull it off a few times, they’ll catch on. Obviously. But until then…”

A secret signature move—born less than half an hour ago, perhaps doomed to never make it out of the training session—naming it feels significant. San tilts his head as he thinks, skimming his brain for something that wouldn’t make Wooyoung chortle with outright rejection. He lowers his defences, and Wooyoung sees, and when the next slap lands on San’s butt, he’s stuck staring for a moment before he reminds himself that the game has rules for a reason.

‿

In the end, it’s Wooyoung who names it.

They win their next game against Daejeon, Yunho acts the perfect vice-captain, and—in minute sixty-two—San and Wooyoung execute their first successful Shadow Pass. It’s not as smooth as in practice, San later reflects, and Wooyoung’s own face looks way too expectant when their eyes lock, but it works and they tip the score.

San doesn’t get any acknowledgement on the field aside from a passing smirk.

“I think San-ssi did okay,” Wooyoung later tells a reporter, aiming that same smirk away from the camera and towards its target. He sings Hyunwoo praises—and the boy didn’t even get subbed into the game—calling him Ulsan’s hidden weapon. He and a bunch of the younger players film a celebratory reel with Seonghwa, while San goes to book himself the analytics room for the following afternoon and gets stuck chatting with some fans.

Business as usual.

The same night, though, Wooyoung straddles him in his car and helps San take him apart with praise on his lips.

Unrelated to the game, no mentions of football synergy, he doesn’t whine for a deceptive glance but for San’s touch: on his nape, on his sides, on his belly, all the forbidden little places that keep ruining San’s sleep.

The sight isn’t for anyone else to see, and so, San happily commits it to memory.

“We should swap next time,” Wooyoung says, when they’ve helped each other clean up and he’s back in the passenger seat, hoodie retrieved from the floor. He’s grown fed up with the radio a few joyrides ago, now comfortably scrolling through San’s Melon playlists. The volume is low, just short of a hum.

“Hm?” San tilts his head, mind automatically inundated with images of sitting over Wooyoung’s lap; he likes the idea, perfect for making Wooyoung squirm. He’s liked everything they’ve done so far, even if the list barely stretches beyond car-humping.

“Keep them on their toes.”

Ah, right, San remembers.

Football.

He unscrews the cap on Wooyoung’s soda bottle—orange, today—but pauses before lifting it to his lips. “You’d give away a goal?” he asks. “To me?”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung nods. His tone starts easy but then he seems to think better of it, grinning back at San as he teases: “I can spare one, Sannie. You’re never catching up in the rankings.”

“I see.”

San nods back, slower. He then pretends he’s about to spit into Wooyoung’s drink in revenge, Wooyoung almost slaps it to the floor, and, miraculously, San catches it mid-air without spilling a drop. He spends the next fifteen minutes trying to do a bottle-flip trick that he learned back in his academy days, making Wooyoung huff and sigh. When San eventually succeeds, Wooyoung asks him to do it again so that he can get it on video.

It’s just about how these nights usually go, a ‘driving lesson’ that consists of sex, ridiculous chatter, and an awkward goodbye. They don’t do it every day, that would be both suspicious and impractical; but San, previously alternating between morning and nighttime gym sessions based on his mood, has taken to waking up at seven. Just in case.

“Can I show Seonghwa-hyung?” Wooyoung asks, rewatching the video of San’s trick for the third time in a row.

San is tuning it out on purpose—the coolness of the catch cut down by the embarrassing squeak he’d let out when the bottle actually landed on his knuckles. “Maybe not,” he says.

“Oh, come on!” Wooyoung pauses the next loop, eyes scrunched up. “It’s cute.” He giggles more at San’s frown, leaning into him. “Just embrace it, tough guy. You can be cute and hot at the same time. I’m the living proof.”

Joking, San catches himself looking down at where their knees touch, where Wooyoung’s hand has landed on San’s upper thigh. He almost agrees out loud before he swallows, but Wooyoung must read it off his face regardless because his laughter fades out. He clears his throat and removes his hand.

“You’re right,” he says, locking his phone. “It would be suspicious.”

“No, I mean—”

“You can show him in person.”

Wooyoung looks past the windscreen and San mirrors him, unsure of what to say.

The parking lot has grown so familiar over the past month that he could probably cross it with a ball at his feet, aiming a perfect goal between the non-functional streetlight and the dying shrub next to it. Here, in the darkness, it’s easy enough to pretend they’re in a bubble that’s only see-through from the inside. But it still wouldn’t take a lot for the illusion to shatter: a guard, a trespasser, one of the streetlights coming back to life.

Wooyoung is right.

There’s nothing incriminating in the short clip—a late night drive, a budding friendship—but Seonghwa can be perceptive to a fault. When it comes to caution and secrecy, he is the one person San often wishes he could talk to. But that would contradict the cause, and while San can’t say he’s comfortable with the hiding, a part of him simply thinks he won’t have to keep doing it forever.

There’s an expiration date on this—whatever it is—and there’s no point in wondering when, how, or who to share it with. It’s a secret between him, Wooyoung, and the abandoned parking lot. Perhaps another utility closet or a locked office, too, but that’s it.

‿

Wooyoung doesn’t even want to come to San’s place, despite it being a more private and more convenient option. San has tried inviting him twice, and he does it a third time—a few days later—in not so many words.

The photos aren’t any more provocative than whatever else he’s posted on his account. A few post-shower gym selfies, San with his damp hair and a grey tank top. They’re strategic, though, showing off his neck—one of Wooyoung’s favourite places to kiss—and his pecs—one of Wooyoung’s favourite places to grope. Three sweat drops as the caption, San posts before distracting himself with ordering dinner and replying to Bora’s latest messages about the skincare sponsorship.

When he checks the comments, he tries not to be disappointed.

youyouyou: Is it my birthday? 🤩

ho.jjong: cover those freckles up you fiend

no6likeme: [shocked cat gif]

There’s also Seonghwa messaging him on KaTalk, not even bothering to share the photos with his question: ‘who are those for???’ San replies with a simple ‘you, hyung!’ and a hug sticker, and then he messes around with his once-monthly Valorant game that only ends up in more disappointment. Luckily, he’s called it a day before his phone pings; otherwise he’d be in serious risk of losing his rank.

wooyoun9:

delete these

San beams. Distantly, he remembers advice shared in locker rooms, how to play hard to get and keep the target coming back for more. That has never been San’s style, the few times he’s tried dating. It isn’t his style now, however unconventional the arrangement.

choi.san:

i don’t think i will

wooyoun9:

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

ok suit yourself

choi.san:

mhm

wooyoun9:

you’ll regret them though

in the morning

choi.san:

is that a threat 🤨

wooyoun9:

no i just know you

you’ll feel embarrassed

when you don’t get

what you want

choi.san:

good thing i don’t want anything! ☺️

San’s glad for the privacy of his bedroom, then, because the lie is paper-thin. He wants a lot, wants more of Wooyoung’s lips on his neck and hands on his chest. Wants more of his mouth but also wants to taste him in other places, wants to keep crossing his own limits until he gets vulnerable enough that the need will stop burning him up from the inside. He wants more of Wooyoung’s time and attention, wherever he can get it.

Even without seeing him, Wooyoung must already know that.

wooyoun9:

so you don’t want me to come over?

San‘s fingers hover above the keyboard.

The last time he tried inviting Wooyoung, he quoted San’s messiness as an argument against it—despite San knowing, courtesy of Seonghwa, that the other man wasn’t any neater. The time before that, Wooyoung made up some stupid excuse about having to be home by eleven—despite San knowing that Wooyoung was not Cinderella, and that driving them to the parking lot and back would not take any less time than the short distance between their places.

Sometimes, San likes to trip Wooyoung up by meeting him on his own ground. Sometimes, he likes to do the opposite. He can’t be honest about everything he wants, but he deems it an okay compromise.

choi.san:

i do

but you said before that you didn’t want to

and i don’t want to do

anything you don’t want

The read receipt is instant, a response doesn’t come. Wooyoung might’ve been right after all—that San’s sleep would bring him clarity, turn the honesty into regret. He doesn’t think he’d take the messages back if he could. Washed-up and ready for bed, Wooyoung finally writes back after an hour.

wooyoun9:

i’m rooming with yeosangie this weekend

i can get us an hour or two

you know what to do 😉

And San does; though he knows it’s too late, that they’ve been shared and downloaded and their disappearance might be conspicuous, he deletes the photos without a second thought.

‿

A lot happens in Incheon.

San, expecting another proposition to be held over his head in exchange for a good performance, finds himself in Wooyoung’s room on Saturday evening, gripping the bedsheet in his effort to stay quiet. Some kind of a preemptive reward, Wooyoung has muttered, between attacking San’s mouth and then opening his fly.

He’s been fast from the start—pulling San into the room, pushing him onto the bed, spreading his legs—and it might just be that they’re short on time, but there’s an unmistakable hunger in the way he sucks on San’s inner thigh, noses over his underwear, then pulls him into his mouth. Like it’s easy and San hasn’t been haunted by the fantasy for weeks, months.

It’s everything he’s imagined and more.

Wooyoung’s enthusiasm, coupled with the minimum effort he puts into being quiet, make for an obvious problem from the start. San can’t remember the last time someone’s sucked him off. His cock twitches just at the sight of Wooyoung tying up his hair, his game-style ponytail forever tainted. And then Wooyoung actually gets to work, plush lips and moans that send a trail of sparks up San’s spine, and San knows it will be a quick affair.

“Wooyoung-ah,” he tries to warn but Wooyoung ignores him.

The smallest mercy, he hasn’t taken San all the way down his throat—but he’s getting there. Licking around the head, slicking San up with his own precome, Wooyoung knows what he’s doing and he is relentless. The moment he chokes himself on San’s cock, it will all be over. That’s why San tangles his fingers through Wooyoung’s hair, letting it spill from the band, and tugs his mouth off.

“What?” Wooyoung asks.

The sight should be criminal. San fears for his future now that he’s seen Wooyoung with his lips this red, spit-slick and trying to lap over San again when he doesn’t get a response.

“I’m not—I’m not gonna—”

“It’s okay, San-ah,” he says, the raspiness of his voice another nail to San’s proverbial coffin. “You’re doing well. Just hold on a little longer for me, yeah?”

San tries, he really does.

He pulls Wooyoung off two more times when it gets too much, when his thighs start shaking and Wooyoung takes him in deep, so deep San holds his own breath at the same time. But he’s not fast enough the third time and Wooyoung resists his weak warning of a pull. He swallows everything, making San’s shattered mind crumble into fine dust. No thoughts, no anxiety, just contentment—it strips him of his nerves and makes San want to return the favour, lack of skills be damned.

Wooyoung doesn’t give him a chance—doesn’t give him the time—to offer. The moment he’s done with San’s softening cock, he is crawling up and over, kissing San with his wonderfully filthy mouth and stroking himself to a boneless heap that collapses with a whine.

Warm, sweaty, and trapped, San feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“How’s that for motivation?” Wooyoung asks, after a few moments of breathy silence.

“I might just overtake you,” San says, “in those goal rankings.”

Wooyoung laughs, and then he moves, and San comes down from his high. He remembers that—car, a dusty closet, or an actual bed—this is how it always ends. His face must jump and Wooyoung takes pity on him.

“Shower?” he asks.

“It’s okay. I’ll—”

“With me?” Wooyoung shrugs, like he’s asking San if he wants to turn on three of the ceiling lights or just two. “Yeosangie will be gone a while. He’s getting dinner with Mingi and Yunho.”

Dumbfounded, San just nods, then nods with more vigour. “Yeah, uh—sure.”

The shower is objectively rushed and a bit awkward, too small for the both of them and short on any touching that isn’t accidental. San’s own fault for letting his mind run, picturing something out of a romantic drama, the tight space leading to more kisses and caresses. They don’t do that. The closest he gets is when he offers to help Wooyoung with his hair, and even that is met with hesitation. Wooyoung agrees, though. He holds himself stiff at first, but relaxes when San’s nails softly scratch against his scalp, melts when they travel to his nape.

“Oh, here.” San holds up his wrist once they’re dry and dressed, apologetic. He’s forgotten about Wooyoung’s hair tie, wet elastic against his skin.

“Keep it,” Wooyoung says, not quite meeting his eye.

“I—”

He smirks. “For good luck.”

San rolls his eyes but he doesn’t fight it. He keeps the elastic on until he’s in front of his own room, and hides it in his pocket because Jongho is too smart for his own good. He’s on his phone when San walks in, asking if San was out for dinner and accepting the lie—in the gym—with a brief once-over and a nod.

In their shared bathroom, San spends a while waiting for the mark around his wrist to fade.

‿

The next day, San hides the hair tie in the same backpack he’s now carrying to every game, only to keep it zipped and stashed inside his locker. A part of him says he shouldn’t, that he’s not someone made for collecting secrets and the locker is going to fall open one day, the backpack will rip, his feelings will overflow. He does it anyway.

Up in Incheon, the weather still feels more like winter. Several of Ulsan’s players come from Seoul and the surrounding cities, so there are many families who turn up for the match. Wooyoung’s is one of them, and San sees him hugging a short woman in an elegant trench coat, a man around their age, and a boy who must be his younger brother.

“Kyungminie,” Wooyoung confirms, introducing the boy once he’s snuck him inside the locker room to meet the team.

He’s shy, stuck to Wooyoung’s side like glue, and San can immediately see the resemblance. It makes him curious about what Wooyoung looked like when he was this age, but he squashes the thought. Instead, he listens to Wooyoung boasting about his brother’s football skills—Korea’s future best ever striker—to every person Kyungmin bows to.

When San’s turn comes, though, Wooyoung doesn’t repeat what he’s already told San before. “And this is our number ten,” he says, squeezing Kyungmin’s shoulder and grinning. “Choi San, my sworn enemy.”

Despite being so young, Kyungmin must be used to his brother’s sarcasm. He takes the words in stride, bowing to San and professing he’s a big fan.

“Just like your brother,” San can’t help but tease.

Kyungmin, bless him, nods. “Hyung said you—”

Wooyoung covers his mouth before the boy can continue, theatrically shushing him. San’s laughter is so loud it gets half the locker room’s attention.

“Who do you think is a better forward? Me or your hyung?” he asks with exaggerated cockiness. He’s confident of the answer long before Kyungmin opens his mouth—San could’ve predicted it before Kyungmin even stepped inside the locker room—but he does it just to see Wooyoung squirm a bit more.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Sannie.”

“I’m just curious.”

“No, you’re annoying.”

“Funny. I think you—”

“Sorry, San-ssi,” Kyungmin says, looking up at San with a guilty twist to his mouth. He can’t quite meet San’s eye. “I think hyung is.”

Momentarily, San feels bad for involving the boy in his and Wooyoung’s bickering. But the ends justify the means—Wooyoung preens like a cat that’s managed to snag the only sunlit spot in the room, hugs Kyungmin from the back, and raises an eyebrow in San’s direction.

“I understand.” San nods, slowly, giving the boy an encouraging smile. On impulse, he crouches down and lowers his voice, adding a conspiratorial whisper: “And I agree with you.”

Kyungmin beams at that. Wooyoung clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. Pushing his brother to the next stop in their grand tour—Seonghwa—Wooyoung’s ears look pink, and San has to force himself to look away. The heat in his chest is so exhilarating, he almost gets the backpack out and offers Kyungmin his lucky charm of a plushie to borrow.

But the boy is probably too old for plushies, and Shiber probably needs a wash, and San is too slow with his decision.

‿

When they turn the initial 0:3 into a draw, San thinks the hesitation might’ve been for the best—a dusting of good luck on top of everyone’s efforts. The defense line does their utmost to keep the ball away from Yunho, Wooyoung and Yeosang refuse to leave the opponent’s box alone, and San…

He thinks he does alright.

There’s no opportunity for the Shadow Pass, but San mostly manages to stay on top of the game, anticipating his teammates’ passes and timing his runs well. He’s the third one scoring, Hongjoong serving him the perfect ball.

All this thanks to getting laid, a voice teases in his mind, one that sounds a lot like Mingi.

But San knows it’s a lot more than that. A combination of factors, of those within his control and outside of it, a slow and non-linear path towards reclaiming his value on the field. In his heart of hearts, he still doesn’t see himself as a playmaker. But the team needs him to be one, Wooyoung believes he can act the part, and San is determined to get there—one match at a time.

It’s just him, Hongjoong, and Yunho sent out to deal with the press after the draw is called. The meeting goes without a hitch, the reporters respectful and praising both teams for their performance. San is still in his sweaty kit when Bora calls, peppy and talking at warp speed.

“Well done, buddy,” she says to greet him. “Now I can see where the eight came from. Keep it up, keep it up. Maybe I can get my blood pressure back in order.”

San walks towards the locker room, slow with his steps, shielding the phone from the rambunctious shouts coming through the open door. He hums and reassures, smiles and nods. Bora asks him to drop by her office the following day, to finalise the skincare sponsorship and discuss something related to social media strategy. San’s mind screeches at that, immediately reminded of the photos he’s deleted, then screeches again when he sees Wooyoung in the doorway.

Bora-noona, he mouths, to answer the silent question in Wooyoung’s face. He turns from San without a reaction. Maybe he wasn’t asking anything.

“—and, I have to say, I’m glad you were right about Wooyoung-ssi,” Bora says, her impeccable timing making San look behind his shoulder even though he knows she’s calling from her Ulsan home-office. “You’re playing pretty well together. I read this post earlier, from Junil-ssi—you know, the commentator? He had a lot of good things to say about the team, but he specifically mentioned you and Wooyoung-ssi.”

San swallows. “He did?”

“Yeah—I can share with you,” Bora says, the sound of her fingernails against the screen indicating she’s wasting no time. San’s phone buzzes against his ear. “He said it’s nice to see your chemistry grow in real time. I don’t agree with all of his points, to be honest, but I think he was right about that one.”

San hums. He forces himself not to check, leaning his back against the wall as Bora continues. “Anyway, I still stand by what I said before. If he gives you any trouble, we can deal with it. I know what you’re like, Sannie—you bottle things up like crazy.”

“Noona, I don’t—”

“So remember, okay? Tell me if something’s up.”

There’s a spider web on the air vent above San, he traces the pattern with his eyes and moves just a few steps away. It’s impossible that Bora knows. Her tone wouldn’t be so chipper, she wouldn’t drop such a lighthearted hint. But San’s heart still speeds against his ribcage, his face twisting into a pout.

“Nothing’s up, noona,” he says, hoping he sounds convincing.

“Alright,” she says, letting him off the hook: “I’ll see you tomorrow at two? Get some rest. And don’t bring me any coffee, buddy, I need to stop drinking it.”

‿

Despite the temporary unease, San gets over Bora’s words pretty quickly. He knows she doesn’t know, and there’s no point wondering what would happen if she did.

They’re taking the team bus back to Ulsan overnight, which means no training tomorrow. San showers, he and a bunch of others grab dinner at a nearby sandwich place, and he checks out the post Bora has shared.

It’s an encouraging read.

Though San got to sit with Yunho on the way to Incheon, he starts steeling his nerves for the trip back while he’s scarfing down his egg-and-cheese sandwich: because he wants to share the post with Wooyoung, and he wants to watch his face as he reads it.

His plans get dashed once he gets on the bus.

Yunho is already sitting with Mingi, San does a double take when he catches Seonghwa sitting down next to Hongjoong, and Wooyoung is nowhere to be found.

“He’s staying an extra day,” Yeosang says from San’s right, as if he can read his thoughts. He pats the empty seat next to himself, giving San a tight-lipped smile. “Went home with his family.”

“Right.”

San accepts the invitation and busies himself with his bags as he suppresses the disappointment, the irrational hurt of having to learn about Wooyoung’s plans from Yeosang. But Wooyoung doesn’t report to San. They don’t have the kind of relationship where he would share his every thought with San, or vice versa, and they don’t even have the means. The idea of Wooyoung randomly hitting up San’s private messages to announce he’s spending the night with his family is ridiculous.

San knows.

He sends Wooyoung a link to the post before he locks his phone, turning his attention to Yeosang. “Been a while since we sat together, Sang-ah,” he sing-songs.

“Been a while since you clung onto me, true,” Yeosang agrees.

“Aww, have you missed it? My bad! I’ll make it up—”

“Not really,” he deadpans, though San can see the smile threatening to spill into his eyes. “Having Wooyoungie around is enough of a handful.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

The smile disappears. San wonders if he should flick his own forehead.

Embarrassed, he focuses on the soft snoring coming from the row behind, watches Sumin’s headphones bop up and down in the gap ahead. He’s trying to come up with the right words to reassure Yeosang that he didn’t mean it that way, that he and Wooyoung are getting on just fine, that Yeosang had been right when he called San out on his stupid behaviour. Yeosang beats him to the punch.

“I know what’s going on, San-ah,” he says, voice so hushed that San has to check, to see if his mouth is moving. “I mean—with you and Woo.”

San’s heart seems to process the words first, starting to gallop in his chest like it’s trying to test his limits. His mind is slower to catch up, replaying Yeosang’s sentence and splitting it into syllables, shuffling them this way and that until the meaning clicks. He gulps, tongue not working and eyes scared of looking up. “I—” he tries, at last, and breath-by-breath pushes out a full sentence: “He told you?”

Somehow, amidst the overwhelm, it’s the one thing San needs to know in order to stop his spiral: that Wooyoung didn’t.

That he didn’t share without asking, didn’t cross the boundary San has taken for granted, didn’t let their secret slip without letting San know. There are other implications to Yeosang knowing—if he knows, others could, and if others know, things could get ugly for the both of them—but they take a backseat to the question that seems to sting his mouth

“No,” Yeosang says. He takes his time before continuing, still keeping his voice low: “No, but he didn’t have to, San-ah. You know. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

Made that promise together, San nods. “Did you tell him? That you—”

“No.”

Exhaling, he sneaks his fingers into the seat pocket in front of him and grips the net, lets go and leans his head onto the leather behind him. Trying to get his bearings, he doesn’t quite know what he feels. Regret at getting caught? Disappointment? Fear?

He’s not scared of Yeosang, San chases that thought away fast. One look at his face and San couldn’t fear him if he tried—he’s all caution and understanding. He’s scared of what this means in the grand scheme of things, though. How it makes their secret seem more tangible and more risky.

How they might have to stop.

“Look at me, San-ah. It’s okay,” Yeosang says, gingerly touching San’s knee. “I didn’t want to freak you out. It’s none of my business, really. I don’t even know if the two of you are—”

“We aren’t,” San cuts in.

He might not know what word Yeosang was planning to use—together, dating, romantically involved—but he and Wooyoung are none of that.

They are sleeping together but not really. They are friends with benefits but San has no other friendship that feels like what he has with Wooyoung. A question mark, a booty call, something that might hear its final whistle at any given moment—but also something that makes San want to call for stoppage just so he’s got more time to figure it out.

“You’re both adults, so…” Yeosang doesn’t finish, his thumb still skimming San’s kneecap. “I’m not trying to give you a shovel talk, San-ah. It’s not my place.”

San shrugs. “You’re Wooyoung’s friend.”

“And I’m your friend too, right?” Yeosang smiles. A little awkward and a little clumsy, just like his touch. It’s the effort that counts. “I care about you both. That’s why I just wanted—I just wanted to ask you to be careful.”

It’s a very reasonable request, San thinks. Between Bora kindling San’s paranoia and Yeosang setting it ablaze, he is once again reminded that they’re playing with fire. Exciting as it is, San can’t get lost in the haze. He needs to be more sensible.

“Wooyoung is very strong,” Yeosang says, retrieving his hand with a parting pat, “but he’s got a soft heart. I meant it when I said you were similar. So just—be careful, San-ah, alright?”

San hums.

Thailand might’ve set a bad precedent, but he doesn’t want to hurt Wooyoung. He wants to annoy him sometimes, yes, and he wants to get under his skin the way Wooyoung gets under his. San wants to push his buttons and keep studying Wooyoung’s laughter as well as his scowls, but he doesn’t want to make him run the other way.

“I will,” he says, and catches Yeosang’s fingers for a brief squeeze.

Even through the commotion raging inside him, he can see how much effort it’s taken his friend to address the subject, how cautiously he’s picked his words. It counts, and so does the implication of his silent support. San lets him get his bearings, watching the dark blur of shapes behind the window, and then he clears his throat.

“Does this count as my first coming out?” he tries to joke, watching Yeosang flush.

“No, I don’t think—I kind of forced you into it. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” San nudges him. “I’m glad it’s you—that you’re the first to know.”

“Wouldn’t that be Wooyoungie?”

“Well—”

“Anyway, it’s a shame you acted the way you did in Koh Samui,” Yeosang says, obviously deflecting with a small grimace. “Now you won’t ever be allowed to room together.”

San, with a sinking feeling, realises that Yeosang is probably right. Even if they’re no longer at each other’s throats, Coach Eden would be stupid to risk it and put the team on the line. Nobody knows that, with the way San responds to Wooyoung’s propositions, it would actually be doing the team a favour.

As if on cue, San’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

wooyoun9:

san-ah

i told you

i was giving you your reward

in advance

but fine 😮‍💨

[link]

you can pick me up at the station

tomorrow at 4

San doesn’t reply right away, and he tames his impulsive smile. Both because Yeosang is right there, and him knowing doesn’t mean San wants him to know everything, and because there likely won’t be a reward waiting for him at the train station.

They’ll have to talk about this.

wooyoun9:

oh and

have a good night

i guess 😴

At that, San can’t help but let the smile spread.