Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

tackle:

(in football) an action taken by a player to attempt to, or to actually, take the ball away from an opponent.

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“Your driving has improved.”

San, as a reflex, tightens his hand on the wheel. “I’ve been practising. With Jongho.”

His father hums, gaze trained on San as he shifts gears and glides into the turn lane. San expects him to say something more, dispense advice on how to operate the gear stick more smoothly, how to use the sideview mirrors more diligently, but his father doesn’t speak again until they’re almost in the parking lot.

“You don’t have to stop. No point paying the fee.”

“I’ll cover it,” San says.

“Just hop out.” His father motions at the wheel like he’s ready to take over. “We can say goodbye here, hm?”

It’s the way it has always been—since San’s very first airport drop-off at fifteen. His mum and Haneul had gone to see him off in the departures hall, helping with the baggage and the check-in, while San’s dad drove circles around the airport just to avoid the parking fee. The fact that he’s come with San at all today—that they’ve had two weeks together, two uninterrupted weeks of rest in Namhae—is good enough. San nods and finds a spot to let the car idle.

“I’ll see you in March?” San’s father hugs him and pats his back once, twice.

“I’ll send you the tickets.”

“Good.” He nods. The car door is open on the driver’s side, and he reaches for it while still gripping San’s shoulder. “Don’t think about last season, okay? What’s done is done. Just focus on doing your best.”

“I will, appa.”

“And don’t worry too much about what others think. Just your team and the coaches. Work on yourself, first and foremost.”

“I will, appa.”

“And don’t stress too much. That never helps. You’ll do great.”

“Thank you, appa.”

With that, and one more pat to San’s cheek, his dad gets inside the car and leaves San standing in the parking lot, heavy duffle bag and a heavier heart. It’s silly, San knows, reminding himself that this is an exciting new start. A fresh season ahead, another year with his second family. He watches until the car disappears, smooth and efficient in a way San still can’t mimic, and then he heads towards the departures hall.

⌢

“San-ah!”

His agent spots him first, San just making his way out of security control and about to message her. In the two weeks since they last saw each other, Bora hasn’t changed at all: the same chin-length bob, one of her favourite tailored pantsuits, the small handbag that somehow manages to fit everything from melatonin gummies to her MacBook. She hugs him first, pinching his sides just like Haneul does.

“New haircut?” she notes, and doesn’t waste a second once they’re apart, striding her way through the airport like she owns the place. “Suits you.”

“Thanks, noona,” San says, feeling some of his nerves ease.

He shouldn’t be nervous at all—not yet, anyway.

It’s just pre-season. He’ll be flying to Koh Samui by way of Singapore, joining Mingi and Seonghwa for the second flight. The four weeks of training will be gruelling but fun. Low-stakes. A perfect way to get their heads in the game and also let out steam.

Not like the nerves are a bad thing, either. They’re a sign of how much San stands to gain if everything goes well, if he applies himself and works hard for it, learns from the mistakes and improves match after match.

“I hope you’re ready,” Bora says. Walking, texting, and she still manages to raise an eyebrow in San’s direction.

“Ready?”

“Ready to get scouted, buddy,” she says.

Yes, the nerves are necessary, San tells himself as they engulf his body, a cascade of goosebumps.

He doesn’t sleep on the first flight, well-rested after last night spent in his childhood bedroom, body clock refusing to yield to the darkness in the cabin. Bora hands him one of her gummies, telling San he’d have an easier time drifting off in first class, but he doesn’t indulge her fantasies.

“Maybe when Arsenal signs me,” he jokes.

“Please,” Bora says, dismissive. “You need to dream bigger, Sannie. We wouldn’t enjoy London.”

“We wouldn’t?”

She hums. “We need someplace warm. With beaches and tapas. And tall, dark, handsome men.”

San almost chokes on the melatonin gummy. In self-preservation, he bites it in half. “Is that right?” he asks.

“Well, I need them.” Bora laughs. “You’ll be too busy playing football to care about any of it.”

⌢

Seonghwa and Mingi are already in the airport lounge when San gets there, watching something on Seonghwa’s phone. Bora gives San a parting nod before she joins Seonghwa’s agent—a man she admires and criticises depending on the day—and San approaches his teammates with a fond smile.

It fades when Mingi looks up, grinning. “There he is!” he calls out, making several strangers look in their direction. “The golden boy!”

“The future of Korean football,” Seonghwa joins in, albeit quieter.

San wants to evaporate on the spot, feeling a flush rise all the way up to his hairline. “And hello to you, too,” he says, splaying his legs as he takes the empty seat next to Seonghwa.

“It was a great interview, San-ah, we’re just teasing.”

“Yeah, my mum loved it. Asked me to pinch your cheeks for her.”

“Don’t be shy.”

“I have five copies of the magazine,” Mingi says. “Somewhere in my suitcase. They’ll make for great party favours.”

San groans. Other passengers in the lounge are still looking in their direction, studying San with something like recognition. It’s flattering as much as it is mortifying; he wishes he hadn’t let Bora greenlight the article before reading it. Some of the praise felt good—of course it did—but some of it was…

Too much. Over-the-top. Singling San out as the star of Ulsan KQ when, in reality, his performance towards the end of the season was only subpar. What’s done is done.

“—going to Hawaii for pre-season. Hawaii,” Mingi is saying, when the topic has changed and San is ready to stop sulking. “Like, where the fuck do they get the money from?”

“Two words, Mingi-ya.” Seonghwa shrugs. “Steel. Manufacturing.”

“When we win the championship, abeoji better be sending us to Bali. Better yet, the Bahamas.”

“I like Thailand,” San says, wedging his way into the conversation. “It’s close. The people are nice.”

“And the weather is good,” Seonghwa says, humming in agreement.

Behind the big lounge windows, the sky is overcast—just like the skies back in Korea, but threatening to bring more rain instead of snowfall. San hopes his father didn’t get stranded somewhere on the way back. He had insisted on coming along when San said he would take the bus, but perhaps San shouldn’t have caved. It felt good to show off his driving skills, yes, but they barely talked throughout the drive, listening to a radio show about baseball.

San knows next to nothing about baseball.

“I wouldn’t say he’s past his prime. It’s good to get some more experienced players on the squad.” Seonghwa nudges him, silently asking for support. “You’ve also played with Seunghee, right, San-ah?”

San nods. One of their newest transfers—a well-seasoned player on the edge of retirement—both he and Seonghwa met him when they got called up for the national friendlies in June. “He’s good,” San says. “I mean, he was a tiger for years.”

“Does it count as being on the national team if you mostly sit on the bench?” Mingi teases. “Anyway, that’s it for the defence. Then there’s the Hyunwoo kid.”

“Kid,” Seonghwa mouths, amused.

“I’ve seen some of his games. Very fast runner,” Mingi says. “But I think he’s too young for K1.”

“You were twenty when KQ signed you.” San grins. “Are you scared he’ll steal your spotlight?”

“He’s a forward. He’s not stealing my anything.” Mingi wiggles his eyebrows, leaning towards San. “You, on the other hand.”

San rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mind the teasing—be it over embarrassing articles or the usual team ribbing—and he can take it and dish it out. In his own way. When he needs to.

“I’d be more worried about Wooyoung,” Seonghwa says.

Lighthearted, he’s clearly joking, but the name has San doing a double take. “Wooyoung?”

There are five new players on Ulsan KQ’s squad this season, Jihoon has been traded, and Youngsaeng retired. They’ve discussed the changes before their break, once management finalised all the transfers. There’d been no mention of a Wooyoung.

“Yeah,” Mingi nods, like San’s confusion confuses him.

“You haven’t heard?” Seonghwa asks, faster to catch on.

“Which Wooyoung? Jung Wooyoung? From Gimpo FC?”

“That’s the one.”

“But isn’t he—” San falters. “Wasn’t he signing with Jeonbuk?”

“That’s why we don’t get Hawaii,” Mingi says with a mournful hum. “Abeoji splurged in the name of rivalry.”

San knows Jung Wooyoung. Knows of him.

In San’s opinion, the man makes the news far more often than a football player should, for reasons far too detached from the game. He’s a talented player, no doubt about that, but he’s also hot-headed and unpredictable; San has heard him badmouthing former teams in the press, has played him in a friendly or two, has seen Wooyoung’s stunning hat trick in the last game of the season.

It came as no surprise when the rumour mill started talking about Wooyoung’s move up to K League 1, and as a slight worry when Wooyoung was said to have signed with their biggest rival, Jeonbuk HD. But, if San’s friends are right, Wooyoung didn’t do that.

He has signed with Ulsan.

San leans back in his seat, processing the news. Though he tries to be rational, he can’t stop the feeling in his stomach—like a pit opening up, full of dread and a whole other kind of nerves. They make his breath catch, his skin feels like it’s crawling with spiders. Because, if San is the golden boy of his team, the striker that has almost brought Ulsan a victory, Jung Wooyoung is the striker who finished last season with a trophy.

It’s one of the many differences between them.

Chapter Text

ball in play:

(in football) describing the status of the game, when the ball is actively within the boundaries of the field and the play is on.

⚽︎

Bora doesn’t sit next to San on the plane, but from their brief interaction before boarding, he can tell she must’ve heard the news too, and that she’s just as surprised—if not more. Seonghwa’s agent shoots San a strange smile.

Sympathetic, he would think, but he tells himself he’s just projecting.

It’s a short flight and San spends most of it zoning out, listening to music and tolerating Mingi’s napping form on his shoulder. When they touch down in Thailand, Bora’s on the phone right away, first calling Coach Eden and then the office back in Korea, shooting San cryptic smiles while she’s on hold with Kyuwook-nim’s secretary. On the taxi ride to their hotel, San doesn’t need to hear the other end of the conversation to know the weird feeling in his stomach has been justified.

Still, when Bora gets off the call, she doesn’t tell him what’s got her popping one of her lorazepam pills. “Go freshen up and unpack,” she says, fixing her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “Then we’re meeting Yonghwan-ssi.”

Using the coach’s full name, San knows it’s bad. “Is it about Wooyoung-ssi?” he asks.

Bora licks the fresh layer of red on her lower lip, which basically counts as a yes. “You could say that,” she confirms.

Despite what some people think, San isn’t dumb. He can put two and two together. He knows he’s a good player, an asset to the team, and he also knows that he’s bombed the last few games because he let the pressure get to him. That made him a liability, and Jung Wooyoung—skilled, ambitious, a striker since his junior days—has shown that he can cope with a bit of pressure. That he can thrive on it.

“I think you’re worried for nothing, man,” Mingi tells him, obviously feeling guilty, just before San and Seonghwa head for their shared room. “You’re Choi San. Golden boy, eh? Nobody’s replacing you, that would be fucking stupid.”

When San and Bora arrive in one of the hotel’s meeting rooms, the atmosphere is thick. Hongjoong is there, hugging San as soon as he enters—a warning sign on its own—and Coach Eden motions for him to sit down as soon as the greetings are over.

“We know we should’ve told you earlier, San-ah,” Eden says.

Bora seems to clench her jaw at the apologetic tone. “Damn right you should’ve. This was not discussed. You’ve had weeks to—”

“The confirmation was last minute.”

“But the offer wasn’t!”

“Nothing’s been decided yet.”

Eden offers San a bottle of water and that, of all things, finally makes his patience snap. He’s not a child. He’s not made of porcelain.”What?” he asks. “You should’ve told me what, Coach?”

It’s a proposition, though the way it gets delivered—with both assistant coaches in the room, Hongjoong fidgeting with his own bottle cap, and Bora progressively clenching her fist tighter and tighter—it might as well be an announcement. The more Coach Eden repeats that the decision is up to him, the more San feels like he’s being manipulated.

“I’ve never played midfielder,” he says, surprised but happy about the edge in his tone. He’s not a yeller—certainly not off the field—but his voice rises with the bafflement. “I’m a forward. Always have been.”

“And you’re an amazing striker, San-ah,” Hongjoong says. San wishes he wouldn’t. Right now, he really wishes he could have the captain on his side. “But we know you. This would be a great chance for you. You’ve got all the makings of a strong playmaker.”

San shakes his head.

He’s got good ball control, good overall technique. Years of playing as a forward have made him good at anticipating scoring chances and creating the opportunities himself. But playmakers are in control. They manage the game. They are the team’s stronghold, the brains, composed even under pressure.

With Jihoon leaving, San had been certain Hongjoong would be taking over the spot.

“Is this because of Wooyoung-ssi?” he asks, leaning back. “Was it a contract condition? Did you sign him because—”

“No, San-ah,” Eden says, sharing a glance with Hongjoong like they’ve anticipated this line of thinking and prepared for it. “Like Hongjoong said, this would be your chance to shine. You’re great at analysing the game. With you in midfield, we could—”

“Why didn’t you tell him before the break?” Bora asks, stone-faced. “This is not how these things work, Eden. You’ve got a responsibility to your players!”

“San is the best striker we have. We couldn’t propose this idea when we weren’t sure if Wooyoung—”

“So it is because of him,” San says.

“Yes and no.” Eden holds his gaze. “Nothing’s set in stone, San. If you agree to this, we’ll still have to try the new formation and see how it works.” He pauses. “If it works.”

“We’re excited to have Wooyoung on the team but you’re you, San-ah,” Hongjoong offers. “We’ll do what you’re comfortable with. Think of it as an opportunity.”

Not a punishment, San fills in in his mind. He doesn’t deserve to be punished, he knows that much—despite all the analysing and moping San’s been doing about the last few games, he’s had a good season. They’ve all had a good season, and San has been a big contributing factor. Twenty-seven goals and ten assists, there’s a reason why Bora’s been daydreaming about Spain. Why San’s been so nervous, knowing this season could make his dreams come true.

Or make them pop.

“I’ll do it.”

Bora looks at him with her lips pressed into a thin line, shaking her head slightly. She’s trying to let San know she’s got this under control and he shouldn’t be intervening, and it’s what makes him double down. He’s had enough sidelining for the day.

“If you think this is a good arrangement for the team,” he says, “I’ll try it.”

⌢

With training officially starting the next day, dinner is a big affair.

San’s glad to see the team, glad to be sitting between Yeosang and Yunho, glad to be surrounded by so many streams of conversations that he’s not required to give his two cents on everything. His mind isn’t all there—already on the football field, trying to picture himself in the new position, trying to think of ways to make this work.

Jung Wooyoung is nowhere to be found.

“Flight delay,” Coach Eden explains when San asks, making him wonder where the man was flying in from.

He could probably find out with a short Naver search: wherever Jung Wooyoung goes, there is bound to be some trail of evidence.

San knows it’s not fair to judge Wooyoung based on rumours and articles. He, the golden boy of Korean football, understands how the media distorts one’s image. He’s not prejudiced, Wooyoung is a stranger, and San doesn’t want to hold the rumours against him. He just doesn’t understand it, that’s all—being so careless with his private life.

If Wooyoung doesn’t care, that’s one thing. But he’s part of the team now, and god knows Ulsan KQ has had a hard time building their reputation and getting their foot in the—

“You look stressed,” Yunho says, nudging San in the side. “Did you get no rest in Namhae? Parents nag you that much?”

“Did yours?” San says, smirking.

“Three matchmaking attempts only.” Yunho takes a sip of beer, nodding to himself. “I think they’re letting up.”

“Happy for you, buddy,” San says—though, the truth is, his own parents haven’t pestered him at all.

Maybe it’s because Haneul has recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend, more likely because they know San’s number one priority is football. His father, a family man through and through, wouldn’t have it any other way. Girlfriends are a distraction, especially when one’s dreaming of the UCL. San hopes he’s safe from nagging until thirty.

Or, at least until he meets someone who’ll make the UCL seem secondary.

Nobody brings up the midfielder news at dinner; San has told Seonghwa and Mingi, Hongjoong obviously knows, but everyone else is either in the dark or unsure of what to say about the topic. San is glad. It’s enough to have Bora in the room—one of the six agents present, and the only woman—looking at him every so often with a pinched expression. She’s been San’s rock in the past two years, the mountain to his mountain, but right now, he’s glad she won’t actually be sticking around for the training.

There’ll be enough pressure on him as it is.

“Come on, Sannie!” Mingi leans onto him, when the food is gone and the suggestion of welcome drinks has been thrown around the table. “Last chance to have some fun! It’ll take your mind off—the thing.”

So, a good few of the players know, San realises—as Mingi’s words elicit awkward coughs and avoidant eyes, Yunho giving San an encouraging smile and muttering something about how San has nothing to be worried about. It’s sweet. San still shakes his head.

“I’m too tired, hyung,” he says. “You all have fun, though.”

⌢

Alcohol is banned during pre-season.

The last hurrah before training officially starts is, however, considered something of a tradition, so Coach Eden doesn’t say a thing as the team bickers over choosing a bar. He doesn’t go himself, neither do the agents, and San joins them in saying goodbye to everyone, calling it an early night.

Instead of sleeping, he goes to the gym.

It’s almost empty at the hour, only San and two strangers sweating under the too-bright lights. It’s what he needs, and he’s on his second circuit when the pleasant calm fills his mind—no nerves, no football, no Jung Wooyoung. Just him, the weights and the counts, and the music in his earbuds. The buzz lingers until the post-workout shower, and then San’s back to square one.

He’s surprised when he gets back to his room and finds Seonghwa already there.

“You didn’t go with them?” San asks, toweling his hair dry.

“I’m too old now to be partying the night before torture camp,” Seonghwa says, smirking. He’s stretched out on his bed, also freshly showered, playing something on his Nintendo Switch. He looks up for just long enough to take in San’s dripping hair and tease: “And you’re too tired, I see.”

“You know me, hyung,” San says.

He also knows Seonghwa—they’ve been friends for years, sharing a dorm with Mingi once upon a time, rooming together for too many away games to count—and knows that his hyung can still slam back shot after shot in the name of a party. Not that Seonghwa is great at drinking, but he likes to have fun. Likes to keep an eye on the team and call for the younger players’ water breaks, even when he needs them himself. San has been on the receiving end of his soothing pats and cold compresses once or twice.

“No drinking. No smoking. No processed snacks,” Seonghwa recites with a small eye-roll. “No fun.”

“Yes, I prefer—” San steps closer to peek at the display of Seonghwa’s Nintendo “—Animal Crossing and heart-to-hearts with my roommate.”

“Who’s having heart-to-hearts?” Seonghwa shoots back.

Without a response, San crosses to the bathroom to change into his pyjamas and brush his teeth. Seonghwa is still lounging on the bed when he gets back, seemingly immersed in whatever’s going on with his island. San lies down on the other twin bed and mimics him, grabbing his phone.

He scrolls through some gym reels. Sets up his alarm. Plays about five minutes of Dungeon Crawler and then catches himself doing the exact thing he’s told himself not to do: looking up Jung Wooyoung on Naver.

San just wants to see, to remind himself, what kind of player Wooyoung is.

It’s imperative to his new position as a playmaker, he reasons, to know all about his teammates’ style. He’s planning to read through Wooyoung’s Namu page, refresh his memory on the clubs he’s played for, watch some highlights and match compilations. Right off the bat, though, San gets stuck staring at the browser’s top results—Jung Wooyoung’s photos.

He’s very photogenic.

Even in his official team headshot for Gimpo FC, Wooyoung’s gaze is piercing, something about his features making him seem like he’s in on a secret only he knows and having a great time preening about it. Some of his in-game photos look like they could come from a photoshoot. Some are covert shots with Wooyoung’s face almost completely covered—stadium parking lots, Hongdae streets, arm thrown around some girl he was supposedly dating last spring. But there are many candids, too, where he looks completely different. Where he’s laughing, unguarded, joking on the field with his teammates or waving at the fans.

Seoul Jungnang. Suwon FC. Gimpo FC. Three different teams in three years, a similar pattern of changes in his junior days. San has been with Ulsan KQ ever since he got into their academy. He knows the value of a good opportunity—is waiting for one, helplessly—but can’t make sense of Wooyoung’s transfers. Not with his level of skill, certainly not—

“If you could see your face,” Seonghwa says. He’s standing, peeking at San’s display and wearing that half-sympathetic half-amused half-smile that San recognises so easily. “You know this isn’t his fault, San-ah.”

“I’m not saying it is,” San says, too quickly. “I’m not—I was just curious. Don’t spy on me, hyung!”

“It’s not fair, the way the management has dealt with this. They should’ve told you. But it’s not Wooyoung’s fault.”

“Hm.”

“I can see it, you know. You’re already worrying too much. It’ll be fine.” Seonghwa sits down at the foot of the bed, grabbing San’s blanket covered feet and bringing them into his lap, squeezing gently. “He’s a nice guy. You’ve met him before.”

“Briefly.”

“Yeosangie only has good things to say about him. You know he’s not friends with just anyone,” Seonghwa continues, still squeezing San’s toes through the blanket. “And it’s much better that he’s with us than Jeonbuk. Don’t blame him for this.”

San nods, squeezing his lips together. He’s still looking at his phone, scrolling through the search results and the numerous Jung Wooyoung pictures Naver offers—on the field, off the field, more paparazzi shots that San swipes away.

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s a looker,” Seonghwa says, and San glances up at once. “What? You also have eyes, San-ah. Tell me he isn’t hot.”

San rolls his eyes and turns the phone off, putting it down on his bedside table with too much force. “I wouldn’t know, hyung.”

“Please.” Seonghwa scoffs and pushes San’s feet out of his lap, dropping back onto his own bed. “Even if you’re straight, you’ve never had trouble appreciating someone’s looks. You’re not blind. Or does it hurt your pride?”

“I guess he is—attractive,” San says, the fast exposure making Jung Wooyoung’s face sear into his memory for the time being. Strong nose, sharp jaw, the eyes—yes, San can see it. Objectively. He turns off his bedside lamp, bringing the blanket up to his chin. “Can you set the timer on the AC, hyung?”

Seonghwa chuckles but does as asked, then copies San and turns the light off.

“It’ll be a good season,” he says into the dark, making San’s eyes find his faint profile, “I can feel it.”

San only hums. He really hopes so.

⌢

His first alarm goes off at 6. The second at 6.15. At half past, it’s Seonghwa’s groaning that makes him get up, and just as soon as San rubs his eyes open, Seonghwa is already letting out even puffs of breath from under his pillow.

It will take a while to get back into San’s old habits; Namhae has indulged his oversleeping tendencies, and he’s not fully conscious of his morning routine—wash, dress, teeth, snack—until he’s out of the door, walking to the field in the already-warm morning air. It’s the coldest it’s going to be, and he wonders if Hawaii’s any breezier. Probably not. San shelves that as something to remind Mingi of when he’s next complaining.

The field they’ll be using for the training is only five minutes away from the hotel. It’s the same one they’ve used last season, and the one before that, so the staff lets San in without any issues. For a moment, he stands by the edge of the field, looking at the green expanse of it, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass. Two weeks, and he feels like a kid on a scorching day, eyeing the sparkles on a pool surface.

He puts his bag down. He takes his cap off. He runs onto the field.

⌢

The day officially starts at 9, and San’s teammates start arriving a couple minutes before that.

“Oh, they’ve fixed the stands,” Yeosang says, first thing upon seeing San stretching in the shade.

“There was something wrong with them?” Minjae asks, mimicking San’s arm stretch and turning it into a loud yawn. San guesses he got about two, maybe three hours of sleep, if the size of his eyes is any indication.

“Yes.” Yeosang doesn’t elaborate. He looks at San. “You done here, San-ah?”

Taking it easy on the first day, San has only done a portion of his usual drills: warm-up, intervals, ball drills. Going into the physical this afternoon, he already knows what he’s going to be working on—more focus on his left leg and more mobility training. He nods and, when Yeosang turns to follow Minjae to the locker rooms, San drapes himself over his back, earning his first elbow jab of the season.

“You’ll stop resisting one day, I know it,” San says, smiling even as he rubs a hand over his ribs.

“You’ll give up one day, I know it,” Yeosang says, cheeks puffed, not even looking at him.

It’s the same teasing as last season, and the corridor looks exactly the same, as do the offices and the restrooms and the locker room. Mostly the same team. Coach Eden in the center of a lopsided circle, watching everyone arrive with the same long-suffering look.

There’s nothing to be worried about; the residual high of his training and the familiarity of the scene make San forget about the strange tingle of nerves he’s been battling for days.

“Everyone looks lovely,” Eden says, glancing from one sleep-deprived face to another. His semi-scolding gaze skips over San. He crosses his arms. “Good, I can tell you had fun. And I hope you got it out of your system, boys, because you know what the rules are.”

Everyone nods, and then Eden takes a clipboard from Ollounder—one of the assistant coaches—flicking his gaze over the room one more time like he’s doing a mental attendance check. As far as San can see, everyone apart from Maddox and Minhyuk—who still have K-Cup games—is present. If not mentally, at least physically, his teammates are in various stages of sitting, slumping, and sliding off the benches.

Jung Wooyoung isn’t there.

“He was supposed to get in last night,” Seonghwa answers in a whisper, sitting next to San. Out of everyone, he—and Hongjoong, of course—look the most put together.

“Have you seen him?” San asks.

“No.”

Briefly, the idea of Jung Wooyoung changing his mind flashes through San’s mind. A quick change of plans, a better offer coming his way. Maybe an international team signing him—the prospect should make San jealous, really, but the creature of habit inside him is calling for what he knows, his place as the central forward and a season the way he’s imagined it.

Scoring more. Staying calmer. Moving past his mistakes.

“Should we…?” Hongjoong starts, standing next to Eden.

Eden hums but still looks expectant, checking his watch and then the clipboard. The locker room is far from quiet, bubbles of chatter erupting here and there, hushed teasing reaching San’s ears—something about last night and Mingi getting spooked by a rooster. San opens his mouth: “Coach, I don’t think there’s any point in waiting—”

“I’m so sorry!”

Loud stomps, a louder voice; San doesn’t have to look to guess who’s just made it through the door, and, of course, he does it anyway—instincts and curiosity getting the better of him, twisting his head towards Jung Wooyoung before the man has even finished speaking.

He looks out of breath.

Swimming in his windbreaker, shorts so long they reach his knees, at first glance, he’s exactly the man San has seen in countless Naver pictures. Almost exactly the man from his blurry memories, except his hair is long and loose, headphones holding it back instead of the customary on-field ponytail. There’s no hint of an apology on his face. It’s bright and almost blinding, Wooyoung grinning as he scans the room, shrugging to bring attention to the box in his arms.

A looker, Seonghwa’s words echo in San’s mind.

“I didn’t expect it to be busy, sorry Coach,” Wooyoung tells Eden, and then he addresses the room, holding out the box: “Coffee, anyone?”

It’s all the introduction Wooyoung needs; the team flocks to him, like they were not alternating hangover-grunts and yawns just a minute ago. Wooyoung’s shoulders are being bumped and patted in thanks, names get exchanged as everyone scrambles to snatch their preferred coffee order. San’s still sitting by the time Seonghwa returns with an iced latte. Coach Eden greets Wooyoung and takes an americano.

The gesture is nice, San can appreciate it.

He’s not the only one not joining the crowd—Dahan and Buddy don’t drink coffee—but when the excitement dies down, Wooyoung’s eyes flick from the box straight to San. Smiling, he quirks an eyebrow. He doesn’t look the same as his photos, not really, and San finds himself blinking the attention away.

“Sorry, Wooyoung-ssi,” he says, awkwardly loud. “No coffee during pre-season.”

No coffee most times, San finds that it messes with his sleep too much. Unlike the sweets and the snacks, it’s an easy thing to give up, San never a big fan of the taste. Wooyoung laughs into his face at the admission. The sound almost makes San jolt.

“Ah, golden boy and his famed discipline,” Wooyoung says, nodding. “We should all learn from you.”

Either the joke is bad, or everyone else awaits a bigger reaction from San than his stiffening posture. All eyes on him, expectant, it’s not the kind of attention San likes. Wooyoung is still grinning when San looks up, seemingly thriving on it.

San’s stomach twists. His heartbeat spikes. The nerves and the apprehension descend on him again, just like that, and he’s grateful when Eden clears his throat.

“Alright, now that you’re all more awake—thank you, Wooyoung-ssi—let’s get to it. You know the drill. Housekeeping first, you all listen, then we get to the fun parts.”

Wooyoung finds an empty spot on the other side of the room, next to Yeosang and Yunho. He looks smaller than his 173 centimetres, San thinks. A few minutes into Coach Eden’s welcome pep-talk, he also looks spaced out, playing with the zipper of his windbreaker and whispering something to Yeosang instead of—

“You want to do it, San-ah?” Seonghwa asks, nudging him.

“Huh?”

“Pre-season social media,” he says, eyebrow up and voice low, then raises it once San’s processed the words: “Wanna be in charge?”

“I—“

Seonghwa interrupts with a fake sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Cool, thanks Seonghwa. For the medical and physical tests, we’re starting after lunch and I’ve got everyone’s schedule here.“ Eden holds up two sheets of paper, pinning them to the noticeboard by the door. “Unless you want to be everyone’s favourite and make the training run until ten, don’t be late.”

He doesn’t look at Wooyoung as he says it, so San does it for him. The man whispers to Yunho again—too loud, San can hear that he’s surprised there’s actual training on the first day—and whatever Yunho says back has Wooyoung cackling. Coach Eden is still going over the schedule and the anticipated friendlies. Hammarby IF. Yunnan Yukun. Gimpo.

Wooyoung barely reacts to that, lips stretching side to side at the name of his former club. He perks up when Ollounder reappears with a cardboard box, nudging it into the centre of the room like food for rabid dogs.

“And everyone’s favourite part,” Eden says, several players already getting up, “our new kit.”

San joins the others this time, excited to see the design. They’re keeping the same away kit as last season—black and light blue, striped—but for the home games, they’ve voted to go with dark red. Mingi, who was adamant about getting cement grey, holds the jersey up and hums appreciatively. It looks good, San agrees, reaching for his number nine.

The shirt stretches, another hand pulling on it, and San sways forward.

There’s a chuckle. A cloud of unfamiliar perfume. A mole under Jung Wooyoung’s left eye. He lets go first, and San stumbles back a step without the counter-pull.

“Oh.”

He grimaces when he gives the jersey a proper look. There it is—a big number nine, JUNG above it in a bold white font. Before San’s got a chance to mumble an apology, Wooyoung’s laugh is cutting through the air again and he’s holding out another shirt for San. It’s almost identical. Ruby red, white lettering, number nine.

CHOI.

“Looks like we’re matching, San-ssi.”

He seems amused, unphased. San, on the other hand, has frozen in place, still clutching the shirt—Wooyoung’s shirt—like if he squeezes it more, tighter, it’ll come up with an answer instead of him. His dumbstruck state only makes Wooyoung’s amusement grow.

“Or you can keep mine, if you want.”

His teeth peek out as he says it. There’s another mole on his lip.

“It’s the wrong size,” San says, dumbly.

“I’m sure you could make it fit.”

Wooyoung’s eyes travel down his frame, and San registers the unnatural silence in the room. The wrong kind of attention, again, their teammates watching on while San’s jaw clenches, helplessly.

He knows it must be a harmless mix-up, he knows Wooyoung is right to be laughing it off. Something about his words ruffles San’s feathers, though. Not even trying to reply, he redirects his confusion at Eden, who just sighs and confirms that the manufacturer must’ve made a mistake and they’ll get San his number ten before the season starts.

It’s like another bad joke, San feels, or like the universe is sympathetic to his turmoil, the new reality refusing to set in. Number ten, the dream of many. Not a responsibility to be worn lightly, not something San should dread. No matter how much the change has tripped San up, he knows he needs to snap out of it—to appreciate the opportunity and show he can make the best of it.

Adaptability separates good players from the best.

“Thank you, Wooyoung-ssi,” he says, finally swapping the shirts.

As much as he avoids looking at the man again, they end up standing next to each other, waiting for the others to disperse so that they can get the rest of their kit. San can feel Wooyoung sizing him up. He can smell the warm fragrance again—so out of place in a room that San associates with heavy clouds of body spray—and he can feel Wooyoung’s hesitation.

“Did you have a rough night?” he leans closer to San, conspiratory.

“No.”

“You can be honest, San-ssi,” he says. “I know you guys went out. I was hoping I could join, but my flight—”

“I didn’t,” San cuts him off. “I don’t drink.”

“I see.”

Wooyoung hums. There’s something besides the hesitation now, almost like discomfort—Wooyoung widening the distance between them, gaze stuck to San’s profile. “Did I do something—“ he starts, pauses, and shakes his head. San can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Good for you, golden boy,” he ends up saying. “Your physicals must be exemplary.”

Golden boy.

San wants to go back in time and refuse the interview. He wants to brush Wooyoung’s teasing aside like he’s done with Mingi and Seonghwa and five other teammates who have made fun of him for it. But Wooyoung’s smirk only makes him clutch the stupid jersey tighter, makes the knot in his stomach tighter, makes San nod like an idiot.

“They’re alright,” he says, and goes to grab his shorts and socks.

⌢

The day goes fast.

After the official matters are addressed, the schedules checked, the empty coffee cups disposed of, they break for lunch. It’s waiting for them in one of the stadium offices—all nutritionally-balanced, pre-planned and labelled with the ingredients. By the time San gets his turn, Wooyoung has taken the last beef and sweet potato bowl and left him with a chicken salad. There are carrots in it.

San takes a seat facing away from him, nudging Jongho’s knee. “Had fun yesterday, Jongho-ya?”

“I don’t know.” Jongho shrugs.

“Huh?”

“You always ask that question, hyung. You should come along instead.” Before San can protest, Jongho’s stealing his carrots and shaking his head. “Don’t give me that tired bullshit. I know you were at the gym.”

“I was—”

“You should do it for the team morale, if nothing else. Like old times. Do you know how many times Yeosangie mentioned you?”

It’s just bait, San knows, but he still skirts a glance towards Yeosang and finds him talking to Wooyoung. Laughing. He shrugs himself. “I don’t think he’ll miss me with Wooyoung-ssi around.”

Jongho pulls a grimace like San’s burped into his face, eyes narrowing. “Wooyoung-ssi? What’s wrong with you, hyung? You’ve been acting strange all morning.”

“I’m fine.”

The salad is bland, the chicken like tasteless chewing gum that San still pushes down, because skipping meals in pre-season is out of the question. Jongho ignores him after his non-answer, which serves San right, he knows. As soon as he’s done, he leaves the room to call Bora, to check when she’s leaving.

“Tomorrow at three.” She’s picked up on the first ring. “But I can stay a few more days, San-ah. I can put more pressure on Yonghwan-ssi. This whole fucking mess is—”

“It’s okay, noona,” San says, cradling the phone when a burst of laughter carries over from the office. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s a part of him that wants Bora to stay, naively hoping that she can sort all his problems for him. But that’s not how life works, and San doesn’t want to be coddled. A bigger part of him is relieved to hear she’ll be gone by the time actual training starts. Whatever failures or surprise victories it brings San, she’ll only see them in four weeks, when everyone’s back in Korea and facing off against Hammarby IF for their first friendly.

“I’ll drop by in the evening,” she says before hanging up.

“Thanks, noona.”

He turns around at the sound of footsteps and exchanges a wordless glance with Wooyoung before the man walks to the restroom. With the coast clear, San uses the opportunity to grab his bag and head in for his medical. The rest of the first batch—Hongjoong, Minjae, and Yunho—come to join him just a few minutes later.

“Hyung.” San pulls the captain aside. “Can we go over some of last season’s footage? When you have a minute?”

“Sure, San-ah.” Despite the instant agreement, Hongjoong eyes him with curiosity. “If it’s about positioning, you know we’ll have tacticals every—”

“Outside of those. I’d like—I just have some questions.”

“Sure,” Hongjoong repeats. “We could do it after training. Maybe Wednesday?”

The plan makes San feel lighter. Coaches aside, there’s nobody with better tactical awareness than Hongjoong. He reviews their games so often—and to such detail—that everyone jokes it’s Hongjoong’s idea of fun. San does it often enough, analysing his mistakes and trying to find ways to improve, but he’s never done it from the new perspective. Not as a playmaker.

The medical checks are mostly a formality—heart screening, concussion screening, bodycomp measurements—and then San’s being shuffled off to do his jump tests. Seonghwa’s in the next batch of players, and he immediately grins at San, brandishing a phone in his face.

“First day, San-ssi, how are we feeling?” he asks.

“Excited.” San gives the camera a polite smile.

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“I’m excited,” San repeats, with a more exaggerated grin.

“One more time, please, you can do better!”

“I’m soooo excited to be back with my team,” he drones this time, looking straight at the lens. Cracking midway, he speaks around a smile. “Especially Seonghwa-hyung, the best defensive midfielder in South Korea, and also the best social media—”

“Okay, okay, San-ah. I’m turning it off.”

Watching them from beside the door, Wooyoung looks away when he’s caught. San could swear he hears the man huffing as he’s leaving the room, but he doesn’t turn back to check.

He’s recommended exercises for balancing his leg strength and a new mobility routine, just as expected. Some of the more important tests—box to box and the timed trial—will be done in the evening, so San is free to go at four, a whole two hours to do with as he pleases.

He forces himself to play Dungeon Crawler when he’s back in the hotel room. He doesn’t go on any browser searches. He doesn’t really get any rest.

⌢

“Look who’s here! Our number nine!”

Instinctively, San follows Mingi’s voice. He sees him with Seonghwa, and Seonghwa with his phone out again, and Wooyoung walking up towards them, head-to-toe in his new kit. Before San can look away, Mingi’s pointing at him and exclaiming: “Actually, we’ve got two this season! Get ready for Ulsan KQ domination!”

Hongjoong meets San’s sigh with his own—though the two carry very different emotions. “You don’t have to wear it, you know,” he says, looking down at San who’s tying his boots.

“Everyone’s wearing theirs.”

“Yeah, but nobody else looks like it’s giving them physical pain.”

San doesn’t say anything.

It’s just a jersey, he might be wearing a bib over it for most of the practice matches, and he knows he needs to stop sulking. It’s all he could think about while getting his ass beaten by pixelated goblins—how this isn’t who he is, how he needs to act his age and do the best for his team.

It’s all he thinks about, now, as he watches Wooyoung cling to Yeosang like they’re the very best of friends, like no time has passed since their days at Gwangseong Academy. Yeosang allows it. Every side-eye is punctuated by a hearty laugh, and San’s reminded of how long it’s taken him to become Yeosang’s friend, to make him laugh with his antics and—

“Okay everyone, gather up!” Coach Eden calls.

The first training of pre-season is always a light affair, a misleading tap where the rest of the days will be a hit to their system. They warm up and start with the agility drills, Sumin messing around with the cones until Hongjoong glares at him. After that, the balls roll in and it’s dribbling time, equal parts goofing around and showing off.

Wooyoung is great at dribbling.

Even before looking him up last night, San has known this as a truth—Jung Wooyoung’s got great control of the ball, he’s subtle with it and elegant. He changes direction seamlessly. All through the obstacle course, he flaunts how good he is at close control, maneuvering for no good reason but to show that he can—and he can.

He finds San once he brings the ball to the finish line, tilting his head. It’s a challenge. San breathes through the burst of errant energy and gets a ball to complete his own loop.

He’s light on his feet, practised, finishes without a fumble. Bora cheers for him once from the stands, making San’s cheeks warm. He looks at Wooyoung, an answer to his prompt, but Wooyoung’s busy mimicking Jongho’s stretches. He must’ve watched. San tells himself. He feels stupid for caring.

Hyunwoo, the new forward, joins San for passing drills afterwards. He’s got a nice balance, a good first touch, but his long passes need work.

“Good job,” San says when they’re done, patting his back. First day, first training, he’s not giving unsolicited advice.

Even if he was, he’d have none for Wooyoung—who’s paired with Seonghwa and hitting the ball cleanly each time, long or short pass, a great first touch that exemplifies what makes him such a scoring threat on the field.

With each passing minute and each drill completed, San has to acknowledge the obvious again: Wooyoung’s transfer is good for the team, he will be an asset, and he is not going anywhere. Despite getting off on the wrong foot, San will have to work with him.

Maybe the first step is an apology.

He’s thought of it while dungeon crawling—Wooyoung’s arrival in the locker room and San’s reaction. Wooyoung had pushed his buttons but San wasn’t exactly on his best behaviour, either. Sorry about earlier, it’s three words and San practices them in his mind while they finish shooting drills, working up the nerve to actually speak them out loud.

Approaching Wooyoung and Yeosang, seemingly inseparable, the words die long before they reach his mouth.

“—the way everyone talks about him—but he’s not all that,” Wooyoung is saying, quieter than San’s heard him all day. “He acts pretty stuck up, actually.”

Yeosang laughs, shaking his head. “He’s the opposite of stuck up.”

“I don’t know.” Wooyoung shrugs. “Maybe last season got to his head. I hoped he would be—”

San doesn’t stick around to hear the rest. It’s easy to guess who they’re talking about, and the words scratch at the tender spot inside his stomach, the knot of nerves he’s been trying to ignore.

Sure, he’s more than aware of the mistakes he made last season, he can see that Wooyoung’s got something he doesn’t—finesse and ease—whereas San’s learned to depend on his speed and power. There’s more that goes into being a great player. San knows he is a great player, has heard it from his coaches and his teammates, his agent and his fans. When San admitted his UCL dreams to his father, the man didn’t laugh.

All those people matter more than Jung Wooyoung, yet his words leave San with that painful pressure in his belly, a kick to where it hurts the most.

He’s relieved when they start wrapping up, only the 1500m time trial left. Eden says they’ll do it in two groups and San lines up for the first. Wooyoung does, too.

“What’s the record again, Coach?” someone asks, eliciting group eye-rolls.

“Four minutes and forty seconds.”

“Think you can beat your own time, San-ah?” Yunho teases, lining up next to him.

He dismisses Yunho with a nudge. Wooyoung’s mouth thins, a focused line as he bends into position. It’s a fitness test, a measurement for their individual training schedules. Not a race, but San’s heart picks up speed, kicking against his ribcage like it does at the start of a game.

“Three, two, one—go!”

Steady breath, even pace, looking ahead. That’s how San wanted to go about the whole trial, but by the 200m mark, he knows Wooyoung is running to win this. He’s close behind San, drawing near, and then they’re side by side. After 400m. After 500m.

San maintains a good speed, his limbs and muscles relaxing into the motions, his mind almost shifting into the familiar zone of empty focus. Back-and-forth along the 100m track, they must be three-quarters of the way there when Wooyoung catches his eye. Smirks. Gets ahead.

He’s fast as a bullet and so damn smooth with it, San tries to pay him no attention and fails on all counts. The defeat creeps up on him as Wooyoung advances further, a whole stride ahead, the distance widening.

It’s not meant to be a race, but when Wooyoung’s time gets called, San knows he’s lost.

Four minutes and thirty-six seconds. The new team record. One by one, the other players hurtle towards the finish line and hurry to congratulate Wooyoung, whooping and clapping like he’s won the Olympic gold. San bites his bottom lip and struggles to catch his breath.

“Well done, boys!” Coach Eden nods, waving over the second half of the team. “Let’s get moving so we can call it a day!”

San moves, he thinks.

He finds himself close to the stands, unaware of how he got there, the sound of sprinting footsteps and encouraging calls reaching him as if through a looking glass. Someone else joins him and San prepares the mask he wears after each game lost, the cordial smile of a graceful loser. It’s Wooyoung.

“I thought you’d be harder to beat, San-ssi,” he says, casual, not even looking at San.

San gives up on the mask, hurt pride getting the best of him. “Maybe I let you win.”

Wooyoung looks, then. Appraising, eyebrows raised, tongue poking out to wet his lips. “Is that so?” he asks, and all his nonchalance disappears with a curt nod. “Don’t do it again.”

I won’t, San thinks, watching his back as Wooyoung walks away.

Chapter Text

reckless force:

(in football) a type of foul, when a player has acted with complete disregard to the danger to, or consequences for, his opponent..

⚽︎

Two weeks into his very first pre-season training camp, San broke down crying.

It was after a small-sided game, four players against four players and zero stakes. San got called off the field after five minutes, the then-coach taking mercy on his provisional team and telling San—no sugarcoating—that unless he started pulling his weight, he’d spend the actual season on the bench.

San was sixteen at the time, just out of his schoolboy contract, and he hadn’t felt the same overwhelming embarrassment since his early academy days. He was homesick. A lot of the boys were older than him, and all were better than him. He cried in the locker room thinking the football dream was just that—a dream, now popped, and San would have to face his parents after the camp was over and announce that he’d be rebuilding his future from zero.

The next day, he got up at 4am and went to the field.

For the entirety of the remaining two weeks—and the following season—San only had one goal. He lived and breathed football, practised to exhaustion, tapped into the very bottom of his stubbornness. A few months later, nobody would have dreamed of leaving him on the bench.

It’s when he became who he is today, San often thinks, but he doesn’t like thinking of the time. That training camp, that season, were some of the most difficult months of his life—the closest he’s come to hating football.

But, a couple of days into their Koh Samui pre-season, he catches himself wondering if the worst is yet to come.

⌢

From the 1500m time trial onwards, everything becomes a competition.

When Wooyoung outruns him during hill sprints, San goes for another rep, and then another, until Coach Eden’s calling for them to take a break. When San loads up the bar for his bench press, Wooyoung mimics, calling Yeosang over to spot him and refusing to give it up until his arms are shaking and Yeosang’s confiscating the barbell. Some of it is more subtle—like San standing up from his plank and seeing Wooyoung scrunching up his entire face to hold it longer, for no good reason—and some of it is overblown—like the two of them fighting over a lunchbox again.

“I was here first,” Wooyoung says, refusing to relinquish his grasp on a spicy beef and rice bowl.

“I grabbed it first,” San says, fingers bending the plastic. “Looking doesn’t count.”

“I called dibs!”

“Didn’t hear, sorry. You need to be louder next time.” San tugs, chest puffing up. “If that’s even possible.”

“Cute.” Wooyoung, to his displeasure, only guffaws. He manages to tug the lunchbox out of San’s grasp. “You’re so scared of vegetables. Willing to throw a punch over some—“

“Here you go.”

Yunho, closest to them and observing the spectacle, pushes his own beef and rice towards San. He looks between the two of them with an unreadable expression, shaking his head, eyes lingering on San for just a moment longer. Before San can address the judgement, Yunho turns to grab a chicken wrap and leaves them standing in awkward silence.

It’s him who reacts first the next day, when Coach Eden calls for trust falls as part of their evening team-building and decides to pair San with Wooyoung for the first round.

“Coach, I don’t think that’s—”

“You’re with Mingi, Yunho-ya! Get to it!”

Wooyoung looks about as thrilled as San feels, frowning at the grass as he fans himself with his shirt. He doesn’t say anything, though, so San grits his teeth and moves towards him.

It’s a Wednesday tradition, ending the evening training with a team bonding activity. They’ve done puzzles in the locker room last year. A rope course in the final week. Unlike Friday Fundays—social events organised by the team itself—these are compulsory, and San has never minded. He’s got great memories of everyone looking for a lost puzzle piece only to find out Hongjoong has been sitting on it, and better still of teaming up with Jongho to win the rope course tournament.

He finds the idea of trust falls ridiculous.

They’re not fun, they’re not necessary, and Wooyoung watches him approach like San is an overgrown cockroach flying in his direction. Eden doesn’t have to give the go-ahead for others around them to start the exercise—Jongho and Yeosang are already on their second round, Minjae is encouraging Hongjoong to catch him with his eyes closed. San just stands in place, waiting.

“You want to go first?” Wooyoung asks.

“Not really.”

“Worried about my spaghetti arms?” He spreads them, rolling his eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, San-ssi. You’re nothing I can’t handle.”

Weightlifting competitions aside, San hasn’t thought of Wooyoung’s arms as weak. Weaker, yes, because San is second only to Yeosang in the amount of time he spends at the gym. Slender, also, but San knows there’s undeniable strength under the surface, lean muscles that he can see even now, as Wooyoung squares his arms and—

“Fine,” he sighs, turning his back towards San. “Let’s just—get it over with.”

He drops the defensive stance. The nine on his jersey stares San right in the face, a loud reminder of everything that’s brought them to this spot. The fabric is still sweaty from their earlier match simulation, clinging to his frame. Wooyoung clicks his tongue.

“Yah, are you listening?”

“What?”

“I asked you to count it down.” Wooyoung looks behind his shoulder, scanning him from head to toe. “What’s wrong with you? Are you that scared of—“

“Three.”

San spreads his arms and waits for Wooyoung to catch on. He focuses on the task, on doing the barest minimum so that he can go and fall into Seonghwa’s arms without a second thought, so that he can go take a shower and climb into bed. Two, his arms bend. One, his elbows hook under Wooyoung as San absorbs the fall.

It’s easy and not worth all the moaning—until Wooyoung looks at him, upside down, and smirks.

“Oh, golden boy,” he says, and San feels his arms stiffen. “You do have a bad angle after all.”

San drops him.

It’s not his proudest moment, but the decision is made split-second and then San’s watching Wooyoung scramble to his feet, glaring at him.

“What the fuck?” Wooyoung asks, far too close.

San takes a step back. “Don’t call me that.”

Wooyoung blinks. Hands on hips, San can see a few blades of grass stuck to his shorts, a muddy patch at the back of his knee. It’s when the regret kicks in but he tries to push against it.

“You dropped me because of a nickname? Are you for real, San? You—“

Wooyoung cuts himself off and follows San’s lead, widening the space between them. San doesn’t reply. There are way too many pairs of eyes watching the altercation, Coach Eden included, and San knows he’s screwed up. He can already imagine the scolding, the bewilderment, all the questions.

Questions he doesn’t want to answer, and so, before anyone has a chance to confront him, he walks off field and into the locker room.

⌢

It’s Hongjoong who confronts him first, although all he does is wait for San to step out of the shower and tell him to meet after dinner, for their video analysis session—the one San’s asked for and proceeded to forget about. Disapproval radiates from Hongjoong’s every pore, like a parent forced to pick his child up after a kindergarten fist fight. San knows Eden must’ve asked him to talk to San, and he knows that Hongjoong is saving the real salvo for later.

Dinner is awkward. Quick.

San sits next to Seonghwa in the hotel cafeteria, wolfing down his salmon as if it could swim away at any moment. He’s aware of Wooyoung, two tables over, laughing with Yeosang and Hyunwoo and acting like nothing has happened. It fades San’s regrets—somewhat.

“San-ah, talk to me,” Seonghwa says with a frustrated sigh, after several of his questions go unanswered.

“Sorry, hyung.”

“Did something happen? Did Wooyoung say something to—”

“It was an accident,” San lies, stabbing the salmon with his fork.

It’s hard to explain the swell of frustration in his chest, the way hearing Wooyoung say golden boy in that saccharine tone of voice made San’s skin crawl. How Wooyoung hasn’t done anything but he has caused everything—San’s uncertainties, a deep-seated dread he feels every time he thinks of the upcoming season, an odd fear that goes beyond sporting nerves.

He tries to come up with something of a better answer, meeting Hongjoong after dinner, but when he knocks on the door of his room, the only thing San has is an apology.

Hongjoong doesn’t ask for it.

“So, did you have something specific in mind?” he asks, loading up his laptop.

Captain privileges mean he doesn’t have to share a room, but they steer clear of the double-bed, one sitting on the uncomfortable vanity stool and the other in the armchair. San knows Hongjoong prefers to do this in one of the stadium offices when they’re in Ulsan, but he’s seen him hunched over game footage on the bus, in the locker room, even walking. San likes the dedicated analytics room—something about the big screen makes it feel more like a cinema, allows for more distance and objectivity when he watches himself play.

Hongjoong’s laptop will do, though.

“Maybe—” San starts, meeting Hongjoong’s encouraging gaze “—our last game against Pohang? In August?”

It was a challenging one, the heatwave making things almost as difficult as Pohang’s central defender. They were losing three-nil after the first half, but something changed when they returned to the field. The last 45 minutes were pure magic: the whole team working like a well-oiled machine. Perfect passes, ideal positions, San scoring two goals in five minutes. The buzz of their win felt more potent than any drink San’s ever had.

Hongjoong brings up the footage quickly, smiling like he’s also recalling the memory. “Good choice.”

Despite the triumphant win, it’s the first fifteen minutes San wants to replay. The lost chances and the landslide of bad decisions, how Pohang’s first goal made everyone fall into a passive stupor.

“There, did you see?” Hongjoong pauses the video, looking at San.

He nods. Several times in a row, their team let Pohang dominate the midfield, losing possession before they could press forward. Because their own midfielders were too spread out, Pohang easily took advantage of the weak defensive line, pushing forward instead. Though Yunho managed to catch the shot in this specific instance, San knows the next time they repeat this mistake, it will lead to Pohang’s second goal.

“What would you change before the next half?” Hongjoong asks.

“Hyung.” San smiles, shaking his head. “I’ve rewatched the second half so many times, I remember what we—”

“Good,” Hongjoong interrupts. “I know you have. So tell me. What was the fix?”

They shifted the formation, sending Maddox into the midfield. The defenders stepped up, and Hongjoong moved further afield to dictate the tempo. Jihoon pushed higher to support San’s strikes.

“Exactly.”

Hongjoong finds a moment in the latter half of the footage that perfectly demonstrates San’s words. Instead of watching the screen, he watches San—a small smile on his lips that almost resembles pride. It has no reason to be there.

“But see, hyung, that’s what I don’t understand.” San pauses the video. He holds onto the edge of the table, drumming his fingers on it. “It should’ve been you.”

For his two seasons at PSG, Hongjoong was the number ten. He’s the natural choice, Jihoon’s perfect replacement. There’s no player that knows their team better, nobody who—

“Not at all,” Hongjoong says. “I wasn’t great at it.”

“You—”

“I’m not good at initiating. Not that great at finishing. I do much better with defense,” he speaks over San, closing the window with the game and clapping his laptop shut. “And playing midfield with Seonghwa—we, uh. We got it covered. You and Wooyoung will have to take care of the attack.”

Here it comes, San thinks.

The lecture and the reprimands, his chance to give Hongjoong an explanation. He still doesn’t really have one. ‘Wooyoung teased me so I let him fall’ will get him an incredulous laugh at most. ‘Wooyoung wants to prove he’s better than me so I dropped him’ will get him into more trouble than he’s already in. San knows it’s stupid, the whole thing. But it’s not something he can control.

The feeling is there each time Wooyoung outruns him. When he tries to lift heavy just to spite San. When he dribbles like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he was born balancing a ball at his feet, like all the years San has spent improving his speed and power were useless—because where San can force his way through, Wooyoung glides like it’s second nature.

“Look, San-ah, I don’t know what set you two off. But if you have issues, you need to figure them out or leave them off the field,” Hongjoong says, breaking through San’s thoughts. “I need you to be mature about this. You, of all people, know how much this season matters.”

San nods, fingertips pressing against the table until his nails turn white.

“Promise me this won’t be a problem.”

He nods again. His back straightens as he pushes the stool backwards. “I promise, hyung,” he says, and thanks Hongjoong for making time for him before he leaves. The same time next week, they agree, and San closes the door hoping there won’t be another lecture waiting for him that Wednesday.

Hoping, but not counting on it.

⌢

Wooyoung ignores him the next morning during fartlek.

Through the sprinting bursts, through the easy jogs, he looks at San once during the entire session—and sits on the opposite side of the room at lunch. No arguing over food, Wooyoung picks at his chicken salad in between all the wild gesticulation that goes into him telling Jongho a story. He fishes out all the cucumber chunks like they’re poison.

San knows it can’t last—they can’t actually ignore each other if they want to do the best for their team—but, for now, it’s a good thing. Better than another incident. Maybe ignoring each other off the field is the perfect compromise, the best way to keep their focus on the game and the common goal.

Ignoring his problems doesn’t usually work for San, though.

When he arrives at the hotel swimming pool in the afternoon and finds Wooyoung already there, he tells himself it’s a sign. That, by itself, isn’t worth much. He waves Seonghwa and Yunho ahead, hovers by the loungers, and wonders if he should’ve gone cycling to the beach with some of the other teammates. The promise he’s made to Hongjoong fresh on his mind, San tries to compose his opening.

Wooyoung spots him and his eyes linger just long enough that San knows all the ignoring has been intentional. He pushes wet hair out of his face and turns to swim another lap. Sorry—San settles on, at long last—for dropping you.

Four words, he hypes himself up as he climbs into the pool, Seonghwa already calling for him and splashing San’s feet. The water isn’t cold and San submerges himself up to his chin, only intending to splash Seonghwa once in retaliation. Two minutes later, it’s a full blown fight. Seonghwa has him by the hair, San is tickling his sides, there’s pool water everywhere and chlorine up San’s nostrils.

“Stop! San-ah! I give up—”

Mingi wins. Bounding in from the showers, he jack-knifes it into the pool and drenches them both on impact. In all the laughter, San goes back to square one.

Sorry, he thinks, Wooyoung looking at them from the other side of the pool. For dropping you. He can be the bigger man. He can ignore Wooyoung’s provocations. Freestyle is his fastest stroke, and San sets off towards Wooyoung like that, wanting to get it over and done with. By the time he reaches the end of the lane, Wooyoung is already swimming in the opposite direction.

Fine, San gets water up his nose as he inhales. He squares his jaw. He swims after Wooyoung.

But the same thing repeats—just as San gets to the end of his lap, Wooyoung has already pushed off, swimming away. His form is good; San finds himself watching his back again—like during the timed trial, during their hill sprints, during all the running practice they’ve been doing on and off the field. With the few seconds of an advantage that Wooyoung has, San’s got no other choice but to follow—to try and be faster.

Another near miss, another frustrated noseful of pool water. San hesitates for a second longer than before, thinking this is stupid—thinking Wooyoung doesn’t want him following, and San needs to give him distance. But in that pause, he sees Wooyoung glance back. An eyebrow arched, expectant. The next time they pass each other, San swears he can hear him laughing.

It makes him swim even faster, the adrenaline of a proper race making his strokes bigger and more powerful. It’s the irritation of it all—Wooyoung knows what he’s doing, he knew San wanted to talk and he’s making him work for it. Regardless, San loses himself in the rhythm and the give and take. It’s easier than his four words.

The next time he emerges at the finish wall, there’s no Wooyoung when he turns. Not ahead of him, not underwater, not in the next lane over.

“Sorry, dimples.”

San looks behind his shoulder and feels his smile fade; there Wooyoung is, sitting at the edge of the pool, legs dangling. With only a small head start, he’s still dripping and has hair plastered to his face and neck. San processes the nickname with a delay.

“What—”

“You lose,” Wooyoung says.

San doesn’t get to word number one; Wooyoung leaves like that, water sliding over the tattoo on his nape, grabbing a towel and splatting towards the showers. Just then, San realises his chest is heaving, heart still racing from however-many pool lengths they’ve done without him counting.

“You okay?” Yunho asks, finishing his own lap.

There are more of San’s teammates now than he realised—almost all the lanes are occupied, Mingi is doing his signature butterfly, and Seonghwa’s eyes echo Yunho’s question. San nods, getting his breath under control.

“Wanna race?” he asks Yunho.

Yunho looks from him to the showers and back. “Sure,” he says, shrugging, “if you take it down a notch.”

Five pool lengths later, San wins; he struggles to feel much excitement about it.

⌢

Over the next few days, San becomes all too familiar with Jung Wooyoung’s laughter. He swears he hears it in his sleep, a recurrent nightmare. He learns to study it, categorise it, and rank it from annoying to the most annoying.

Third from the top is the snicker. It’s when the sound falls out of Wooyoung, lips turning down, often accompanied by a dismissive eye-roll.

Like when they’re finished with their morning session on Tuesday, everyone piling into the locker room just to find that Maddox has arrived. His team has won the K-Cup, so he’s the centre of attention, but San’s eyes gravitate towards Wooyoung

Ever since the swimming pool, he’s been facing the same dilemma: Wooyoung is not the strongest, the leanest, nor the shortest player on the team. He’s the fastest of them, though, and San’s trying to work out what the key might be. As far as he knows, low body fat goes a long way for sprinting—but Wooyoung’s not ripped, slender but with a hint of a tummy. It might be that he’s got a stronger lower body than San. He tells himself to pay more attention during their next plyo session, to see what quad exercises Wooyoung is—

“The team’s got a bit of a new formation this season, right, hyung?”

San looks up. It’s Jongho talking to him, and Seonghwa filming again. Pretending to be introducing the team to Maddox like he’s a stranger—San guesses from their positioning—but Jongho is the one holding a boot to San’s face like it’s a microphone.

“Eh?”

“Can you explain, hyung?” He shifts on his heel and holds the boot out to Wooyoung, who barely opens his mouth before Jongho turns to face Seonghwa’s camera. “Our Double Nines,” he says, mock-shielding the boot. “Not a dull moment with the two.”

Maddox laughs. Seonghwa gives an odd pained smile. And from Wooyoung—there comes the snicker. He makes it extra loud for the camera, makes the eye-roll match its volume.

“It’s a temporary thing,” San says, trying to speak over the lingering hum in his ears.

“Numbering policy doesn’t allow sharing,” Wooyoung says, deadpan. “Lucky, right, San-ssi?”

Instead of responding, San turns around to tug his jersey off and change. Too late, he realises he’s probably given the camera a golden shot of the nine on his back—one Wooyoung will easily match to tease him. He’s turned quiet for now, though, which San counts as a win. He’ll take them where he can.

⌢

Wooyoung’s second most annoying type of laugh, in San’s opinion, is the gloating cackle.

Rumbling, ear-piercing, usually aimed at San’s misfortune. Wooyoung’s got it so perfected, it always hits the bullseye in the pit of San’s stomach—arrows of Wooyoung’s schadenfreude heaping up with San’s apprehension.

It’s the laugh he hears on Wednesday when they’re done with simulation plays.

They’ve been put on the same mini-team, winning courtesy of Wooyoung’s two goals. No fights and no insults, but also very little collaboration while the two of them are supposed to work in synchrony. Wooyoung keeps overcommitting with his attacks, San finds himself falling into solo plays instead of passing to the other man.

There’s a tactical session after lunch and San’s done with his stretches, but he lingers on the grass with his legs spread.

Wooyoung is practising penalties with Hyunwoo and Yunho.

11 metres from the net, San knows Wooyoung’s game ritual front and back: every time the referee positions the ball on the chalk, Wooyoung leans down to touch it like he’s placing it himself; he takes three steps back and a breath; he runs, holding eye contact with the goalie until the last moment, then swerves his eyes to the ball and shoots.

Usually, he doesn’t miss.

At least he doesn’t in all the TikToks San has watched, which makes sense. Fans don’t make compilations out of the losing moments. They’d appreciate seeing the goal he scores now, hurtling towards Yunho and sending the ball in the upper-left corner of the net. Easy, smooth. It’s a typical placed shot from Wooyoung, control over power. It’s one of the things San’s been trying to improve in his own technique.

He averts his gaze when Hyunwoo claps and Wooyoung does a celebratory little lap.

Five attempts and three goals later, however, San is still watching, bent over in a lazy quad stretch. He’s ignoring the hungry grumble in his stomach, Wooyoung is high-fiving Hyunwoo after his first score, and he’s turning around when it happens—a ball hits San.

It skims over the top of his head, not a full-on knockout. Still gives him a sting.

“Oh my god! Sorry, hyung!”

Sumin dashes towards him, hands outstretched like he can still stop the ball. A few others follow, all looking at San with concern. He brushes them off, reassures them he’s fine—they must’ve shouted to warn him, and San must’ve not heard.

What he hears though, loud and clear, is Wooyoung’s cackle.

Harsh and high-pitched and aimed at San, he’s leaning on the goalpost with his mirth. Hyunwoo mimics it almost as well as he’s been doing with Wooyoung’s shots. Yunho’s mouth is twitching, too, barely holding back.

San rubs at the back of his head and stands up, shaking off the last of Sumin’s apologies.

“You’re okay, Sumin-ah. Let’s go get lunch,” he says, determined to grab whatever cucumber-less option is still leftover.

Even if it’s full of carrots, San will make the sacrifice.

⌢

Number one on the list of Jung Wooyoung’s most annoying laughs is harder to describe and not as uniform.

Usually, it’s just as sharp as the cackle but gives the impression that Wooyoung’s pulling it up through his body, from the very soles of his feet. When it starts, it goes on and on, and makes Wooyoung bend or hunch. It takes over his whole face.

If the previous type bothers San’s guts, this one ruffles something higher up in his chest.

It’s Wooyoung’s laughter when he and Yunho run into each other in the doorway and then proceed to do the matching side-step of blocking the other’s path. It’s the laughter that rings out when Wooyoung sees one of the hotel maids dancing in the corridor and joins, the laughter that comes very easy to him each time he chats to the team staff. He laughs like that with Seonghwa, when Wooyoung gets him to braid his hair during a training break, and—most often—he laughs like that with Yeosang, over anything and everything.

In his darker moments, when San hears the laugh and sees the two of them together, he can’t help but think the laughter is at his expense. Each time, however, he thinks himself out of it.

Jung Wooyoung’s most annoying laugh never has anything to do with San.

“Woooyung and Yeosang, you’ll work together,” Coach Eden says a few minutes into their Wednesday tactical, pointing at the pair.

“Did you rig this?” Yeosang deadpans when Wooyoung squeezes his shoulder, but there’s an obvious smile in his voice.

Wooyoung doesn’t admit or deny, he just laughs. That laugh. San is still busy pretending not to hear it when Eden swings his pointer finger at him. “And San, actually. You can join them.”

Can or must? a part of San wants to retort; it’s never been in his nature to talk back, and he swallows the response, standing up to push his chair across the room. Yeosang looks cheerful enough about his presence, so San chooses to focus on that—not on the way Wooyoung’s laughter has died out like a snuffed match.

They’re doing an interactive session that day, Coach Eden assigning a hypothetical match situation and having the teams work out the best strategy. Coming off his one Hongjoong tutoring session, San wishes he could feel more confident. He can’t help but wonder if the coaches will regret their decision—wanting him to play as number ten—when they see him fumble with the tactics. He zones out wondering about it until Wooyoung kicks him in the shin.

“Hey, dimples, are you listening?”

“Hm?”

“I think we should drop back,” Wooyoung says, pretending to draw his plan on the table with his marker capped. “We’re leading, so we should just clear the ball long whenever we can, and survive the last fifteen minutes. They’re already on edge.”

Yeosang hums, listening. San shakes his head.

“If we go all defense, we’re just inviting more pressure,” he says, tapping his fingers where Wooyoung’s drawn the defensive line. “Each time we clear it long, they get possession, and there’s only so many times we can keep them out.”

“Coach said it’s been an aggressive game. There’s no point pushing to exhaustion.”

“But if we stretch their defense, we could end the game with a second goal.”

They go back and forth for a while, San stealing the marker when Wooyoung leaves it unattended, drawing his own imaginary field. Wooyoung remains vehement about his solution, but San can see it—the way he’s making up arguments on the fly, pushing back just for the sake of pushing. He snorts San’s plan away and turns to Yeosang, squaring his shoulders.

“Let’s vote on it,” he says.

Yeosang, who’s been watching the exchange in silence, looks from one to the other and then at the table, where neither air-drawn formation remains. “I think Sannie has a point,” he says. “They’re desperate to score. Counter-attacks keep the ball away from our post.”

“Thank you,” San says, hugging Yeosang to his side. “At least someone’s using their head.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrow, his lips purse, but he simply tugs Yeosang in the opposite direction, linking their arms. “You would vote against me?”

He lays it on thick, all big pout and sparkling eyes; San wants to snort but he just grips the marker tighter.

“Wooyoung-ah—”

“Friends since seven. I let you sleep over and lied to your parents about it. Remember our promise?”

“What’s that got to do with this?” Yeosang asks, a little perplexed.

“Everything!”

Wooyoung must still be going with the guilt-tripping act, even if San refuses to perceive it—the bit of tape stuck on the bottom of the table is too fascinating. Yeosang lets out something of a discontented purr and then he relents, sighing.

“Alright, let’s go with Wooyoung’s idea,” he says, patting San’s wrist. “Sorry, San-ah.”

One by one, the groups present their solutions to Coach Eden, who listens without giving away his thoughts. A few others echo Wooyoung’s plan, doubling down on the defense. Hongjoong, working with Seonghwa and Maddox, says almost the same thing San himself had. Trying not to feel put out about the inevitable loss—if it can be called that—San’s eyes lock on Seonghwa and the way his posture mirrors San’s, frowning with his arms crossed.

“That’s the one!” Coach Eden says when Hongjoong stops delineating the ideal team formation. “They need to score. They’ve been dominating possession. The last thing we want is to invite them into our defense line.”

The teams break out into cheers or grumbles, some of them arguing back to defend their ideas. Not San.

“See?” he asks Wooyoung, raising an eyebrow.

“Oops.” There’s not a trace of disappointment or guilt on Wooyoung’s face, and an overflow of smugness. “Sorry, golden boy.”

“Don’t—”

San cuts himself off and catches Hongjoong’s eye. Seonghwa is looking back, too. He avoids Coach Eden, not wanting to see if there’s any regret on his face, doubts about his decision settling in. It’s just one scenario, a low-key team session, no grading or other assessment involved. Still, when Yeosang mumbles something about getting caught in the Double Nines guilt-tripping crossfire, San shoots up from his chair and leaves for the bathroom.

⌢

Hongjoong doesn’t mention the session when they meet for San’s cramming.

Maybe it’s because, for the other two scenarios presented, Wooyoung had pulled back from arguing. He barely contributed at all, only speaking to Yeosang and letting the other two make decisions. They got the answers right. It didn’t put San at ease.

“I think that’s enough for the day,” Hongjoong says, closing their chosen match video.

An early game from last season, Ulsan won it by a lucky goal scored two minutes from the end. They’ve gone over the wingers’ mistakes and the unsuccessful attempts to break through the other team’s defense. Not much of what they’ve discussed was related to San’s own performance.

San caps his pen and closes his notebook. Pages filled with observations of other playmakers’ techniques—KDB, Zidane, Xavi—and Hongjoong’s remarks, San wishes he could put them under his pillow and wake up with the knowledge absorbed, brain to foot. He’s got a way to go.

“Anything you have in mind for next week?” Hongjoong asks.

San nods. It's the fourth to last match, in November, the beginning of the end of San’s lucky streak. He blew two penalties and missed several balls that were served to him on a silver platter. The next game was even worse, and he became downright passive in the penultimate match, but that one—the one against Jeonbuk—was the turning point.

“Can we do the Jeonbuk away game?”

“Sure.”

Hongjoong nods and starts stretching, hair a mess from the way he tends to grip it while absorbed by the video footage. Regardless of whether they’re winning or losing, regardless of how well he knows the outcome—he treats the videos like they’re a live game, like he’s excited to see each move play out.

San used to be like that.

“San-ah. About what I asked last week,” Hongjoong says, just as San’s about to say goodbye. “You and Wooyoungie—”

“It’s all good, hyung,” San says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Hongjoong doesn’t look convinced, but he lets San go.

The room is empty when San gets there, Seonghwa probably hanging out somewhere else; it’s the way it’s been for the majority of the camp so far.

San misses talking to him. He only has himself to blame, though, going to sleep early every night, needing to wake up early for his pre-practice practice. San can tell Seonghwa’s not entirely happy about the arrangement, but it’s fine. He’s sacrificing nighttime chats for the sake of the team, to improve his performance and make sure they can depend on him.

If it means Seonghwa doesn’t have a chance to ask him about Wooyoung—that’s only a bonus.

⌢

“Go, go, go! Come on, Sang-ah!”

Yeosang receives San’s pass easily, dodging Mingi and bounding towards the box. He kicks. Misses. In the time Ollounder repositions the ball, San claps him on the shoulder and Wooyoung yells encouragement like he isn’t playing opposition.

Four players versus four players, they only have about two minutes left before Eden swaps them out with the other teams. San makes another good pass to Yeosang when the whistle blows, but Wooyoung intercepts. He scores his next opportunity, bringing his team up to 4:3.

San tries to keep his cool.

The tempo is fast, not letting him observe much, needing San to stay involved in the action at all times. Still, there are two glaring facts about Wooyoung that he can’t stop thinking about. One, that he keeps rushing his shots and neglecting passes. Two, that he’s not wearing his jersey.

Instead of the number nine, there’s some generic writing on his T-shirt, the cotton of it soaked and unsuitable for the midday heat. It sticks to his back, the shadow of his tattoo visible. The more San keeps noticing it, the more his own shirt burns a numeric outline on his back, a constant reminder.

The game restarts and they break through Mingi and Seonghwa again, San delivering a powerful ball in the right corner of the net. 4:4. Little over a minute left.

“Wooyoung, here!” Hyunwoo calls, perfectly positioned for an inside shot.

Wooyoung ignores him. Jongho steals possession and brings the game back to San and Yeosang’s offensive, but the excitement is short-lived. When Seonghwa tries to get the ball back to Wooyoung, San knows what’s coming. He leaves Hyunwoo unchecked, only focusing on Wooyoung, knowing he’s going to make a run for it, knowing his runs can be lethal.

One moment he’s blocking the pass, stabilising the ball, and the next he’s slamming right into Wooyoung, tripping over his own feet.

“Fuck!”

San is slow to move, shook from the impact of the fall and the shift in his surroundings. Wooyoung, underneath him, doesn’t move either. He’s got his face screwed up in a frown, eyes shut, and San’s stuck staring at the dot under the left one.

The whistle sounds.

4:4.

Eden is calling them off the field but San’s still frozen. Even through the stink of sweat and grass, there’s that perfume Wooyoung uses—too much of it, too overwhelming.

“Fuck, San,” Wooyoung repeats, opening his eyes. His voice comes out quiet but rough, far from the usual teasing. No nickname either. “Get off me!”

San scrambles up at once, pushing himself up on his palms and shifting off Wooyoung’s chest like he’s been electrocuted. “Sorry,” he mumbles, the events leading up to the fall catching up with him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Whatever.”

Wooyoung stands up first and goes to join the players at the touchlines. San’s breath hitches when he sees the hobble in his step, the subtle way Wooyoung puts most of his weight on the right foot. The regret makes San’s limbs feel leaden, and it takes another whistle to make him stand up and clear the field for the next play.

He doesn’t take in much of it. Keeping a distance from the other players, he’s aware of the even wider distance Wooyoung is keeping, crouched in the shade and seemingly focused on the game. Before San can talk himself out of it, he sprints to cover him with his own shadow.

“I’m sorry, Wooyoung,” he says. Three words, this time they come easy.

Wooyoung turns to scan his face and whatever he sees doesn’t seem to impress him—two blinks and he refocuses on the 4v4, hands still closed over his foot. His eyes look a little misty, which makes the guilt already churning in San’s gut rise to a tidal wave.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Wooyoung mutters. “Don’t worry, you brute. You’re not that big.”

“You were crying.”

He snorts at that. “Please, San. Like I’d cry in front of you.”

The words feel like he’s slammed into San himself, sending him tumbling to the ground, no sense of left or right. He tries to center himself. Keeps his hands at his side even if—were it anyone else under his shadow—San would already be reaching out to see their injury or stroke their back for comfort.

“Is it your ankle again?”

Wooyoung’s eyes flick to him and away. He doesn’t say anything.

A different kind of dread joins San’s residual guilt: Wooyoung’s ankle sprain in the middle of last season took five weeks to heal and the initial prognosis had been even more pessimistic. The idea of taking Wooyoung out like that, himself, during a stupid practice session—San hates it.

“You should talk to Buddy-ssi,” San says, hands fisted in his shorts. “Get it iced as quickly as possible. Before it starts to—”

“It’s cute that you feel so guilty,” Wooyoung interrupts. He shifts back, butt hitting the grass, twisting his left leg in San’s direction. “It’s not the ankle, don’t worry.”

There’s a blooming bruise on his shin. San’s relief, though palpable, feels dull when Wooyoung moves to hide it again. He spots Yeosang heading in their direction, Wooyoung smiling at him, and lets the sun fall over Wooyoung’s head again.

If someone later asked him what happened during the rest of the training, San wouldn’t be able to tell.

⌢

“Hey, San-ah.”

Wooyoung isn’t in the cafeteria that evening, which San tries not to catastrophize about. A bruised shin wouldn’t have him skipping meals. Not all the players eat at the same time. Wooyoung’s laugh, however, usually keeps San company at all mealtimes except breakfast. And Yeosang usually keeps Wooyoung company.

“Hey.” San smiles at him and his random assortment of lean meats and rice. “No chicken?”

“I’m craving chicken wings,” Yeosang says. “So if I eat any other kind of chicken right now, it’s just going to make me sad.”

San—and Mingi, sitting on his right—laugh. Yeosang sits down.

San’s apprehension takes a while to fade, but it does as Mingi talks about some new rapper he’s discovered and Yeosang pretends to know the guy, only to get caught in the lie when Mingi asks him about his favourite songs. It’s been a while since San just… hung out with them. Mingi is always busy with one thing or another, San’s got his whole conundrum, and the only times he’s caught Yeosang Wooyoung-less since the start of camp were at the gym. Not ideal chatting conditions, and San hasn’t been ideal company.

He still isn’t, contributing sparingly as he tries not to think of Wooyoung. Two weeks, and it feels like there’s something missing when he’s not squished against Yeosang’s side. San briefly thinks of standing up and taking over the duty; he can’t bring himself to, remembering the bruise he’s left on Wooyoung’s shin.

“See you in the morning,” San says, when Mingi starts stacking up the dirty plates on his tray.

“No you won’t.”

“Huh?”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow.” Mingi shakes his head. “I’m not getting up until Yunho makes me. And trust that he’ll be playing Valorant until like, three in the afternoon.”

“See you at dinner?” San corrects, earning himself a parting fistbump.

Once Mingi leaves, Yeosang turns to him. “You got any plans?”

San does: light drills in the morning, stretching, maybe some sauna time and a massage in the afternoon. Seonghwa wants to watch a movie in the evening. Maybe he’ll play Dungeon Crawler for the rest of the day—or just sleep, San knows he could use it.

“We’re going to an escape room tomorrow.” Yeosang has the politest unimpressed face San knows, but it’s still clear how he feels about San’s plans. “You should join, San-ah.”

“We?”

Yeosang grimaces, knowing exactly where this is going. “Me, Jongho, maybe Minjae. Wooyoungie.”

“I don’t know, I’m not very good at escape rooms,” San says, putting in the slightest amount of effort into making his hesitation believable. He knew he wouldn't be tagging along, from the moment the suggestion left Yeosang’s lips. “I would just hold you back. Like that time in Busan.”

“That was Hongjoong-hyung’s fault for picking the wrong key,” Yeosang says, then smiles. “You were too out of it to screw anything up.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“This one isn’t scary.”

Sure, the escape room might not have ghosts or sudden loud noises or doors that move on their own—or it might, because god knows the team still loves making fun of San for his freakout—but he can see it being even scarier. Being locked in a small space with Wooyoung. Competing the entire time and ruining the experience for everyone. Risking another incident.

“I think I’m good,” San says.

Before he can start feigning exhaustion and excusing himself, Yeosang holds down his wrist. Though a gentle touch, it keeps him seated. Yeosang’s eyes join the effort, boring into San’s soul, even more scrutinising than usual.

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

San squirms.

All the reasons that spring to his mind are impossible to say out loud—the moment he’d let them slip, they’d disappear like a puff of breath on a cold day, only leaving San’s insides freezing. He’s rude. He stole my spot. He dislikes me—San opens and shuts his mouth, turns it into a frustrated pout.

“I don’t.”

Yeosang’s eyes narrow. “You act different with him,” he says. “I’ve never seen you—like that.”

“Like what?”

“So stand-offish. So—” He starts playing with his cutlery while still holding San’s gaze. Arranging it on the side of the tray, filling the pause with the clinking of metal against plastic. “I don’t know, San-ah. I thought you two would get along. You’re actually very alike.”

“How?”

Yeosang only shrugs. “Wooyoung’s a good person. And you are, too. Even if you don’t want to be his friend, you should at least give him a chance.”

San spreads his knees and holds his sigh back in favour of playing with his knuckles. “Did you tell him the same thing?” he asks, though his voice sounds too soft to be truly defensive.

“Yes, but—” Yeosang picks up the knife again, and the image is almost comical in how non-threatening he looks and how uncomfortable San feels, regardless. He swaps it with the spoon. “He’s admired you a lot, you know? Before, he was so excited the transfer panned out. And I kept telling him you were this fun and cool and—”

“Hey, now.”

“—friendly guy,” Yeosang finishes.

“That’s a low blow, Sang-ah.”

“And you are that guy.” He softens it with a smile, leaving the cutlery be to signal that he’s said his piece. “So I’m sure whatever the issue is, you’ll move past it.”

The issue could refer to a lot of things but San doesn’t want to untangle the possibilities. He mimics Yeosang’s smile, weakly, and he’s glad that seems to be enough to give him a pass—the escape room doesn’t get brought up again, and San can sleep on the whole conversation. He’s still got one nagging question, though, and he copies Yeosang’s earlier move, holding onto his wrist.

“What was the promise?” he asks, eyes casting down. It’s a stupid question. “The one he mentioned?”

“Oh.” Yeosang laughs, short and sweet. “Back at the academy, we promised we’d play on the same team one day,” he says.

When San gets to his room and finds Seonghwa with the Nintendo again, he goes against the little voice telling him to just sleep. He doesn’t want to think about what’s better for him in the long run. He worms his way into Seonghwa’s bed, asking far too many Animal Crossing questions to earn his cuddles without needing to provide any answers of his own.

Chapter Text

feint:

(in football) when the ball carrier fakes movement in one direction and then moves in another to deceive an opponent.

⚽︎

Saturday goes exactly the way San has envisioned it, only he sacrifices Dungeon Crawler and takes a four-hour nap in the afternoon. He sees Mingi at dinner, looking as sleep-dazed as San feels, and movie night gets cancelled after Seonghwa’s decision to join the escape room crowd.

San takes a long shower in his absence, trying to take the edge off.

Between training and his high-strung state—and even before that, way too many family visits in Namhae and way too much sleep debt—it feels like ages since he’s touched himself. It has been actual ages since he last had sex, but he tries to recall it in flashes. Substitutes his hand for the memory of wet heat, imagines a soft mouth and even softer thighs. He tries to think of the pretty girl he dated for two weeks in September, before the season took a turn.

After five minutes of getting nowhere, the jerking off brings a similar sense of failure.

San gives up and turns the water off, rushing to pretend he didn’t even try. It’s the pressure, he tells himself, the stress and the question marks. Only two more weeks in Koh Samui, and then the real challenge begins.

Seonghwa is still not back by the time San goes to bed, and he tries not to feel any sort of way about it. The invitation was there, San didn’t take it, it was for the best. This time around, he needs to be prepared; if he manages to pull himself together and make Bora’s predictions come through, there won’t be hugs from Seonghwa or dance-offs with Jongho or Friday Fundays waiting for him in his new team. His price to pay for a dream, there will be new people to befriend and a lot of fun to be had.

Hopefully.

Once San gets there.

⌢

“You’re still here?” Seonghwa opens the door, smirking at San. “Have you not left the room all day?”

San looks up from his phone and tries to discreetly close the video he’s been watching. He clearly fails, Seonghwa’s eyes falling to his display and narrowing. He huffs, sitting at the edge of San’s bed and watching him struggle with his second attempt at hiding the evidence. A completely futile one, San feels the embarrassment heat his cheeks.

“Oh my god, San-ah.” Seonghwa shakes his head, grabbing his knee and jiggling it—once left, once right, then a firm squeeze. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m not,” San says.

Seonghwa doesn’t buy it. “Is this why you couldn’t come to the restaurant with us?” he asks, pointing at the phone. “Because you had to watch your fiftieth Jung Wooyoung interview?”

San hides his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, clenching and unclenching. “No.”

“You know he’s your teammate, right? You can talk to him? Ask him—whatever it is you’re curious about?”

Seonghwa’s tone isn’t patronising nor accusatory. He’s doing his best older brother impression—slightly different from the parental air he sometimes adopts—inviting San to speak but not making demands. It makes San want to comply, share his troubles and feel lighter with Seonghwa’s sensible advice. But he can’t. He really doesn’t know what to say.

One of the interviews he’s watched—in the last hour or two—was from Wooyoung’s days at Seoul Jungnang, his first club. Full of thinly veiled digs at the management, it got Wooyoung’s rookie face all over the news; San remembers seeing a recap way back then, his very first exposure to Jung Wooyoung, and feeling perplexed by the move. It was too bold. Entitled. Even seasoned players rarely spoke out against their clubs, knowing it was a matter of etiquette.

Only, as San found out during his afternoon binge, Seoul Jungnang’s general manager stepped down two years after the interview, amid accusations of player mistreatment. That sent San deeper down a rabbit hole.

There were the rumours about Wooyoung being a difficult player to get along with, about being disrespectful to his teammates at Suwon FC. Besides a single grainy video of him arguing with a Suwon fullback at some club function, there was no real evidence, but the narrative was widespread. San hasn’t seen him arguing with anyone but himself.

According to the media, Wooyoung was meant to be snooty and rude to staff—but San has seen him bringing snacks to their medical team, sharing his sunscreen with the assistant coaches, and helping Ollounder clear a level in his mobile game. He was meant to have a short fuse, always one small step from blowing up—but he was more likely to explode into laughter than insults, all his irritation reserved for San. He was meant to be charismatic, too, at odds with his thorny moods—and San wondered if he was simply a good actor, and two weeks was too short a time to reveal his true colours.

“Do you think he really dated that actress?” San asks, somehow deciding this was the concern to discuss with Seonghwa.

“What?”

“The Kim Ensoul rumours. She’s married and—” Seonghwa’s disbelieving look makes San regret running his mouth but it’s too late to take the words back “—there were the photos. It looks like him and—it’s a shitty thing to do.”

Seonghwa leans back onto his palms, considering San like he’s a bomb that needs to be defused carefully. “Is that why you dislike him? Because of cheating rumours?”

“I don’t, I just—” San sighs, unclenching his fists again and pushing himself higher up against the bed frame. “Forget it, hyung. I know it’s stupid. Thank you for the intervention.”

He places the phone on his nightstand, making a move to stand up and distract himself from the slow-sinking realisation that he has, truly, spent a whole afternoon trying to convince himself Jung Wooyoung is a bad person. Seonghwa stops him, though, crawling up to press against San’s right shoulder, gently butting his head.

“San-ah, maybe you should think about…”

He stops himself, holding back whatever advice he has for San’s predicament. San can’t blame him. Even he has trouble making sense of his thoughts, and he’s the one actively scrambling his brain over something that shouldn’t matter. Perhaps because it’s easier than focusing on the other things—on the football of it all.

“How was the escape room?” he asks, changing the topic.

They haven’t had a chance to chat about it in the morning, and Seonghwa accepts the swerve, talking about how Jongho played them all and withheld their last clue until five minutes before their time ran out. Instead of ghosts, the room tried to spook them with a bunch of fake snakes. They made it out, though, with twenty seconds to spare. Even got a cheap plastic medal each, Seonghwa preens and takes it out from under his shirt collar.

“You’re wearing it around?” San laughs, examining the Thai writing that could be pronouncing Seonghwa a naive foreigner for all they know.

“We all agreed to wear it to the restaurant,” Seonghwa says, mock-frowning. “Only Yeosangie and I actually did, but that’s the others’ loss.”

San laughs again, to mask the self-imposed hurt of being left out. His emotions are really getting the better of him. He probably needs more magnesium supplements and a long, long walk. “What did you order?” he asks, knowing the question will get Seonghwa settling even more firmly against his side, foodie enthusiasm taking over.

“You had churros?” San pouts.

“It’s a Mexican restaurant, San-ah. Of course we had churros.”

“But it’s pre-season.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “You can enjoy life even during pre-season, you know.” He looks down at San and lowers his voice. “What the coaches don’t see can’t hurt you.”

San wants to argue that it very much can—their diet is being monitored, as is their performance, and it’s all a matter of discipline and mindset. He can’t scold Seonghwa, though. That feels wrong on too many levels. “What Hongjoong-hyung sees—”

“He wasn’t there,” Seonghwa says sharply.

“Oh?”

“Catching up with Maddox.” His elbow digs into San’s waist as he shrugs. “Something season-prep-related. I don’t know.” He repeats the motion one more time, a little more playfully. “How did I get here, honestly? Surrounded by overthinkers and workaholics. Talk about pressure.”

Hongjoong is in a league of his own, San would argue. Despite how important he finds the camp and how aware he is of its impact, he’s nothing like the captain—Hongjoong puts the team first, in everything, at all times.

“How is he?” Seonghwa asks, softening his voice again.

San hums in confusion. “Hongjoong-hyung?”

“Yeah. You’ve got your tutoring sessions.” Seonghwa waves his hand to go with the explanation. Drops it. “We haven’t really talked since coming back.”

Now that San thinks about it, he hasn’t seen Seonghwa and Hongjoong together like they usually are. They got paired up for the unfortunate tactical session, alongside Maddox, but haven’t really hung out at mealtimes or during their individual sessions. Before camp, Hongjoong was meant to visit Seonghwa in Jinju. He did visit, San remembers Seonghwa mentioning it.

He also knows about Seonghwa’s feelings, being his listening ear for many a nighttime chat.

“Did you have a fight, hyung?”

“No.”

“Then…”

San falls quiet, hesitant. Broaching the topic, he always tries to be mindful; being out and proud in the world of association football is a taboo, still, and being in love with one’s captain and friend… Well, San has always admired how well Seonghwa handles it all.

Proud as much as he can be, mature and sensible. It adds all the rumours about Wooyoung’s sexuality into the mess San is trying to untangle. Because if Wooyoung can still have a successful career despite being so careless—many calling his trysts an open secret—then Seonghwa also deserves to be happy.

“No,” Seonghwa repeats. He’s sincere, as far as San can tell, though there’s a hint of a sad smile playing at the corner of his lips. “No, just busy. You know how Hongjoong gets. I bet if you asked him what day it is, he wouldn’t know.” The fondness in his tone makes San’s chest ache in empathy. “But he could tell you exactly how much time there is until our first match. In hours.”

Twenty-three days, San can also tell. He’s not good enough at mental math to bother with the hours. “He’s fine, I think. Always kicks me out before ten, so he seems to be sleeping okay,” he says instead, reciprocating Seonghwa’s earlier elbow poke. “Are you?”

“Hm?”

“Are you fine, hyung?”

“Of course.” Seonghwa smiles again, with more ease. “More than fine. I’m back to having heart-to-hearts with one of my favourite roommates.”

“Is that all I am to you?” San teases.

“One of my favourite teammates?”

“Ouch.”

“My favourite number ten,” Seonghwa settles on, and even if San knows that’s technically impossible—Hongjoong has worn the number ten before—he chooses to accept it for what it is. A much needed reassurance.

They watch a crappy romantic comedy, get dinner, and San goes to bed at ten. He almost forgets about his dilemma, but when he randomly wakes up at three and changes sides, he’s still thinking about the Wooyoung in his dream—laughing his most annoying type of laugh while running by San’s side.

He forgets by the morning.

⌢

In the tactical session on Tuesday, San gets praised by Coach Eden for his suggestions and aces the impromptu quiz at the end. He wins against Wooyoung in 1v1 drills, barely flinches when Wooyoung dismisses his celebratory whoop as ‘cute,’ and starts to feel the effects of all the mobility training.

He finds himself mimicking an elaborate routine that Wooyoung has, a lot of resistance band exercises and calf raises, and finds that he can’t match Wooyoung’s balance on a wobble-board. But that’s fine; Wooyoung can’t match his lifts, and San has never had to deal with a serious ankle injury.

When he next calls Bora, San actually manages to sound confident about the upcoming season, with only the slightest bit of exaggeration.

“You look well, buddy,” Bora says, smiling against the football field set as her video background. “I’m glad. You have no idea how much I’ve been stressing about leaving you there after—well, you know.”

San, himself, is glad that Bora only gets to see the glimpse of him he’s choosing to share. He doesn’t want her to know about the matching jerseys, the failed trust falls, or—preferably—about anything Wooyoung-related.

“Still, I spoke to some friends and the way management has handled your whole situation could be seen as a breach of contract,” she continues, breaking San out of his thoughts. “No, wait—let me speak, Sannie. I know how you are. You don’t want to cause anyone trouble, and that’s admirable, but I’m here to look out for you.”

“Thank you, Bora, but—“

“Let noona speak, hm?” she corrects with a smirk. San, occupying one of the stadium offices before the afternoon training, shifts in his chair and nods. “You know what’s at stake. There will be scouts. You’re on the radar. On a scale of one to ten, how confident do you feel about this playmaker thing?”

San licks his bottom lip and stares at the office door. Some of his teammates pass by, noisy as they head towards the lockers. “Seven,” he says. “But it will be eight, before the season starts.”

Bora nods, seemingly satisfied with that. She tells San to call if anything happens, ends with her now-customary La Liga manifestation, and reminds him that his Dazed article is coming out in three weeks. Oh god—that.

She hangs up and lets San stew in his mortification.

Golden boy, he thinks, will be nothing compared to what awaits him after Koh Samui.

⌢

The next compulsory team building activity is a balloon debate, and San loses a bet.

Paired with Jongho, they have to pick a football player to send into a hot-air-balloon and present arguments for why he shouldn’t be thrown overboard as collateral once the balloon starts sinking. San wants to go with Cristiano Ronaldo, a safe choice, but Jongho convinces him to pick Mbappé.

“Oh, come on, Jongho-ya! He’s nowhere close to—”

“Sure, sure, but look at all these youths,” Jongho says, pointing his palm towards the team—three-quarters of which are older than him. “They grew up on their phones. Memory of a goldfish. Someone born in the 80s is completely irrelevant to their interests.”

“It’s Ronaldo-sunbaenim!”

“Hey.” Jongho clasps San by the shoulders, piercing through him with a sharp gaze. “Trust me. We got this. Maradona’s going down as soon as I get to speak.”

“Jongho-ya—”

“If we lose, I’ll wear swim goggles to tomorrow’s training.”

San snorts. He doesn’t say no, tickled by the idea of Jongho running around like a giant insect. “And if we win?”

“You come out with us,” Jongho says. “This Friday.”

They shake hands on it, because San knows there’s no chance of them winning. Amidst all the legends other players are sending into the imaginary balloon, poor Mbappé—though San definitely recognises his qualities—doesn’t stand a chance. There’s Maradona, but also Pele, and Cha Bumkun, and Ronaldo Nazario, and—

“Why are we even discussing this?” Wooyoung stands in front of the crowd, arms on his hips like they’re voting on a serious governmental proposal. “It’s Lionel. Messi. Even your boy said he doesn’t dare compare himself to fucking Messi.”

San, who actually agrees with Wooyoung despite being a Real fan, steps up to take Jongho’s side. “When did you last see Messi helping on the defensive line?”

“Huh?” Wooyoung pretends San’s argument has flown over his head—quite literally. He turns in its direction, frowning in disbelief. “Did you all hear something?”

“He’s an incredible striker,” San continues, “but is he an all-rounder?”

“Are you for real?”

Jongho, visibly proud of San’s bullshitting, saves them from another fight just in the nick of time. He picks up the thread, stoking Wooyoung’s fire, and there begins a 5-minute show-down between them, each spinning their own—increasingly ridiculous—arguments for the sacrifice. The room watches on, awe-struck.

When it comes to the final vote and Jongho wins, San can’t even be mad. Wooyoung himself acts the picture of a graceful loser, bowing and congratulating Jongho with a flourish. He only sneers at San as he bumps his shoulder, on the way back to his seat. “Lucky again, dimples.”

Not at all, San realises.

Jongho’s won, San has to go out on Friday, and the odds of Wooyoung being there—he doesn’t think they’re in his favour.

⌢

Through a vote San doesn’t take a part in, they agree to go bowling on Friday night.

San shares a taxi with Seonghwa and Hyunwoo, arriving at the bowling alley at five sharp and entertaining hopes of getting back before bedtime. They’re the only ones there for a good half hour, just nursing cans of fizzy drinks—water for San—and watching some locals play. A group of teens seems to recognise them and comes for a short chat. Seonghwa keeps unlocking and locking his phone, on edge.

“I know he’s not coming,” he tells San at one point, while Hyunwoo’s distracted. “I know.”

His loss, San doesn’t say, because he’d feel like a hypocrite. Maybe he’ll surprise you, he doesn’t want to give Seonghwa false hopes. He settles on squeezing his thigh and a commiserative smile, and that’s when Wooyoung’s unmistakable belly-laugh rumbles through the room. San would swear it makes some of the bowling pins shake. He almost chuckles at the thought.

“Who’s the stranger?” Wooyoung asks Mingi, when he’s close enough for them to hear. Not looking surprised by San’s presence, it’s just another jab, just another piece of evidence that San isn’t the only one making it difficult to get along. “Seonghwa-hyung, did you pick up a stray?”

“Looking great, Wooyoung-ssi,” San shoots back, and also turns to Seonghwa. “Didn’t realise we were going for a run after this, hyung.”

“Didn’t realise you own anything except the jersey, San-ssi.” Wooyoung sits down on the opposite side of their booth, the furthest he can get from San. “Or compression shirts.”

“Didn’t realise you pay so much attention to my wardrobe, Wooyoung-ssi.”

“Didn’t realise it—”

“Hey, what do you guys want to drink?” Seonghwa cuts in, slamming his palms against the table. The smack is so loud that San winces on his behalf. “The lemon tea is good. Refreshing.”

Wooyoung gets a can of Coke and San bites his tongue, keeping in a comment about unnecessary caffeine. Wooyoung’s truly dressed like he’s going to an evening training session—large sweatpants and an even larger hoodie that keeps sliding down his shoulders—making San feel overdressed in his T-shirt and jeans. The table makes idle conversation as they wait for their lanes, and San listens to the Thai song playing on the speakers, a nice mellow rock song. He frowns, seeing Wooyoung drumming his fingers to the beat.

“—with Sannie, and we’ll play with you two,” Mingi is saying, when Seonghwa pokes San back into the conversation. Zoned out again. It keeps happening. “Get ready to lose, though.”

“No chance,” Jongho says, standing up. “Double Nines just have to do their thing. The pins will start falling on their own.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea.” Hyunwoo looks from San to Wooyoung. “The ball is a safety hazard.”

Everyone laughs—Wooyoung included—and they start moving towards their respective team lanes. Wooyoung unzips the hoodie and leaves it in the booth, revealing the rest of the white tank top that’s been peeking out from underneath. San stays sitting.

“You coming?” Wooyoung turns back, no emotion in his face or voice—until he sees an opportunity. “Or are you bad at bowling?”

“You wish.”

San is good. So is Wooyoung. Their team—with Seonghwa and Jongho—goes into the lead fairly quickly, and keeps extending it each round. Whenever San’s played with the team before, Jongho was easily the best at the game, scoring strikes like he could give up football any day and become a professional bowler.

Today, San holds his own.

Each time Wooyoung clears all ten pins, San does the same, refusing to fall behind in the individual rankings. Before the last set of frames, team Woojongsanhwa—shortened to WJSNHW on the display board—is guaranteed to take the win over BowlingBros. San is winning, overall, five points ahead of Wooyoung and Jongho.

Unexpectedly, Wooyoung gives up his last turn. “You do it for me, hyung,” he tells Seonghwa. “My arms are tired.”

He goes back to their booth to watch the rest of the game and Seonghwa throws a spare in his own turn, then a gutter ball in Wooyoung’s.

San, lining up for his own frame, expects a taunt as he’s about to throw. A shout, a cackle, some sort of a verbal stab or a new nickname that would kill his composure and land the ball in a ditch. He even glances back and sees that Wooyoung is watching—head in his palm and eyes on San—but nothing comes.

Two pins on San’s first throw, three on the second, Jongho hits a strike after him and jumps to the top of the individual board. BowlingBros buy the winning team a round of soft drinks, and everyone promises Jongho they’ll buy him shots when pre-season is over.

San doesn’t feel that disappointed about the tie. It’s probably the best score he’s ever had, and Wooyoung doesn’t insult him or insinuate that San is trying to share a number again. As such, San doesn’t do it either.

On his way out of the restroom, Wooyoung is just heading in to take his turn and he looks at San and away, neutral and civil. Like they’re really strangers.

“How’s your shin?” San asks, blocking his way.

“All good.”

“What about the bruise?”

“You’ve been looking at my legs all week, San-ssi.” Wooyoung takes a step back, not trying to fight his way through. “You know the answer.”

It has gone from red to purple by Monday, tinged green on Tuesday, and fading into a murky yellow by that morning. Nobody has paid it much attention, the placement and the severity making it almost invisible to anyone who’s ever played football for longer than a month. San mulls over his answer.

“Why didn’t you play the last frame?”

“Didn’t feel like it.” Wooyoung shrugs.

“But you—”

“I tried to let you win—is that what you want to hear?” He crosses his arms and the hoodie shifts again, exposing his shoulders and the glint of a silver necklace he’s wearing. Taking a step forward, Wooyoung grins. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t stand the pressure.”

“I’m not saying it is.”

Feeling cornered but refusing to budge, San takes a step forward, too. He regrets it right away. Wooyoung’s smile drops and his eyes widen a bit, and San prepares himself for a punch or a kick to his own shin.

Instead, Wooyoung circles him and pushes the restroom door open.

“Good,” he throws behind his shoulder, hovering for just a moment.

“Good,” San echoes, and watches the door close in his face.

⌢

Just like screwing up the last frame, San only has himself to blame for everything else that happens that night.

“Come on, Sannie,” Mingi says. “You never used to be such a wet blanket.”

“We can’t even drink.”

“Is that the only way to have fun?”

Instead of remembering the promise he’s made to himself, staying sensible, and sticking to his 10pm bedtime, he gives into peer pressure. One hug from Jongho, one pleading look from Seonghwa, and suddenly, San is listening to much louder Thai music at a bar. It’s a place close to their hotel that smells like cigarettes and beer, and Wooyoung is sitting right across from him in the booth, his hoodie long gone.

The proximity is worrying, but at least Wooyoung isn’t making eye contact, looking somewhere behind San’s shoulder.

“It has to be something catchy,” Seonghwa says over the music, squeezing his glass of orange juice. “Something the fans will enjoy.”

“How about” —Mingi waits until they’re all paying attention and then belts from the bottom of his lungs— “We gon’ be winning all day!”

“Sometimes we play in the evenings,” Hyunwoo says.

Mingi achieves the impossible and doubles his volume. “We gon’ be winning all day night!”

They all laugh—San snickering into his palm, Seonghwa’s eyes bulging as he tries to hold back, Wooyoung trying none of that and bending in half over the table. It’s the belly laugh, the most annoying kind, except it doesn’t sound all that terrible in this setting. Maybe the music has taken the edge off it. Maybe the smoke and the alcohol in the air have somehow made it into San’s bloodstream, blunting his own edges.

The sentiment eases soon.

“How about this,” Yunho offers, “Nothing beats the Ulsan cleats.”

“That’s terrible,” Jongho says.

“We came, we saw, we conquered.”

“Boring.”

“I got it!” San extends his fist into the air, hit by a sudden stroke of genius. “Eleven makes one team!”

There’s a beat of silence. The rest of the booth exchanges looks and Seonghwa smiles at San, fondly, like he’s a child presenting his half-raw baked goods that can’t be scolded for the effort. “San-ah,” he says, “that would be rude.”

“Why?”

Across the table, Wooyoung kicks him in the shin—hard.

“Ouch!”

San’s attention successfully snatched, Wooyoung speaks around a grin: “There’s more than eleven people on the squad, dummy.”

“Oh.” San deflates, feeling the blush creep in. “I didn’t mean—I—right.”

Before he can offer a more elaborate explanation—he didn’t mean to be rude, he’s not that bad at math, he just thought it would make a catchy tagline for Seonghwa’s social media content—the others have moved on. Everyone except Wooyoung, who’s still watching San like he’s expecting a bigger reaction.

“You didn’t have to kick me,” San grumbles.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “It was barely a bump.”

“Yeah, right—watch it bruise.”

Too late, San realises that’s the exact wrong thing to say. There comes the signature chortle at his expense, Wooyoung leaning over the table. “But San-ah,” he says, bangs falling across his forehead and the dim bar light glowing over his collarbones, “you love to match.”

“I—”

San swallows and turns away.

He breathes in through his nose and counts down from ten, calming the onset of frustration that’s making his heart race. Around six, he’s still seeing flashes of Wooyoung’s shoulders. Around three, he starts taking in the others’ chat. At one, he feels calm enough to contribute. It helps that San could talk about FIFA 17 versus FIFA 23 all day long.

Impassioned by his own arguments, it takes him a while to notice Wooyoung isn’t talking at all.

He seems distracted, looking towards the bar. Probably regretting the fact that the drinks are there, at their fingertips, and he’s stuck with yet another Coke. San sees him gulping it down, a drop rolling down his neck, and his brain starts counting down from five again. He probably needs to sleep. He needs to stop being hyper-aware of everything Wooyoung does, for no good reason.

Minutes tick by, though, and San can’t help it.

Wooyoung loves to talk, and here he is, not having said a thing since the stupid joke about matching bruises. His gaze seems locked on the bar, and San realises he’s been looking that way ever since they arrived. He’s taken it as Wooyoung avoiding looking at him, but now he wonders—does he really need a drink that bad? Among all the rumours of rudeness, partying, and promiscuity, there’s definitely been something about Wooyoung loving his liquor.

San shakes his head, chasing the thoughts away.

If Wooyoung was a secret alcoholic, he wouldn’t be such a good athlete. His skin would be a sickly kind of yellow instead of the golden hue, and he’d have liver spots and brittle hair instead of—

Wooyoung stands up.

“Bathroom break,” he says, worming his way out of the booth.

He doesn’t go to the bar, his nape tattoo the last thing San sees before he disappears around the corner. It’s the perfect opportunity for San to stop obsessing over whatever Wooyoung is doing, whatever he is thinking, whatever frustrating taunt lies on the tip of his tongue. Still, it takes Seonghwa leaning into his shoulder for San to turn his head back to the booth.

“I’m so glad you lost that bet, San-ah,” Seonghwa says, smiling but serious. “We miss you.”

“Everyone owes me more soju for that,” Jongho says. “After pre-season, of course.”

“We’re celebrating at the end, right? Party like usual?” Mingi asks, and beams when everyone nods. “I vote we do it in Hongjoong-hyung’s room. He’s got the double bed.”

“We could just go out to a—”

“No, you’re right, Mingi-ya,” Seonghwa says. “It’s only fair. The captain has to sacrifice himself for the team sometimes.”

Easy chatter, good company, pleasant music. San feels stupid for avoiding his teammates—his friends—and then he feels stupid for forgetting why. He tries not to let it dampen his mood. Ten minutes after leaving, Wooyoung still isn’t back from the restroom, and San plays with the buckle on his wristwatch.

When he announces his own bathroom break, the apprehension is immediate. Seonghwa straightens up, Yunho’s eyes widen, and Jongho looks about ready to offer a chaperoning service—but San just stands up and shuffles away.

“What?” he asks, disapproving, once he’s out of reach. “I’m not going to jump him in the bathroom.”

Seonghwa grimaces but they all have the common sense not to say anything.

San could use a bathroom break, so it’s not like he’s lying. He’s combining a bodily need with his curiosity, one certainly outweighing the other. Feeling like someone’s gazing at his own nape, San hurries to cross the room and swerve around the corner, the music quieter in this part of the bar but a bunch of wasted locals making up for it with their shouts. He keeps his head low and nobody stops him. Everything goes quiet when the restroom door closes behind him.

Everything, including his mind.

San doesn’t know what he was expecting to find here. Maybe Wooyoung taking a call and forgetting the time, maybe him having an illicit smoke break in one of the stalls. Even as his brain shuts down and his steps freeze, he tells himself he’s been an idiot—he should’ve anticipated this, and he should’ve stayed away.

On the other side of the room, in the corner, Wooyoung is pressed against the wall. He’s almost invisible between the dim light and the much larger man shielding him—wrapped around him, really, holding onto Wooyoung’s waist with one hand while the other travels somewhere San can’t see. Somewhere that makes Wooyoung break the eerie silence, a sound slipping out of his mouth that almost makes San stumble.

They’re kissing, then, the muffled beat of the bar music punctuated by the obscene sounds.

San can’t seem to move. Counting down from ten is doing nothing for him, and numbers themselves seem like a foreign concept. The stranger fists a hand in Wooyoung’s hair, tipping his head to the side to bare his neck. Eyes closed, Wooyoung lets out another one of those sounds and San’s breath hitches.

Too loud, Wooyoung’s eyes open and find him right away.

He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t push the man away. Hands splayed over the stranger’s back, he only seems to pull him closer, staring at San as his neck gets mauled. San knows him well enough by now to recognise the look. It’s a bit different from the usual scowl—Wooyoung’s eyes hooded and his mouth bitten red—but it’s his defensive look. The one that’s inviting San to make a fool of himself. The look of a challenge.

San knows better than to fall for it. He still can’t move.

Another second passes, or maybe a minute, and Wooyoung doesn’t break eye contact as the man nips at his throat, his jaw, then his lips again. Like that, he could as well not be there, and San could easily write it all off as his own delusion: the only evidence of Wooyoung’s presence are the tall sneakers, his exposed shoulder, one eye fixed on San.

The sounds.

It’s the next whine that finally makes San slam his back into the door, walking backwards. He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the bar, but he’s walking through the noise again, retracing his steps on autopilot. They’re slow and a bit unsteady, like his water was actually soju, like the floor is twisting under his feet and trying to throw him off.

He stops before he returns to his friends, taking a deep breath.

“Hey, hyung, can we call a taxi?” he asks, keeping a few steps away from the booth. He doesn’t know what his face looks like. It feels like it would be hot to the touch. “I think lunch didn’t agree with me.”

Seonghwa’s face flashes with concern. “Didn’t you have your usual?” he asks, and looks at the plate of pork skewers on the table. “Maybe it was these.”

“Yeah, maybe,” San agrees, though he didn’t eat a single one. “Actually, I can go alone, if you want to stay longer. Don’t—”

“It’s okay, San-ah.”

Seonghwa already has his phone out, opening the ride-hailing app. He finds a car that is three minutes away and San hastens to apologise to everyone for leaving so abruptly, like—according to his usual schedule—he wasn’t meant to be in bed two hours ago. His eyes fall to Wooyoung’s hoodie, abandoned in the booth, and San feels his heart spike again.

As if on cue, Yunho asks: “Is Wooyoung okay? Did you see—”

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine,” San says, in the most neutral tone he can manage. He even works up a smile for everyone else, a hug for Jongho, and a shoulder squeeze for Seonghwa. “I had fun tonight. Thanks for forcing me to come.”

He means it, even though he can’t bring himself to say the other thing that springs to his mind. He can’t make promises. Hanging out with them all has felt right, and he’ll feel sad about it soon enough, and the image of Wooyoung making out with a stranger in the public restroom is already making him regret the night despite his own words.

Only once they’re in the car, San feels like his skin stops buzzing and the thrum in his ears fades away.

⌢

He sleeps a lot that weekend.

Having already broken his routine by going out, San wrecks it further—going to the gym at lunch time, and scheduling an ice bath instead of the sauna. It’s something San should’ve done a while ago, and he also knows that Wooyoung hates them. Less of a chance of running into him there, San hopes that, as long as their paths don’t cross, he can stop thinking about what he saw at the bar.

Think about it less.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Seonghwa asks on Sunday evening.

San is once again occupying his bed and watching him play Animal Crossing, like Seonghwa collecting bugs is a riveting action flick.

“Yeah, hyung,” San says, giving him a smile. “Just tired.”

He zones out when Seonghwa catches his third bell cricket, suddenly frustrated with his own arrangements.

Wooyoung would laugh, seeing them spend their night like this—even though they have early training the next morning, he’s surely out, meeting up with the guy from the bar. Maybe a different guy. Maybe a girl. San wants nothing more than to stay in the safe cocoon that is his and Seonghwa’s hotel room, and yet, the thought makes him feel all restless; the competitive streak growing so overwhelming he wants to go out just to prove a point.

What point, San doesn’t know.

“I have a question,” San starts. He half-hopes Seonghwa hasn’t heard him and he won’t have to continue, but Seonghwa looks away from the Nintendo with a smile. “Do you ever feel like—do you think you’ll ever date someone?”

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow and he puts the game away, which is how San knows he’s screwed up. “I sure hope so?” he says. Chuckling, a touch quizzical. “What do you mean, San-ah?”

“Sorry. Of course you will. You’re a catch, hyung, that’s not what—”

“I am a catch,” Seonghwa says, but his eyes flick to the duvet. He waits for San to go on.

“It must be hard,” San says, rolling his lower lip under his teeth. “With the way football is. And the scrutiny.”

For as long as they’ve known each other, Seonghwa has never dated anyone. Part of it could be the Hongjoong thing, part of it could be that he, like San, puts football first. He’s discreet with his hookups, cautious and responsible, and San completely gets why.

There’s the backlash to consider, the fan reaction and the coverage. Precedent says that coming out can end a player’s career, that skills become secondary the moment one steps out of line. San can’t see it ever being a problem at Ulsan—the management has always been fair and their teammates are good people—but it would still be a career risk. Not every club is supportive, not every official is open-minded.

San almost splits his lip, thinking about Wooyoung again. The hearsay and the transfers, his devil-may-care attitude—

“I can like men and still play football.” Seonghwa shrugs.

“I know that,” San says.

That has never been a question.

“If I ever date someone—” Seonghwa smirks at himself, wanly, before correcting “—when I date someone, it won’t be for other people anyway.”

“Yes but—”

“Those I care about will know. Others don’t matter.”

“But then you’re still hiding a part of yourself,” San says, “just for the sake of others.”

“No, I’m…” Seonghwa pauses, straightening up. His expression is more focused, now, more tuned into the conversation and trying to puzzle San out. “Why are you asking?” His eyes widen the moment the question leaves his mouth, like words must flash across San’s forehead to immediately give him the answer. “Oh.”

“Forget it, hyung.”

“Is it because of Wooyoung?” Seonghwa asks and, again, answers his own question. “You saw him with Benz. At the bar.”

Benz, now that’s a stupid name. San ignores how the name implies that Seonghwa knows—has known—or that Wooyoung has probably hung out with the man before. Made out with him, more like. He scolds himself for the immediate disapproval that fires up his gut. The little voice in his head that tells San Wooyoung is wrong for making out with men, where others can see, where he can so easily get caught.

It’s the exact opposite of what he wants for Seonghwa.

He thinks of all the rumours and how they’ve made him feel uneasy, like Wooyoung was walking on a paper-thin slab of ice, ready to plunge underwater with a single wrong step, ready to take others with him. San grimaces. He is not a bigot, there’s nothing wrong about Wooyoung kissing whoever he likes. If it was Seonghwa—if he decided to kiss guys in public or date, San wouldn’t think of the team at all.

He’d support his friend.

“San-ah, you’re making me worried,” Seonghwa says, his expression confirming the words.

“Don’t say that,” San says, rolling himself over Seonghwa’s legs to lighten the atmosphere. He stares at the ceiling, wanting to change the topic and continue not thinking about Wooyoung. “It’s nothing. I was just surprised, I guess. But—Wooyoung can kiss whoever he wants.”

“Yes, he can,” Seonghwa says.

Nothing less, nothing more, San counts the tiny paint bumps he can see overhead, and Seonghwa lets him stay curled over his legs while he goes back to his Nintendo.

⌢

During his early morning drills, San is almost normal.

He’s dreading the training—dreading seeing Wooyoung for the first time since the bar—but he focuses on the ball, on the field, on picturing himself back in the swing of the season. There are only five days of camp left, and then they’ve got a week before the friendlies start.

He toys with the idea of going back to Namhae for a day or two but decides against it; San hasn’t shared the position change with his dad yet, and he doesn’t want to before he actually gets a chance to play. They can talk about it later, analyse and find the weak spots that need addressing. First, San just wants to give it a shot. Without any expectations but his own.

Wooyoung ignores him during training. Or maybe he doesn’t.

San wouldn’t know—he’s too busy doing anything and everything to avoid interaction. It includes carrying cones and fetching Yunho’s forgotten gloves, but also wondering—again—what kind of a name Benz is, whether the man’s local, whether he’s ever sneaked into the stadium to watch them train.

“Careful, San!” Coach Eden says when San’s collected the cones again and almost rammed into Ollounder. “You okay?”

“Sorry, Coach. It’s the heat.” San puts the cones down and runs to get his water bottle.

He doesn’t hurt anyone, and his stupid thoughts don’t hurt him, and he gets his favourite beef cuts for lunch so the week is looking pretty hopeful. Then he sees Wooyoung, one table over. Compared to the hotel, the stadium dining hall is altogether too small, and San can see the faint marks on Wooyoung’s neck. He wonders if he notices them, now, because he knows where to look, or if it’s the first time Wooyoung’s let himself be careless.

His eyes trail up and find Wooyoung looking back, which almost causes San to choke on his food. It’s too close to what happened on Friday. Wooyoung’s gaze feels like it’s calling him out.

“But I don’t know, I still prefer bladed cleats,” Maddox is telling San about his recent purchase when Wooyoung actually stands up and moves towards their table.

San tries to come up with something to say, to pretend the conversation hasn’t been entirely one-sided. He hopes Wooyoung is heading out of the room. Wooyoung, instead, stops right beside him.

“Hey, San, I think we—”

“Sorry!” San shoots up, making the table clatter. “I need to call my agent. It’s—I completely forgot!”

He ends up hiding in one of the empty offices like a coward, playing a new game on his phone—Dungeon Crawler has lost all its appeal by now—and waiting until it’s just late enough that San can return to finish his food and find Wooyoung gone, but not too late for him to feel nauseous during afternoon practice.

He times it right.

⌢

In the afternoon, Wooyoung is put on the same team for positional play.

They’re the ones playing without the neon-green bibs, just the jerseys, and every time San sees Wooyoung’s nine, he thinks of his own. It might be one of the last times he’s wearing it. He’s already doing the job of a midfielder, the drill all about focusing him on how the team is working as a collective machine. On how the field can be split into little diamonds of space, and how he can help his teammates exploit the formation.

The first time Wooyoung fumbles it and drifts away from where he needs to be, San doesn’t say a thing. He shoots him a glare and leaves it at that, knowing Wooyoung’s aware of what he did wrong.

The second time, San can’t help but shout.

“Hey!”

He runs a bit closer while the game is paused, ball out of play. He’d managed to get possession and passed to Wooyoung, advancing towards the box, but where Wooyoung had a perfectly-positioned Seonghwa on his right, he decided to make a break for it.

Failed.

“You know you’re not playing alone, right?” San stretches his arms. “You don’t have to show off in front of your own team!”

“Shut up, San.”

“Don’t be selfish, Wooyoung.”

The whistle stops them from getting carried away and San is thankful, jogging back towards the midline. He doesn’t want to fight with Wooyoung—doesn’t want to talk to him at all, see the bruises on his neck up close and get filled with that ridiculous feeling like his lungs are at full capacity. He shakes his head before the game restarts.

The third time…

Doesn’t happen.

Because their team doesn’t get that many offensive chances, but also because Wooyoung seems to have listened. To the point he’s overdoing it now, passing even when the better option would be to break away, avoiding his signature footwork. He’s still doing his job—not completely passive, sticking closer to the three-player formation they’re aiming for.

It’s San who starts losing it.

He ignores a pass, ignores an opportunity to drop lower and help the defensive line, ignores what would be an easy maneuver to steal possession from Minjae. Not willingly, but because he’s not paying attention.

He’s thinking of Wooyoung right behind him, San’s involuntary shadow, and how—instead of acting up to prove a point—he’s taken San’s words to heart. How Wooyoung is already so much faster than him, so much smoother than him. How San can’t even call him selfish, or pretend he’s a rude stuck-up brat who’s going to give their team a bad name.

San isn’t a spiteful person, he was raised better than that; he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

“We still have time, it’s okay,” Seonghwa tells him after the neon-green team scores, upping their lead to 3:1.

“Just focus,” Hongjoong says, even though he’s playing against San.

“Yeah, Sannie,” Wooyoung adds, voice too close and too serious to pass for its usual teasing. “Maybe you should stop staring for once.”

And that—those words, one throwaway comment—breaks San for good.

He’s the one who starts screwing up positioning, not exploiting his space, attempting to score twice and just sending the ball right back to their opponents. He tries to play as a striker. Knows he should be playing a supportive centre. Fails to play anything at all.

A pitiful last third, San’s team ends up losing 4:2.

His teammates don’t approach him after the final whistle and, while they get dismissed, San is immediately taken aside by the coaches.

“You were doing so well in the first half,” Eden says, “what happened?”

Jung Wooyoung happened, but San can’t say that.

He makes up another excuse about how he’s been coping badly with the heat, feeling dizzy and losing focus. Guilty about lying, he promises to talk to the doctor and do better next time. He takes a long, long time in the shower, waiting for the locker room to empty before he gets out. The last thing he wants to do is to analyse his performance, but it's what he needs to do the most, to make sure it doesn’t happen during a real match.

A walk will do him good, San thinks, alone and far away from the hotel. He’s shoving the sweaty jersey into his bag when there’s a noise behind him, and San immediately wants to disappear.

“What was that?” Wooyoung asks, arms crossed and leaning on the wall by the door. He’s changed into a baggy black T-shirt, hair still damp, and San gets hit by a chorus of his words: stop staring, stop staring, stop staring. When he turns without a response, Wooyoung comes closer. “Hey, beefcake, I’m talking to you.”

“Fuck off, Wooyoung.”

San rarely swears; if he does, it’s on the field, in the heat of the moment, something he can’t control. His teammates would likely gasp if they heard him, his father would click his tongue, and San’s own face twitches—but Wooyoung only reacts with a huff.

“Yeah, no, I’ve had enough of your fucking deal,” he says, the curse rolling off his tongue so easily it’s like he’s showing San how to do it well. “I don’t get what your problem is.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Oh, please.” The laugh that Wooyoung lets out is new—not falling neatly into San’s categories, making his skin crawl all the same. It’s dismissive but also pained, like Wooyoung is only laughing because he doesn’t know what else to do. “You’ve been treating me like shit since day one!”

“You—”

“I stole your spot. I didn’t treat you like a walking football miracle,” Wooyoung continues. “Is that it? Is that why you hate my guts?”

The same question San’s heard before, the same accusation. Once again, he feels trapped. “I don’t hate you.” His voice comes out low and he can’t look at Wooyoung—can’t stare—but he doesn’t want to get punched down to the ground. “Stop acting like this is all on me.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not exactly my biggest fan, Wooyoung,” San says, zipping up his bag to give his hands something to do. The sound is loud and aggressive. “And you keep doing it—you keep pushing.”

“Because I don’t understand!” Again, the laugh and San’s inner wince. He’s heard it twice and it’s quickly making its way up in the rankings of Wooyoung’s laughs that San wants to avoid at all costs. “Is it just the game? Do I disgust you that much?”

“What are you talking about?”

San caves, looks, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

He’s washed away most of his frustration in the showers, left with the hollow feeling of letting his emotions run high again, repeating the same mistakes over and over again. He can handle Wooyoung shouting at him and try to match, but he doesn’t know what to do about the blank look—like Wooyoung is trying to give him the benefit of the doubt and coming up empty.

“I thought maybe you were getting over it. That we could—I don’t know. Argue, but at least tolerate each other. And then since Friday, you’ve been acting like—”

“It’s not about that,” San cuts him off.

He has been off since what he saw on Friday, but he can’t have Wooyoung thinking it’s because he’s disgusted. He isn’t. San knows he has many flaws, but he’s not a bigot, and the shame that sparks inside his gut has him tightening his hands into fists. He forces them to relax. Sighs as he takes a breath, Wooyoung’s silence speaking volumes.

“It’s because you’re better than me.”

The words fall out of San, heavy and unwilling. The roughness must underscore his honesty, because Wooyoung only opens his mouth and closes it, lost for words when he never seems to have the issue otherwise. Letting the confession settle like dust motes in the locker room, San feels somewhat lighter. Perversely so, now that it’s out in the open—handed to Wooyoung on a silver platter—what else is there to fear?

“You’re a better player than me,” San says, and then corrects, “A better striker than me. You run like you’re possessed, and you dribble like it’s magic—like the ball is under your control because it wants to be, not because you’re forcing it.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth again. Still without a sound.

“You know, this has been my dream for ages, Wooyoung. Ever since I can remember, I just wanted to play football—to play it better.” San runs a hand through his hair, wanting to spread the wetness from the shower to his overheating cheeks. He doesn’t. “But when I watch you play, I start to doubt everything.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been here before.”

San thinks of the pre-season training camp when he was sixteen and just out of the academy. Touted as a promising player, someone with a bright future, he got a rough wake-up call as soon as he rolled up to the field. Every single one of San’s teammates had been a promising player at one point, but there, that was no longer enough. They were starting from zero again, and San was behind, and he had already sacrificed years of his childhood to simply be a good player.

“I know I’m not special. There’s hard work,” San says, “but then there’s also talent, and I—”

“Shut up, San,” Wooyoung finally finds his voice. He frowns, arms crossed over his chest again. If a part of San was hoping his confession would flatter him, Wooyoung looks offended. “This dream of yours—the UCL? World Cup? Newsflash, golden boy, you’re not the only one who grew up wanting it.”

San nods to himself. “I know that.”

“I worked damn hard to get where I am. You have no idea—” Wooyoung stops himself, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t how it works. You don’t get to hate me just because you’re jealous. We’re not twelve.”

“I don’t hate you.”

He purses his lips. He breathes out through his nose. He pierces San with his gaze, so severe that San can only bring himself to look at the dot under his left eye. Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t—

“Then don’t fucking act like you do.”

The bruise where Wooyoung’s neck meets his jaw is nowhere as bad as the one San’s left on his shin—already yellowing away, slightly more conspicuous than a mosquito bite. Looking at it, San feels a spark of relief, and he has no fucking clue where it’s coming from. With all that has been said, there’s no more anger in him and no more frustration. The shame—San hates it.

He clenches his jaw and nods again.

“You’re a great player, Wooyoung-ssi,” he says. He could say he’s sorry, he’s had enough practice, but—in his dictionary—the words carry more weight.

Although Wooyoung rolls his eyes, San can see his face soften. He can almost imagine the smirk. “I know that,” Wooyoung says, and he doesn’t indulge San.

He only waits a second before turning on his heel, and San goes back to fiddling with his bag, giving him space. A few minutes headstart, and then San can take a slow walk to the hotel, drop his things off, and take the much longer and even slower walk to think about what he should be thinking about. The football, and how he can make it up to his team.

“As much as you pretend to hate it,” Wooyoung says, pausing halfway through the door, “they don’t call you golden boy for nothing.”

San tenses.

Are they back to this, already? He’s not asking to be friends. They’ve barely stopped shouting, and Wooyoung’s words will plague him for days to come, but is there no other way that they can—

“You’re a great player too, San. If you’re not signed by the end of the season, I’ll eat my boots.”

The words give San whiplash. He blinks, and he’s lucky Wooyoung gives him time—that he’s waiting for San’s response—because his brain blanks. Static, questions, jumbled responses. In the end, San cocks his head. “Studs and all?”

“Studs and laces.” Wooyoung nods. “Just don’t let it get to your head, sunshine.”

When the door closes, San swears he can hear him laugh.

Chapter Text

offside:

(in football) a type of a foul - an attacking player involved in active play is closer to the opponent's goal than both the ball and the second-to-last defender; this rule prevents attackers from staying too close to the goal and simply waiting for a pass.

⚽︎

San’s long walk—though useful in reminding him he’s not a playmaker failure because of one bad practice game—leaves him in a strange mood. It persists when he wakes up the next day, and only grows during his usual drills. An unfamiliar kind of emptiness.

After the locker room talk, he doesn’t know where he and Wooyoung stand.

They have never been enemies—that’s a term San associates with anime and e-sports, too dramatic for the everyday. They’re not friends though, and calling Wooyoung his rival when they’re playing for the same team feels juvenile.

He supposes that now, when the air’s been cleared and they’ve reached some kind of a truce, they can be teammates. There’s nothing wrong with that, quite the opposite, but it doesn’t sit right with San. He doesn’t know why.

Wooyoung arrives at the stadium with Yeosang, and they join Seonghwa for the warmups. He doesn’t look at San, he doesn’t acknowledge him, he doesn’t roll up with a new nickname or mention their confrontation. They can be teammates, San thinks, but he finds himself almost wishing that none of yesterday had happened. Seonghwa has accused him of masochism before—in the context of San’s three-hour gym sessions—but now he finds himself pondering if there’s something to it. He needs to get a grip.

The main event of the morning is a long-distance run and Wooyoung gets the best time. San is second, and he genuinely doesn’t care—until Wooyoung turns around to rub the victory in his face, cheeks red with exertion and puffed with his smug grin.

“You should lay off the chest presses, dimples,” he says, looking up at San as he stretches his hamstrings. “You know One Piece?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re starting to look like Franky.” Wooyoung shakes his head like that’s an unfortunate diagnosis. “Crazy-ass proportions. Terrible for running.”

“Perfect for punching people,” San grumbles, squinting down at him.

Wooyoung’s eyes travel from San’s biceps to his pecs, mouth opening on another remark before he seems to think better of it. “Not if you can’t keep up,” he says, and demonstratively jogs away.

After eating lunch, San tries to pretend it’s the food that makes his mood better, that the empty feeling he’s been battling was nothing but basic hunger. He knows it’s not true. He doesn’t want to think about it.

In the gym, Wooyoung still tries to—and fails to—match him rep for rep. In the plyo session, they get caught up competing over their box jumps, choosing a taller box for each set until Yunho reminds them there are other players waiting for their turn. At Wednesday's team building, Wooyoung’s number one goal is to convince everyone that San is the mafia—even in the round when it’s the both of them and Wooyoung’s actively shooting himself in the foot.

He still cackles when San makes a fool of himself. San still feels his jealousy flare when he watches Wooyoung dribble the ball like he’s cast a spell on it. They don’t sit at the same table at meal times, and Seonghwa catches San hiding his phone during another ridiculous Naver deepdive.

With three days of camp to go, San starts thinking they can pull through with this being their normal, and that he likes it because it doesn’t bring any fear of the unfamiliar. They can squabble and still do their best, focus on the team, and go into the season without wanting to tear each other’s hair out.

Maybe teammates is okay, after all.

⌢

“Can you please stop?” Hongjoong asks, in the process of shutting down his laptop.

“Stop what?” San frowns.

“Looking like I’m about to throw you to the lions.”

“Parrots.” He chuckles but knows the frown doesn’t completely disappear. “Hammarby’s mascot is a parrot.”

They’ve had their longest session yet—almost three hours of analysing the worst performances of last season, considering alternative outcomes and scrutinising their formation. Three hours of San’s personal theatre of shame.

Hongjoong has been nothing but encouraging, validating all of his critiques and suggestions, not personally evaluating San’s downward spiral. He’s been doing it to make San feel more confident, he knows, but San still can’t shut off the voice in his head: the one that taunts that, if he knows the game so well, he should be playing it accordingly.

Last season’s outcome wasn’t purely his fault, and to think so would be pretty narcissistic. San still feels responsible: he’d set a standard for his play, upheld it for the longest time, and—just when the championship got within their reach, just when his efforts started bearing fruit—he had crumbled and never told anyone why.

Even now, he doesn’t know what to say about it. What to think.

It’s a season to fix his mistakes. One more season to tie up loose ends. A year for San to figure out what he actually wants. It would be a lot of pressure under the best circumstances, but now he’s here, having to do it all with that daunting ten on his back.

“You’ll be fine, San-ah,” Hongjoong says, like he can hear the mental frenzy. He even pats San’s knee, a rare Hongjoong-initiated touch for emphasis. “You’re in top form. The whole team is. We’ve got a real chance this year.”

They’ve had a real chance last year, but San doesn’t say that.

“It’s a strong squad,” he agrees, and pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his knuckles. “Yunho’s at his best again. Jongho’s more intimidating than ever, and Wooyoung…”

He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t have to.

Hongjoong nods in understanding. “Once he stops hogging the ball,” he quips with a fond smile, “he’ll be unstoppable.”

San hums.

He can easily see Wooyoung playing for the elites. He’s young, he’s got the talent, the drive, and the ability to captivate an audience; San knows that all too well. Maybe there are five stages to jealousy, just like there are to grief. Maybe San is on his way to acceptance.

“And once you stop overthinking,” Hongjoong says, “you’ll have your choice of clubs, all fighting to sign you.”

The words feel like a punch.

“Hyung—“

“Trust me, alright? Half of you will be gone by next season. It’ll be just me, Eden, and the kids.” Hongjoong smirks. “Maybe Maddox.”

There’s a lot to unpack in Hongjoong’s words—his conviction, his sincerity, his loyalty to Ulsan—and a lot to ignore for San’s own sake. He focuses on the unsaid. “What about Seonghwa-hyung?”

The smirk fades into a mellow smile and Hongjoong shakes his head. “It’s too early for him.”

“Early?”

“Too early to settle,” Hongjoong says. “So many clubs would have him. I don’t think he realises it yet. But—you’ll see. At the end of the season.”

Settle, San turns that over in his mind. In all the time he’s known him, San has never once thought that Hongjoong was settling for Ulsan KQ.

All football players are ambitious to a certain degree, it comes with being foolish enough to play the sport for a living. There are the ones like Hongjoong—who have made it international, enjoyed the experience, but decided they preferred a less high-stakes environment—and those like Maddox—who have loved the experience until an injury reared its head. Some players never make it—not good enough, not lucky enough, or—after a certain point—not young enough. And some are content not to push and simply play—as long as they can, as long as it brings them joy.

Seonghwa is like that, he’s not settling for a team he loves. But San also knows— perhaps better than most—that his friend has ambitions he doesn’t dare voice, ones he keeps close to his chest.

Once again, he wonders what’s happened in Jinju. Once again, he stops himself from wondering what kind of a player he really is.

“Time to sleep,” Hongjoong says, standing up from the armchair and stretching his arms with a soft yawn. “Think you can make it through the last day without picking a fight?”

“I don’t pick fights,” San says, pouting.

“Whatever you want to call it, then.” Hongjoong looks him over, eyes curved in amusement. “There are two things I know about this season, San-ah. Mark my words.”

San raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on.

“We’ll win the cup,” Hongjoong says, deceivingly nonchalant. He offers no details or explanations, just moves to sit on his bed, pulling one knee to his chest. “And, by that time, you and Wooyoung will have made Eden’s hair gray.”

It’s all too possible that San’s hair will go gray come November.

He sighs, stands up, and wishes Hongjoong a good night. Conveniently, he also decides not to mention anything about Mingi’s plans to take over the captain’s room for a party. It’s only fair, he thinks, but…

Tucking himself into bed, Seonghwa already sleeping soundly, San realises that this is exactly the sort of thing Wooyoung would probably do.

He texts Hongjoong a warning before putting his phone away. However stupid and non-existent the competition between him and Wooyoung is, half-asleep San thinks that the only way of losing it is by letting Wooyoung become a terrible influence.

⌢

“Best training camp we’ve ever had!”

“It was fine.”

“We’ve survived.”

“What do you think, San-ah? Was this year’s camp unforgettable?” Seonghwa reaches him after a bunch of Q&A shots, phone tilted down.

“Each camp is unforgettable.” San shrugs. “It sets the tone for the season.”

“It really does,” Mingi agrees from the seat next to him.

“You know, that feeling when we’ve got two matches to go and think back to the pre-season,” San continues, “and everything just makes sense. How we’ve done, the good and the bad. I’m not saying it’s a fixed thing but—camp plays a big role.”

“Basically, San-ssi is a fortune teller,” Wooyoung says, appearing out of nowhere. He pushes an empty bottle out of the way and sets his lunch tray there, sitting in Seonghwa’s spot. “And camp is his crystal ball.”

“I don’t like fortune-telling,” San says. Wooyoung choosing to sit right in front of him is so unexpected, it makes it hard to come up with a more insightful reply.

“Why?” Wooyoung smirks. “You’ve had a bad experience? Someone told you you’d go bald by thirty?”

San flexes his hand not to immediately touch his hairline. He doesn’t think the bald spot is visible, most people laugh at him when he brings it up, but Wooyoung is not most people. San thinks of him as a shark, on the lookout for the blood of San’s insecurities. It would explain the sudden proximity.

“No,” San says, and he makes it a point to look at Seonghwa’s camera instead of Wooyoung, even adding a genial smile. “I just don’t like the idea of the future being set in stone. I believe in free will.”

Wooyoung chuckles, pointing his chopsticks at San. “You said training camp determines how the season goes.”

“Because of analysis, not make-believe.”

“Oh, analysis. My bad.” Wooyoung turns to the camera. “San-ssi is a scientist, and camp is his dataset.”

Before San can retaliate, Seonghwa cuts in to defuse the exchange. San can see the way he zooms in with the camera, most of the display taken up by Wooyoung’s face. “What about you, Wooyoung-ssi? How did you find the training camp?”

Wooyoung chews on his food, quiet as he pretends to think. He looks around the room, nods to himself, settles his eyes on San. “It was fun,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.

“Alright! Thank you, Woosan!” Seonghwa says before leaving them for another table.

San just blinks, like someone’s dumped a bucket of water over his head and he’s trying to let it slide without a reaction. He knows he’s failing because Wooyoung looks a whole different degree of unbothered. He’s still chewing with a not-quite-there smile, stabbing his salad without a conspicuous hint of irritation. Mingi is just as apathetic.

“Woosan?” San repeats. He can’t be the only one who’s heard—

“Our last day as the Double Nines,” Wooyoung says. “End of an era.”

Still calm, but San can see the subtle challenge, the way he’s daring San to say something petty. San doesn’t rise up to it—or maybe he does, in a new way that befits teammates who can sit at the same table for lunch.

“Time sure flies when you share a jersey number,” he says.

It’s a stupid joke.

Mingi gives him the side-eye, San stands up to go clear his plate, and Wooyoung—he laughs. At him or with him, San doesn’t try to classify. The sound is a little muted, a little annoying, and he’s glad to hear it.

⌢

Their last afternoon training is just a practice match, similar to the one San bombed on Monday. However, the teams are free to choose their gameplay this time.

San gets the neon-green bib, midfielder to Yeosang’s forward, and he only sees Wooyoung’s nine from a distance.

It ends up being a tie.

Two assists from San, two goals from Wooyoung, but everyone seems happy with the outcome because—for the entirety of the match—both teams have played to win. Once the whistle sounds and their sweat starts drying, they form a lopsided circle on the grass while Eden gives his camp-closing remarks. Advice for individual players, the most important areas of focus for the team, and a sprinkle of praise for motivation.

“If you play like you’ve played today,” he says, in the middle of the circle, arms crossed over his chest, “if you remember that you’re a team, that you can never win a football match alone—you’ll do great.”

Eden doesn’t really do sentimental, and San can see the way he rushes the words out, quick to clap his hands once he’s done and call everyone in for a group hug—from which he conveniently sneaks away, letting the players tackle and shove each other until everyone’s got at least one arm wrapped around someone else, looking at the grass.

“Can’t you see?” Hongjoong yells out, a little shaky with awkwardness despite how many times Mingi and Jongho have forced him to practice the new chant.

“I’m a warning sign!” The rest of the team finishes, almost in unison.

It works, San has to admit.

The shouts give him goosebumps, and so does a quick look at everyone’s faces—their excitement is unmistakable, and so is the determination. Before he knows it, they’re arranging themselves for group photos, formal ones and then the ones that have Eden fleeing. San lets himself get swept into a sideways hug with Seonghwa, sweeps Yeosang into a sideways hug of his own, and he almost forgets all about his dread, all about the pressure.

Then someone makes the bubble pop. “Let’s do trust falls again!”

San groans. He’s not the only one. Eden seems to love the idea, though, and he starts pairing them up like he did in the first week—just with a tad more caution, sending San towards Hongjoong. He catches the captain easily, and then gets caught by Yunho, and then he and Minjae clasp hands to catch a falling Mingi.

Wooyoung appears in front of him out of nowhere; it feels that way, at least, because San has deliberately not looked for him. He’s still a bit sweaty from the game, hair in his usual match-style ponytail, chin up like he’s squaring up for a fight. He holds out his arms.

“Come on,” he says, rolling his eyes at San’s hesitation. “You know we have to do it, big boy.”

They really don’t. Half the team is already jogging into the lockers, Eden and the other coaches are gone. Wooyoung is going to drop him, San knows, and he’s asking San to allow him this revenge.

The next time they race or get paired for one-on-ones, San will be trying his hardest to win—just like Wooyoung will be. It’s their default. Maybe there’s a sixth stage to jealousy, though. Maybe San’s guilt will lessen once he falls, and he can enjoy his Wooyoung-triggered indignation without the bitter aftertaste.

“Fine.”

He takes a few steps forward, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. It’s not like San fears an injury, he knows how to fall safely. He just wants to know what Wooyoung’s plan is—will he take a step back as soon as San starts falling, will he pretend to catch San before letting him slip, or will he take the initiative to kick San’s legs out from underneath him?

“Do your worst,” San says, hugging his own shoulders demonstratively.

Wooyoung huffs.

They’re being stared at, of course they are, but none of their teammates interject. San just hopes nobody’s filming this. He trusts Seonghwa not to post an embarrassing moment of him online—if San begs enough—but it would still be unnecessary blackmail material. “Count it down,” he says.

Three, two, one, San closes his eyes and prepares to let the grass embrace him. The world tilts, his body falls, but the impact doesn’t come. Wooyoung’s arms hook under his back and hold—comfortably, almost too easily. It takes San a moment to open his eyes once he realises he’s safe from the fall, and he spends a few more moments just looking at Wooyoung’s face, upside down, trying to read it. Trying to see the moment when he gives up the bluff, lulling San into a false sense of security and dropping him.

Wooyoung’s arms are not built like San’s, but they’re strong; definitely no spaghetti arms. He still seems a bit flushed, like holding San up for seconds upon seconds is starting to exhaust him.

“I was sure you’d drop me,” San says, blinking.

“You think I’m that petty?”

“Yes.”

San feels himself smile—not mocking or goading, it’s the kind of soft amused smile that brings out his dimples. Wooyoung’s eyes must spot them, falling to San’s cheeks, and he—

He lets go.

It’s not a bad fall, the ground soft and San already low enough that he just groans for the sake of it. He’s not angry, and he can’t say that he’s surprised, but he still scowls at Wooyoung when he pushes himself up to a seat.

“Really?”

“I’m as petty as they come,” Wooyoung says before walking away. “And now we’re even.”

San shakes his head at the empty air left behind.

⌢

“I’m not drinking.”

Jongho’s second or fifth shot of lao khao, he shrugs before he brings it to his lips, throwing it back with a small shudder. “Suit yourself,” he says, and turns to toast someone with his empty glass.

Thanks to San’s warning, the party isn’t in Hongjoong’s room.

He has booked out a whole bar for the team and the staff, tables arranged in two long lines like it’s a dinner party. Between all the drinking snacks and the papaya salad, San has been staring at the skewers with longing; he can’t have them after his poor excuse last time.

“Say hi to your dad for me, San-ah,” Hongjoong says from the opposite side of the table. He’s nursing a cocktail, something sweet and pink-looking, bopping his head to the music.

“I’m not going home, hyung.”

“Straight to Ulsan?” Hongjoong raises an eyebrow.

“We only have four days.”

Seonghwa is going back to Jinju, San knows, and he would ask about his plans if Seonghwa wasn’t sitting on the other side of the room, getting noticeably more tipsy than San’s used to seeing him. If he keeps going like that, at least San will have a good excuse to take him home early. It’s nice to be out, San will enjoy it for the time being, but even though the bar almost looks like a different place with the rearranged furniture and brighter lights, San still doesn’t feel at ease.

It smells the same, the bar’s the same, the restroom is—

“Wooyoung, finally!” Jongho shouts behind San’s shoulder.

San tries not to turn around. He readies himself for Wooyoung to take the empty seat next to Jongho, stuffing his mouth with spicy cashews to look busy. But it’s all useless. San can’t not look at Wooyoung as he approaches with a shit-eating grin, dressed up the way San has only ever seen in the tabloids and the TikToks.

Decked out in accessories, like he’s sacrificed them for the duration of the training camp and now needs to compensate. There are several rings in Wooyoung’s ears and one dangly chain, his fingers sparkle with silver, and a cross pendant peeks from under his leather jacket. His hair is different, too—the bangs curved, looking soft.

San crunches on the cashews, hard.

A looker.

He understands what Seonghwa meant, gets it perfectly even before he smells that woody perfume and sees that Wooyoung’s eyes are lined with black. Annoyingly handsome, that’s what Wooyoung is, and while San has been aware of this for a while, the frustration in his gut becomes more tangible when Wooyoung sits down in front of him.

Another thing to compete over, San wants to sigh.

Wooyoung doesn’t greet him. He looks at San, down at his sparkling grape soda, and raises an eyebrow. “What are you having?” he asks Yeosang, and steals his drink before he can answer, taking a big sip through the straw.

It’s so stupid, San wants to groan.

He knows he is handsome himself; he’s shy sometimes but not oblivious. Yeosang is one of the prettiest men San has ever seen, and Seonghwa can be downright ethereal. They’ve never made him feel jealous over their looks, and yet here San is, tucking his shirt into his slacks to better show the fit, absentmindedly fixing his hair. All to prove that he’s a looker, too, when Wooyoung isn’t even paying any attention, bickering with Yeosang after he’s pulled the straw out of his mouth.

But then Wooyoung turns to him, hiding half his face behind his hand as he asks: “Staring again?”

And San suddenly wants to run away, which is just…

Ridiculous.

“Ack, that’s terrible!” Wooyoung screws his face up after sampling Jongho’s shot. Just as quickly, he’s throwing the liquid down his throat and drumming his fingers on the table. “Let’s get some more!”

Jongho orders a full tray—sweetly reminding everyone that he’s not paying a baht—and Wooyoung doesn’t wait to help himself. He holds the shot glass up, licks his lips, then hesitates after all.

“Is it that you don’t want to drink?” he asks San, head tilted. “Or that you can’t drink?”

San, acting like he’s already drunk and stupid with it, reaches for one of the lao khao shots like he’s fighting for the honour of his bloodline. “I’m an expert drinker,” he says, ignoring the chorus of snorts that comes from his teammates.

The liquid is sharp and bitter, it burns his throat but also nostrils. San’s grimace must be the furthest thing from handsome, and he can’t care—he’s just glad the alcohol made it where it should’ve and he didn’t end up spitting it right back in the glass.

Amused, Wooyoung nods. “Good,” he says, and downs his second shot without flinching. “So you can keep up.”

If Seonghwa was at his side, he’d be squeezing San’s arm and shaking his head. Seeing as he’s clearly getting drunk himself and San’s own voice of reason doesn’t work in Wooyoung’s proximity, he grabs another glass.

“San,” Hongjoong says, voice low.

“We’re done with the camp, hyung.” San shrugs.

He’s screwed, he knows it as he holds his breath and lets the alcohol burn down his esophagus. He’s also not going to back down from a petty challenge. What harm could a few shots be?

⌢

It’s too warm in the bar.

That, or the bar is completely fine and someone has set San’s skin on fire. He scratches at his neck but it doesn’t help—it’s warm, not itchy. He tries to unbutton his shirt but the hole seems too small—it’s like it doesn’t go with the button, the shirt a whole puzzle.

“Help, hyung,” he tells Hongjoong, whose mouth seems to drop at San’s ministrations. He sighs and helps him pop the button before holding his hand up.

“How many fingers, San-ah?”

“Three.”

He’s right, but Hongjoong doesn’t praise his answer. That’s fine. San knows that he’s being stupid and irresponsible, but as long as he can still realise that—and not see double—it means he isn’t drunk. Just buzzed. He’ll be fine.

With the drinks being poured and the conversation flowing, there are now people going from one line of tables to the other. Seonghwa has made it to theirs, a few seats away, but he’s still not catastrophizing San’s demise. Instead, he looks like he’s napping on Yunho’s shoulder, snuggly and smiling under his nose. San keeps checking on him and secretly hoping Seonghwa won’t need to be escorted to bed anytime soon; he’s got a drinking contest to win.

“Hey, I almost forgot!” Mingi shouts from the other side of the room, disappearing as he bends down to retrieve something from the floor.

A magazine, San has to sharpen his gaze like he’s adjusting a camera lens before he realises he knows that cover. He is on the cover. GOLDEN BOY, printed right underneath his name and San’s likeness staring down his nose in a pair of fake glasses.

San still doesn’t get why they made him wear those, not like glasses are a football accessory. At least the other photoshoot tried to style him in a more appropriate—

“I brought these for the winners!” Mingi says.

“Winners of what?” someone asks.

“A game, duh.”

“What game?”

“I don’t know.” Mingi falters, looking sideways at San’s cover photo like it can answer in his stead. “Truth or dare?”

It’s too warm and too loud, suddenly.

Between someone protesting that there are no winners in truth or dare, someone else telling Mingi that they’ve already got a copy, and Mingi promising these come with a special signature, San checks out. He wants to undo another button, really, but his fingers are not cooperating. Hongjoong is busy chatting with Maddox, Jongho is teasing Mingi, and then there’s Wooyoung…

Wooyoung, who is already watching San struggle but who San can’t ask for help. If he did, Wooyoung would realise how the alcohol is affecting him and San would lose. The shirt will have to stay a nuisance.

“They just called you golden boy,” Wooyoung says, looking at San’s fingers instead of his face. Smug bastard that he is, he drags another lao khao shot down the table, lining it up by his elbow. “Why are you not shoving them to the ground?”

“Didn’t shove you,” San says—almost shouts in his effort to speak over the music, overdoing it.

“Details.” Wooyoung shrugs.

“They’re not you.” San shrugs, too, and then he hiccups. He only realises that might’ve been the wrong response when his skin gets even more not-sore, not-itchy, not-comfortable.

Wooyoung barks a laugh and he drinks his shot with ease. San locates the tray, too, not wanting to fall behind, but a hand slaps his fingers away from the glass. It topples, clangs, and spills the nasty liquid across the table.

“Shit, my bad!” Wooyoung says, fast and armed with napkins to mop up the mess. “You don’t have to drink this one. We’ll count—”

“Good try,” San says, and simply takes the next glass over. Jongho knew this would happen, clearly, and that’s why he has ordered so much of this poison. San toasts the man in gratitude—well, he toasts Jongho’s elbow, and the gratitude is half nausea—before staring down at the liquid. “I can… I can keep up.”

“San—”

God, it tastes even worse than it did for the last shot.

It’s worse than the laundry detergent his cousin had pranked him with when San was five, worse than the antibiotics his mother tried to mix with Yakult when he had the flu one year. But it’s fine—San just has to do this tonight, and then he’ll never drink the vile liquid again. He doesn’t even need to win as long as he doesn’t lose.

“San-ah, are you playing?” Mingi appears by his side, still carrying that freaking magazine.

“Why would he want his own signature?” Jongho asks.

“Once again,” Yeosang says, inflectionless, “how are you supposed to win this game?”

San doesn’t want to play Say It or Shot It, whatever that is. He’s already playing one game, and he sees no need to add another. However, Wooyoung decides to join, with too much excitement, which means San doesn’t even get a choice.

Almost everyone arranges themselves on one side of the room—their side—with San suddenly squished between Hongjoong and Seunghee. Even warmer, even louder, Mingi distributes alcohol to everyone playing and then pushes his phone into the middle of the table. Whatever app he’s got for this spits out question after question, and they almost complete a full rotation without anyone drinking. What’s your most embarrassing childhood memory? The worst date you’ve ever been on? When did you last fart? Some of the questions are dumb, but nothing to drink over.

“Okay, Sannie’s turn!” Mingi clicks the button to bring up the next question and he frowns in disappointment. “Long hair or short hair? Eugh, boring.”

“Either,” San says, easily.

“Oh, come on!”

“I don’t think hair length matters? As long as the person is—”

“A boring answer for a boring question,” Wooyoung cuts him off, mock-resigned.

“Long hair,” San says.

He really doesn’t think he has a preference until the answer slips out of his mouth, but it makes sense—all his crushes and girlfriends have had long hair. He likes playing with it, likes the tickle of it, likes how Wooyoung sometimes tucks it behind his ear like it’s second nature and—

What even?

Everyone’s attention passed onto the next player, San is glad nobody sees his wince. His thoughts get diverted when Mingi retrieves his phone with a groan, deciding the app is lacking and they can make up better questions on their own. That’s how San gets to know that Mingi has cried over Train to Busan, Jongho thinks Yeosang is the funniest person in the room, and that Minhyuk has had car sex.

The last one leaves San a bit stumped.

Not that he’s surprised, he just gets stuck considering the logistics, and then feeling like the room is positively ablaze. Probably one shot too many, he hopes he doesn’t have to drink. He hopes Wooyoung is shameless enough not to drink, either, so San doesn’t have to match for no fault of his own.

“Captain, do you think Woosan will end up killing each other?”

San’s head snaps towards Hongjoong, the nickname almost like a physical punch. Hongjoong just snorts.

“No,” he says. Then he points a finger across the table. “But Wooyoung will end up killing San if he doesn’t stop drinking.”

“Please, hyung.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “As if I wanted to have his blood on my hands.”

“More like vomit,” someone jokes, and San stands up to pretend he’s ready to throw hands, only to stumble back onto his ass.

Okay, maybe two shots too many. Losing his balance, San thinks this is the most laughable way for him to fight for his pride—he’s making things worse with each drop poured down his throat. But, fixing his posture, he’s back to looking at Wooyoung and feeling the same stubborn heat, the refusal to back down.

The next question Wooyoung gets makes him hesitate. His eyes flash towards the lao khao, then towards San. Something you regret, San’s glad the question isn’t for him. He’s always tried to live his life without regrets, but now he thinks he could supply an answer, and he’s not at all ready to voice it.

“Signing with Suwon,” Wooyoung says, not offering further details.

It’s the club he had played for after debuting with Seoul Jungnang. He’d lasted a year there, San remembers, and then moved to Gimpo. “Why?” he asks.

“One question per round,” Wooyoung rebuffs.

San lets it go. He twists the band on his pointer finger, his grandfather’s ring, and wonders if any of Wooyoung’s rings bear some significance. Probably not. They’re big and flashy, accentuating his big hands. They’re too big for his arms, San chuckles to himself in triumph—next time Wooyoung wants to talk about proportions, he’s going to have that one ready.

If he doesn’t drink it away. That would be a shame.

San is half-listening and half-spacing out—trying to prepare more imaginary comebacks—when he notices Hongjoong shuffling next to him. He’s saying something to Maddox, putting on his denim jacket and looking at the other side of the table, where Seonghwa’s happily napping amidst the chaos, head resting on his folded arms.

“You’re leaving, hyung?”

“Yeah. I’ll take Seonghwa back to the hotel.”

“Did you two have a fight?” San blurts out.

“What?”

He’s been wanting to ask the question for weeks, every single time he and Hongjoong have met for tactical tutoring. He’s asked Seonghwa and got nowhere, though, and that was Seonghwa. Hongjoong is a friend but it’s not like he and San discuss their private lives on the regular. San doesn’t know if it’s the game or the alcohol that makes him bold.

“Just. You act like you’re fighting,” San says. Bold and inarticulate, apparently. “Not like usual. I don’t know. It’s—he won’t tell me.”

“We’re not fighting,” Hongjoong says. Making San pout, he doesn’t give him a chance to prod any further, standing up and away from his seat. He still lingers to give San a parting smile, at odds with his tone. “Please don’t drink anymore, San-ah.”

San hums. He watches Hongjoong wake Seonghwa up with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, watches Seonghwa’s face light up like San hasn’t seen in ages. He’s uncoordinated and takes a long time to stand up and lean onto Hongjoong, but the two leave amidst shouted goodbyes, and then it’s San’s turn to answer another question.

“Sannie-hyung,” Minjae looks at him, grinning. “Is it true that you’re dating your agent?”

“Huh?” The alcohol makes it a bit difficult to control his movements, but San makes sure to frown at that.

“It’s okay if you are.” Minjae puts two fingers to his lips and mimics zipping them shut. “We won’t tell.”

It must be one of the rumours—the ones about him; San hasn’t bothered keeping up with them ever since the time they accused him of having a secret child. Usually, if they got beyond silly and started slandering him or his family—an increasingly common occurrence since last season—Bora would bring them up. He understands why she’s never mentioned this one.

In a way, it isn’t completely unsubstantiated. San has helped her once, posing as a boyfriend when her acquaintance wouldn’t take a hint. But that was a private thing, a one-off intervention, and it’s just as ridiculous as the blind item insinuating San’s interest in stealing Hongjoong’s captaincy.

“Of course not,” San says, shaking his head. “No way. She’s—uh, Bora’s like an older sister.”

“But she’s hot,” someone says.

“Watch your mouth!”

“See?” Minjae teases, good-natured but making San aware of his overheating body again. “You got a little crush, hyung, right? There’s nothing wrong with—”

“Absolutely not,” San says, glad he doesn’t stutter. The lisp is a bit disappointing, but he thinks he projects his bewilderment well enough. “Just a rumour, Minjae-ya. Don’t believe everything you read.”

Almost as soon as he says it, San remembers who’s sitting on the opposite side of the table. Wooyoung, who is watching the exchange, face hard to read. He doesn’t know about San’s research—and god, San needs to stay sober enough to not let that slip—but San’s stomach does a nauseating flip. He wants to take a shot, as some twisted kind of a punishment.

Then Wooyoung drinks when someone asks who was the last person he’s stalked on Instagram, and with the alcohol indeed burning down San’s throat, some of the guilt subsides.

A few more teammates leave, another round starts. They get into football-related questions just when San feels his eyelids starting to droop, but he can’t have that. He drinks some water. He pinches his palm. Hyunwoo, his saviour, brings the whole table back to life.

“When’s the last time you had sex?” he asks Wooyoung, eliciting a loud scoff.

“Aish, you punk! What kind of a question is that?”

“A fun one!” Hyunwoo holds his hands up but, under Wooyoung’s uneven gaze, he withers into a blush. “Come on, hyung. You can just drink.”

Same as before, Wooyoung looks at the alcohol and then at San. Pauses. Shrugs. “Two weeks ago.”

Some players seem shocked, some congratulatory. San tries to do mental math and fails. Two weeks. That’s fourteen days. Was that before or after the bathroom incident? He catches himself hoping that it was before, then catches himself holding water in his mouth without swallowing. What the hell.

After four weeks of camp, most everyone seems horny and fed up with it. The same question gets passed around, then, to every second player, and San does have enough time to fabricate his answer before it’s his turn, but he feels awkward doing it. He can’t really remember, and Wooyoung is already winning this one regardless.

“Sannie-hyung?”

San doesn’t even wait before he drinks. Somewhere in all the fluff that now fills his brain, he sends an apology to Hongjoong. Somewhere further back beyond that, he wonders why this shot tastes much milder, almost like he’s just drinking water. He chuckles.

Finally, he must be getting better at this drinking thing.

⌢

“Ugh, you—you should really go back.”

San is proud he gets the words out around the lump in his throat. It is, in the grand scheme of things, his one and only reason to feel proud: he’s sitting on cold and dirty tiles, head swimming, in disgusting proximity to a toilet bowl. And Wooyoung is witnessing all of it, leaning against a sink, just a few steps away.

He has won, San knows.

Irrevocably.

“Contrary to what you believe, sweetheart,” Wooyoung says, the chipper tone like sandpaper scraping San’s ear drums, “I don’t want you to choke to death.”

“But ‘m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Please.”

“Begging? Really?” Wooyoung asks, but when San turns to actually look up at him, he grimaces and looks the other way. He clears his throat. “I’ll go if you can stand up.”

That should be easy. San doesn’t remember how, exactly, he’s made it to the restroom, but he must’ve walked. That involves standing. He stands for a living. Well, runs, but even in his current state, San realises that’s a tad ambitious. When he tries to get off his butt, the world tilts and he feels a swell of nausea in his gut. He plops back down.

“See?” Wooyoung asks, and that’s where the conversation dies again. Like before, minutes pass in silence, only filled by the muffled music and shouts coming from the bar.

San doesn’t know how long they’ve been here for. He knows he hasn’t actually vomited, thank goodness, and the last thing he remembers is the drinking game taking a turn—Mingi announcing that the first five people to complete a dare would be the ones winning his exclusive magazines. San’s exclusive magazines.

Maybe that’s why San has left them to it. Who would want their own signature as a prize?

He must’ve stayed for some of the game, though, because he remembers helping Yunho complete a dare. Remembers Yunho’s hand gripping his chin to plant a kiss on him, remembers catching Wooyoung’s glare to inform him: “See? I’m not a homophobe.”

Shit, San muffles a groan of embarrassment; that must’ve been awkward.

Although he usually dislikes drinking because he can’t stand the thought of blacking out, he finds himself hoping that this whole night will be a big question mark by tomorrow. It will drive future-San nuts, without a doubt, but it’s preferable to recalling his sorry state.

He decides the best way forward is to turn everything into a joke.

“If you don’t go back,” he says, twisting his head towards Wooyoung again, “you, uh—you won’t get a magazine.”

Wooyoung scoffs. “Who wants your signature?”

San deflates. He tries again. “Do it for my privacy?”

“This is a public restroom.”

Don’t pout, don’t pout, don’t pout, San’s mind starts looping, but once he gets fixated on preventing that, it’s easy to slip and… do the other thing. To let his eyes travel to Wooyoung’s exposed shoulders again, leather jacket left behind. To the cross of his necklace, his long legs. That must be why he runs so fast—and San’s legs won’t grow any longer, so that must be why he gulps.

Or maybe not.

“Where’s Benz?” he asks, getting with the programme. He was trying to crack a joke. It looks like he’s going to fail again—Wooyoung’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but San beats him to it. “In his Mercedes?”

In the silence, San can hear the hum of water in the pipes, the dripping faucet, the encouraging shouts as someone outside starts singing. He wishes he could stand up and join. The quip wasn’t as funny as San had hoped, crossing a line he wasn’t—

Wooyoung laughs, short and sharp. It feels like a kick to San’s stomach, but not in a bad way. “Fuck, San, that was terrible,” he says, but that doesn’t really sting either, because he smiles doing it.

“You still laughed.” San shrugs.

“Out of pity.”

“Sure.”

Told you I’m not a homophobe, San bites into his tongue just in time.

Saying that would bring down the mood again, and though he’s not sure how he can tell, the fact that he can tell must mean that he’s sobering up. A little longer and he can have another attempt at leaving the stinky floor. Then he’ll start looking for scraps of his dignity.

“I’m sorry,” he says, making himself stare this time. It’s the harder thing, so it must be done.

“Huh?” Wooyoung cocks his head. “It’s okay, a bad joke doesn’t—”

“No, um. I mean, for before. For being…”

Even drunk, San tries not to swear. Wooyoung does it for him. “For being an ass?”

“Yeah.” The tile grout is suddenly a very tempting subject to study but San resists. If he’s already lost his shame to alcohol, he can just as well use the liquid courage. “I was an ass. I didn’t—I haven’t been fair to you. You didn’t steal my spot—”

“San.”

“—and I know you deserve it, I do. But I haven’t been in my right mind lately. For many reasons, not just—you know. So I took it out on you and I’m, uh—I’m really sorry about that.”

In the few seconds of silence that follow, Wooyoung starts blinking rapidly. It has San a bit scared—if there’s a problem, if Wooyoung’s feeling faint and someone ought to help, San is not that person right now. He’s the worst person to try and help, actually, since he can’t even stand. When Wooyoung steadies his gaze and opens his mouth, San starts breathing again.

“Well, to be fair—” Wooyoung presses his lips together, biting at the bottom one “—I kind of encouraged it.”

He’s not wrong.

Wooyoung was encouraging it even an hour ago, showing off his drinking skills while San was drinking away his pride. He’s lost, though, and Wooyoung will still be Ulsan’s number nine tomorrow because he’s earned it. He’ll grow closer and closer to the team because he’s a nice person. He won’t stop looking the way he does, and San—

His jealousy is still a bit perplexing, but it’s something he needs to figure out on his own.

“So what now, golden boy?” Wooyoung says, like he’s testing the waters with the nickname. “You want to be friends?”

San mirrors him, subconsciously worrying at his bottom lip.

Being on good terms with his teammates is San’s default, they’re the people he spends most of his time with. Being civil to Wooyoung has already made this week easier. They might’ve missed the boat on being friends but…

San doesn’t like giving up without any effort.

“Maybe,” he says. If he could walk, he feels like he’d be pacing. He raises his chin instead as he asks: “Do you?”

Wooyoung considers him from the upward angle, and San tries not to feel even more self-conscious: he’s already sitting next to a toilet, uncoordinated, probably sweaty and hilariously red in the face. As if reading his thoughts, Wooyoung smirks.

“I don’t know, I kinda like fighting with you,” he says. He uncrosses his arms as he nods, though. His voice grows softer. “Maybe.”

A part of San is expecting his face to crack, for more laughter to follow and for the idea to get dismissed. But Wooyoung lets the silence settle, and San lets out a long breath. He pulls his knees closer to his chest, thinking he should try it now—standing up when he feels steadier.

“If you were my friend,” Wooyoung says, with a teasing tone that brings even more relief, “I’d have to take a photo of you. Now. For my records—”

“Do that and I—I flush your phone,” San says, a hiccup making the threat sound laughable.

“I’d love to see you try.”

Wooyoung takes his phone out. San sighs. He doesn’t move at all, arms curling over his knees and forehead falling on a wrist. Resigned to his fate, maybe this is what being Wooyoung’s friend could be like: fighting with zero expectations of winning. Playing for the sake of it.

He flinches when he hears footsteps, sudden and too close, and then Wooyoung’s trying to hoist him up by the armpits.

“Hey, wait—!”

“Come on, you wanted to steal my phone.” Wooyoung pulls, and pulls, and finally gets San to rise halfway. “Where’s that fighting spirit?”

“Where’s the phone?”

Wooyoung just snickers. His not-spaghetti-arms do a good job of getting San upright, but San is still bigger and heavier and dizzy. He makes them stumble, Wooyoung swearing as he hits the toilet with his foot. The idea of toppling into it flashes through San’s mind, and it should be much more concerning than falling on grass, but he doesn’t panic. Wooyoung’s arm sneaks around his waist, a hand gripping San from the side, and he knows he won’t fall this time.

His knees still feel like they’re about to buckle when he looks at Wooyoung.

It’s really just unfair, San thinks, that with his talent and his charm and his easy smile, he has to be so stupidly attractive, too.

He doesn’t say that out loud, but Wooyoung’s expression almost makes him believe he did. Back pressed against the stall, face right above San’s, the faintest smell of alcohol masked by his usual perfume. Eyes wide. Probing. It’s an image that feels familiar for no good reason. It makes a familiar heat flare in San’s belly, one that he can’t place.

Almost like when he scores an important goal, almost like when he feels nervous before a game, almost like when he’s turned on and—

“Fuck.” He steps back, a bit unbalanced but still steadied by Wooyoung’s hold. “Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” San shakes his head, a mistake that makes everything so much more disorienting. He sighs and focuses his eyes on Wooyoung’s feet. “You should be careful.”

“Hm?”

“With your ankle.”

Wooyoung must roll his eyes. San doesn’t see it but he can sense it. “You’re the one tripping me.”

“Comes with the friendship,” San says,

“Good thing you won’t remember this tomorrow.”

He frowns. “I—”

Wooyoung pushes at him, freeing himself in the process. “Let’s get you some water, huh?”

San hums. He tries not to lean on Wooyoung too much, just enough to put one foot in front of the other without the floor swallowing him whole. He’s fine, just a bit disgruntled when Wooyoung insists on making their trip longer, rerouting to the sink. When San realises why, the discontent fades.

Washing his hands. Right. He should hope not to remember any of this.

Hyunwoo comes into the restroom just then, blinking at them like they’re a pair of ghosts before his face splits into a grin. “Woosan! You’re here!” The grin falters, head tilting. “Why are you here?”

“Sannie’s just finished puking his guts out,” Wooyoung says.

“Hey!”

“Don’t go into the last stall,” he continues. “It’s gruesome.”

Sighing, San wishes he could’ve just blacked out and let everyone else deal with it. He’d probably be sleeping by now. Wooyoung wouldn’t be making fun of him, and he wouldn’t be helping San cross the restroom, slapping his hand away to open the door.

The whole night has been humiliating and silly and concerning—and yet, as the wish flashes through his mind, San knows that he doesn’t really mean it.

For the most part, he doesn’t want to forget.

Chapter Text

unsporting behaviour

(in football) referring to fouls and misconduct, typically activities that are outside the scope of the playing of the game.

⚽︎

It’s snowing when their training resumes on Wednesday.

Sitting in his car in the parking lot, San tells himself it’s the heated seats that are making him dawdle. He doesn’t really mind the cold—and knows it won’t even register once he’s on the field—but he watches the fat snowflakes gather on his windscreen, gathering his own courage.

It’s just training.

There’ll be some teasing to welcome him, some embarrassing mumbling on his part, but, otherwise, there’s nothing to fear. Under past circumstances, San would’ve been looking forward to it—there are always compliments hidden behind the snark, and the photos have come out well…

But, today, Wooyoung will be there.

On the Munsu field, in the locker room, in all the nooks and corridors of San’s second home. He will be louder-than-life and impossible to ignore. Maybe a friend, San feels a strange itch at the memory. Maybe nothing of the sort, given their rocky start.

“Hey, hyung?”

San jolts at the thudding knocks against his side window, relaxing when he sees it’s Jongho. The Spurs beanie covering half his face doesn’t reach his cheerful grin and San mirrors it immediately. It lasts about two seconds—long enough for him to finally open the door and start making his way out. Then the devil appears right behind Jongho’s shoulder.

“Are you sick?” Wooyoung asks San instead of a greeting.

“What—”

“Check his temperature, Jongho-ya!” he says, nudging the other with his elbow.

San leans back but Jongho doesn’t follow the order, and Wooyoung seems to prioritise keeping his hands warm in his jacket pockets. He’s got a beanie of his own, a scarf the size of a blanket, and starts walking towards the stadium entrance when he doesn’t get a fast answer from San, grumbling about the snow.

San, catching up by Jongho’s side, only blinks at him.

He’s had four days to imagine how the training would go. Between the Dazed spread dropping, San biting the bullet and looking through all of Ulsan’s pre-season social media, and the memory flashes of their last night in Koh Samui, San has been expecting… something else.

Certainly not a hug. Maybe a playful insult. Something that would steer San in the right direction, helping him deal with the uncharted territory.

Count on Wooyoung to defy expectations.

“He’s right, you know,” Jongho says, giving San a questioning look. “I expected you to be there already. First thing in the morning, making us all feel like we’re slacking.”

“You work very hard,” San says, not wanting to address the rest.

He was at the gym this morning—not doing actual drills, but still getting a headstart on the day. He was also at the stadium two days ago—not going inside, but looking at the Big Crown from a distance. Outside of matches, San always liked being near the stadium to ease his mind. It didn’t calm him one bit this Sunday when he took his car for a drive, suggesting he might have to find a different coping mechanism.

Bummer.

“—but, apparently, my taste in cars is lacking.”

“Wait.” San stops humming along to Jongho’s summary of all the friends he’s met in their four days off. “You gave Wooyoung a ride?”

“Yeah?”

“He doesn’t drive?”

Jongho quirks an eyebrow. “Are you about to make this into another competition?” he asks. “I was hoping the last one put you off, hyung.”

San goes quiet. The thought of competing hasn’t even crossed his mind, but the information might come in handy. The next time Wooyoung tries to initiate a pissing contest over something silly—because he will. San knows it and, if the past four days have made him realise anything, he wants it to happen. He’s not sure when and how it got to this point.

He must’ve lost his sanity.

“Can you walk any slower?” Wooyoung asks, waiting for them by the entrance.

San demonstrates that, yes, he can, but Wooyoung just adjusts his duffle bag and trails after Jongho. They pass by some stadium staff and Oliv-hyung, the team’s PT, and Wooyoung greets them all with polite bows, and he looks eerily small in his blanket-scarf, the opposite of the man who’d walked into training camp with coffee and a confident grin.

First day jitters? San wants to ask, but they reach the locker room before he makes himself and, there, pandemonium awaits.

“Shut up, he’s here!”

“Oh my god, it’s the Choi San!”

“Ulsan coverboy!”

There are shouts, wolf whistles, and Mingi gets him in a faux-headlock that’s just an excuse to tickle San into a crouch. The blush burns from San’s ears to his belly, too many copies of the magazine floating in his field of vision, but he smiles anyway; just like predicted, there’s praise amidst the taunting. For every accusation of him leaving football behind to become a model, airing thirst traps to the nation, or being terribly strapped for money, there’s a ‘handsome’ or ‘impressive’ thrown into the mix.

San is, at the end of the day, a weak man.

“Although I have some questions about the styling,” Hongjoong says, one of the few people looking onto the scene while keeping his distance.

“Odd theme for February,” Seonghwa agrees, in the middle of it, scolding San for keeping the whole thing a secret.

Eventually, the excitement dies down.

Eden comes to greet them and give them a five minute warning, and the latecomers rush to change while others chat about their break. Wooyoung is already in his number nine jersey, laughing with Yeosang, and San tries to convince himself that he’s glad not to have received any comments from him. They would’ve made his heart pressure spike, the way he’s come to associate with Wooyoung, the way that’s been making him uneasy from the start and uneasier since that drunken night in Thailand.

San turns to put on his own jersey, the fabric smelling with newness.

The moment he pulls it down, he could be wearing any one of his teammates’ shirts, but he still feels like the number is now imprinted onto his skin. Between his name and the team’s sponsor, the ten is unmistakable. It doesn’t weigh a gram but San wants to wear it well.

He’s zipping up his training jacket, about to head out of the room, when Wooyoung stops him.

“Wait.”

He steps into San’s way, almost crashing into him. The grin is the first thing San registers, setting off his warning bells. They ring louder as he notices the sharpie in Wooyoung’s hand, and blare by the time he sees what else Wooyoung’s holding. The magazine, open to the very first page of the spread. The only page where San is completely shirtless—without the unzipped windbreaker or the wet tank top—just him in a pair of football shorts and socks, holding the ball to his chest.

“Sign for me, San-ssi,” Wooyoung says, overly saccharine.

San snorts and tries to sidestep him but Wooyoung foresees that and blocks his way again. “Oh, don’t be shy. You look very handsome.”

It’s an obvious ploy, Wooyoung trying to get him to do—something, San isn’t sure. But there are way too many people looking at them, and Wooyoung is back to looking like himself, smile lines up to his eyes and eyes up to no good. The word sounds different coming from him. Not the handsome that comes with a fist bump, or Bora’s matter-of-fact handsome as she reassured him the photos would be a hit, and certainly not the sincere but awkward handsome that San’s mother has texted.

“You didn’t want my signature,” San says, and Wooyoung’s eyes almost sparkle, like San has passed some random test he didn’t even know about.

“Just do it. As a thank you gift,” Wooyoung says.

“Thank you?”

“For me being a good friend.”

San doesn’t voice his sigh. Maybe that’s what gets him to grip the pen and square his jaw, aware that they’re about to be late for training—and about to drag all the onlookers along. It’s no big deal. San has already signed over his abs for fans, two autographs just this morning at the convenience store.

“You can make it out to your best friend, actually—”

“There.” San ignores him, done scribbling and capping the pen.

“To my biggest fan,” Wooyoung reads, smile not budging. “Cute. I’ll treat the whole team to BBQ once I sell this. We can—”

San bites the pen cap off again, pulling against Wooyoung’s grip on the magazine to add another word. Wooyoungie, he writes, and he doesn’t know what makes him add the little heart afterwards, but it shuts Wooyoung up in an instant and San feels the sweet success buzz through his veins.

“Why—now—you ruined it,” Wooyoung says, and he shoots a dirty glare at the pen San shoves into his hand.

“I just did what—”

“Woosan!” Hongjoong interrupts, glaring from the doorway. “Wrap it up now, will you?”

San leaves first, a bit mortified, while Wooyoung stuffs the magazine back into his bag. He overtakes San in the corridor, for no good reason, rushing out onto the field first. San, foolishly, derives comfort from the flush of Wooyoung’s exposed nape.

⌢

“And you feel good about it, now? The new position?”

San hugs the sofa cushion to his chest, looking at his father’s blurry form on the phone display; for so much of the training camp, San has wanted to call him for advice.

A strict forward in his time, his dad doesn’t have personal experience with transitioning into the midfield, but he has always had the answers for San. Since the very first time he’d brought San along to the field—letting him collect the corner flags and dribble with his teammates—and even before that. Finishing technique or a late growth spurt, San could always count on him.

Still, he didn’t call him in Koh Samui.

Partly because they’ve made it an unspoken deal to always let San prepare for a season on his own terms, partly because San wouldn’t even know what to say. There was his anxiety, there was the number ten, and then there was Wooyoung.

He holds his breath as he nods at the screen. “I do.”

After thinking about it for four days, San thinks he’s done a good job of summarising the camp. Sticking to the basics, admitting his apprehension, laying out the action plan. Not mentioning Wooyoung beyond a passing comment.

He’d be lying if he said his time in Thailand had been easy. So much of it has reminded San of his first ever pre-season camp: the anxiety, the comparisons, letting some of the worst parts of himself surface. A sobering experience in many ways, it still left him with a thrill.

His dataset, San can see the potential.

“Alright.” His father nods back, smiling. “Then that’s good. That’s the most important.”

San feels his shoulders drop, and he resists the urge to nod again. It’s still snowing outside—he sees the snowflakes fluttering under the streetlight and makes a mental note to pack a hat for tomorrow. With his newfound lightness, he changes the topic to his father’s woodworking, asks about the community dinner his mother’s attending, listens to a near-incomprehensible monologue about baseball.

“You were already back at Munsu today, right? How was the training?”

“Good.” San sees his own miniature, in the corner of the screen, pursing his lips in thought. “Nothing much. Coach could see that we’re still adjusting to the weather.”

It’s the short of it; training was fine, they went over some small-sided games and discussed defensive strategies against Hammarby. Not very different from the pre-season trainings, except they had the Big Crown as a backdrop again and San’s breath kept coming out in misty puffs. Different place, same team, Wooyoung and him were even in goals scored until the last 3v3 and then Wooyoung got ahead, just to hit San with a: “Keep up, sweetheart.”

San had thought he was immune to Wooyoung’s nicknames by now. It wasn’t even the first time he’d dropped a sweetheart on him, San could remember it clearly amidst the blur that was his encounter with lao khao. Needless to say, San didn’t respond, and he didn’t keep up.

“And how’s the Jung boy? Your new striker?”

Panicked, San checks his own thumbnail again, convinced he must’ve given something away with a frown. If anything, there’s a smile lingering on his face—and the realisation makes it quickly disappear.

San paints it back on.

“He’s good,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Wooyoung-ssi is really talented. You’ll see at the Daegu game. He’s, uh—” He pauses, slowing down. “I think he’ll be a good fit for the team.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His father hums. “I didn’t put too much stock in the rumours, but it’s good to know you’re getting along.”

They end the call soon after, San promising he’ll go to sleep early, his dad going off to do another load of laundry. In the silence that follows, San puts the cushion back, leaning onto it, and revisits the same set of videos he’s been looping since Sunday: him and Wooyoung, and their own ‘Woosan ☂️’ highlight on the team’s account.

San doesn’t know what to think of it.

The videos, mostly chosen and shot by Seonghwa, show a very narrow portion of reality. They seem good-natured for the most part, just their stupid shenanigans during training—trying to outrun and outshoot each other, some of the ribbing, some of the glaring. Seonghwa has asked for San’s permission, so there’s none of the really embarrassing stuff.

It’s still enough that, apparently, some media people have picked up on it.

San didn’t look up any of the rumours, protecting his own peace of mind. But Bora was straightforward when they met two days ago, asking about his and Wooyoung’s rivalry.

“Just let me know if he’s giving you trouble, San-ah,” she said, shaking the ice in her americano. “Wooyoung-ssi doesn’t have an agent at the moment, so we could go directly to—”

“Wait.” San held up a hand to cover his face, mouth full of whipped cream. “He doesn’t? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bora said, with an expression that made it clear she had some guesses. “Either way, it makes it easier for us if there’s an issue.”

“There isn’t,” San said. He resisted the urge to look down at his cake, holding her gaze. “We’re fine. We’re—friends.”

Make it out to your best friend.

The last video in the highlight is a close-up of Wooyoung, looking at the camera with a grin.

“Did you catch it? No? Oh, come on, hyung!” He rolls his eyes with a little huff, making the collar of his jersey flap for air. He changes his tone, a tad more formal, and continues: “We did trust falls again today. Great bonding activity, I highly recommend it. Me and San-ssi are experts by now.”

“You dropped him,” Seonghwa’s disembodied voice accuses.

“You didn’t film it.” Wooyoung shrugs. “No footage means no proof!”

He laughs—the hearty cackle—and the video cuts off there, making San wonder if it’s the distorted sound of the recording, or if Wooyoung’s laugh is not that annoying at all. It makes him pout. Pushing his head back against the cushion in a needless stretch, he opens up his own account for a mood boost.

There are a lot of comments on his latest post—lots of praise for his Dazed photos, lots of encouragement heading into the new season. A few users question if he’s a stripper or a football player, but they’re too much of a minority for San to really care. Near the top, however, he notices a new comment from an all-too-familiar username.

wooyoun9: this is what happens when you overdo it. no shirts your size 😪

San rolls his eyes.

He’s not following Wooyoung, and Wooyoung’s not following him. The comment has some random likes but it should be easy to ignore. San responds to it right away.

choi.san: jealous, much? 😌

By the time he thinks better of it, it’s posted and collecting likes of its own. The embarrassment makes San get up at last, to wash up and get ready for sleep. Before he does, he remembers to check the scores for the Atletico-Real game that he’s missed earlier. He basically opens Instagram by accident.

wooyoun9: you wish

⌢

“Oh, please! Not even you believe that!”

“PSG barely had possession. The first goal was all thanks to the referee, and the second was pure—”

“It’s not the referee’s fault that your team couldn’t hit a barn door—”

“Because your team is so good at—”

“Okay, that’s enough!”

Wooyoung is loud, and San matches him happily to fight for Inter’s honour, but they both fall silent at Coach Eden’s voice.

It’s then that San blinks himself into his surroundings properly, all up in Wooyoung’s face in the middle of their locker room, half the team pointedly ignoring them, and the other half sharing just as pointed glances. Wooyoung steps back. A silly argument for the sake of arguing—San knows he has been smiling by the middle of it—it must’ve gotten heated somewhere along the way, because Wooyoung’s cheeks are all pink.

“Thank you, Woosan,” Coach Eden says, sardonic, which makes San realise that maybe Wooyoung is blushing. He feels himself do the same. “Now, let’s go over the strategy one more time.”

They sit down, side by side on the metal bench, as Coach Eden repeats their focus points for the match. Hammarby tend to dominate possession and they have well-organised attacks. In turn, Ulsan needs to tighten up the defensive line and press forward. They know which players are the biggest threats. They know which manoeuvres could bring them the best opportunities. They still listen and respond to Eden’s questions when he checks, and then it’s fifteen minutes until the warm up.

Mingi plays some music on his phone, Jongho starts singing, Seonghwa takes a quick video. Two times, San tries to initiate conversation with the man sitting beside him, only to get stuck staring at his forearm.

He’s seen flashes of Wooyoung’s new tattoo in the locker room but, during trainings, Wooyoung has kept it covered. He must’ve got it right after the camp: an arrow with feathers that resemble flames, flying through a hole of what appears to be a football net. It looks healed. It looks good. San desperately wants to ask about it, meaning that he can’t.

On his third try, he looks at Wooyoung’s face, opens his mouth, and actually manages to speak.

“How are you settling in?”

“Eh?”

“You’re from Seoul, right?” Wooyoung’s eyes travel across San’s own face, narrowing. “I mean, you’ve mostly played up north. Ulsan must feel… different.”

“It’s a city,” Wooyoung says, but his expression smoothes out. “I like what I’ve explored of my area.”

“You got a flat already,” San says, realising halfway through the sentence that it shouldn’t be a question. Of course Wooyoung has a flat—he’ll be staying in Ulsan for at least a year. He’ll soon have his favourite shops and bars, a group of friends, and a favourite drive to work. Except he doesn’t drive. San shakes off the train of thought. “Where are you staying?”

“Seongnam-dong.”

“Oh, cool! I’m in Taehwa-dong!” San says. At Wooyoung’s uncertain expression, he explains: “It’s right next to—”

Wooyoung looks away from him, still that odd uncertainty before his mouth curves into a smile. “I know.”

They talk a bit more: about Gajisan, the best shopping spots, and the Lotte Giants. The last topic gets Wooyoung so animated that San has trouble keeping up with his words, a rush of names and terms that mean nothing to him except what he’s picked up from his dad. Halfway through Wooyoung’s fanboy stream, San realises this is probably the longest conversation they’ve ever had. A proper one, at least, and certainly the longest where they’ve managed to go without trying to one up each other.

It’s nice to let his guard down.

“Where’s Shiber?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly, bringing the peace to an end.

“Who?”

He snorts, dismissing San’s weak attempt at escaping the question. “Shiber? Your plushie? Your good luck charm?”

“Oh, him.” San wishes the bench could swallow him. He clears his throat and straightens up, shaking his head. “He’s retired. We’ve—outgrown each other.”

“Like you’ve outgrown your shirts?” Wooyoung smirks.

“I—”

“A shame,” he says, looking down and tugging up his socks. “I always thought it was—”

He stops himself there and San doesn’t get a chance to ask, Hongjoong announcing their fifteen minutes are up and they’re due for their warmup. The team starts pouring out the door with excited shouts and chants, San himself clapping Jongho and Mingi’s shoulders and hyping them up before he notices Wooyoung’s still by the bench.

It’s just a friendly, another chance to practice for the team, and a chance for the club to draw the crowds back in after the break. The outcome doesn’t matter, officially, but San knows that it does. For the team mindset. For his own peace of mind. For someone who’s playing their first match as an official part of the team.

“What are you waiting for?” He takes a few steps back, letting other teammates get ahead. Once Wooyoung looks at him, San grins. His next words tumble out of him, deceivingly easy, like they aren’t almost a week overdue. “Keep up, honey,” he says, watches Wooyoung’s eyes widen, and almost sprints out of the locker room, holding back the urge to laugh.

⌢

It’s a loud match.

Both the Hammarby players and the fans—despite only a minority of the crowd being decked out in green and white—are vocal and enthusiastic. Hammarby start the game off easy, like they’re not putting in their best efforts for an exhibition game, but San can’t block out the chants. Nothing that happens in the first half is much cause for sweat; he still feels like a fish out of water.

Yeosang scores the first goal, thirty minutes in, after San’s assist. It’s the first successful manoeuvre he’s pulled, after several risky forward passes that got his team absolutely nowhere.

In a battle of his instincts—all the old ones of an aggressive striker, all the ones he’s tried to develop in a month—of course the first set comes easier.

Frustrated by the limitations, San only finds himself staying central after they score the second goal and get a proper lead.

Wooyoung’s the one delivering the ball into the centre of the net, skimming the goalkeeper’s right glove. The crowd cheers. The team flocks to him. Wooyoung makes a celebratory loop around the field, hugging Yeosang, then Seonghwa, then several more players. He steers clear of San.

They’re not really playing together.

It’s not that San ignores him for passes or vice versa, but the execution is sloppy. Badly timed. Like they’ve got more trouble predicting each other’s moves instead of the opposition.

After halftime, Hammarby start pushing more.

With Eden’s voice in his head, San tries to focus on being more conscious of where Wooyoung is just slightly to his left, Yeosang to the right, Seonghwa at his back. It works, and they have a few more good chances, but Hammarby are not as laid-back anymore.

They break through the defensive line more often, score their first goal, and give the midfield trouble.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong control it, for the most part, but San can see himself in their lack of synchronisation. There are more nerves on Hongjoong’s part than usual, and more hesitation on Seonghwa’s; several times, he chooses a delayed pass to San while Hongjoong is clearly better positioned to receive it.

San tries not to be concerned. He tries not to dwell on it, when Wooyoung scores their third goal and skips him for the hugs again. He tries not to feel disappointed after they win the game and he still hasn’t found the breakthrough he’s been hoping for.

The unease is hard to ignore, but it does lessen—at least momentarily—when the game is over and Wooyoung bumps into him.

“Last one in the showers doesn’t get any heat packs!” he shouts.

San doesn’t even need the heat packs; he sets off, warmth shooting up his insides.

⌢

The second friendly in Yunnan is a blur.

This time, they’re the ones travelling: San driving up to Seoul with Seonghwa and Minjae, then a five-hour plane to Kunming. He rooms with Mingi for the trip, and Seonghwa gets to room with Wooyoung. It fills San with unexplainable nerves, ones he doesn’t get to entertain or untangle. Training, then sleep, rinse and repeat for two days before the match. A 2:2 draw that multiplies every one of San’s Hammarby concerns by ten.

He’s still making silly mistakes on the field, prioritising his own attacks and delaying chances. Wooyoung is still scoring and ignoring him, costing the team good opportunities when he lets himself be cornered instead of working with someone else. Hongjoong and Seonghwa are still being odd.

“You’re overthinking, San-ah,” Hongjoong tells him at the formal dinner that Yunnan Yukun arranges before their morning departure.

San, preoccupied with watching the other end of the table—where Wooyoung and Seonghwa are sampling some kind of a cheese speciality amidst loud giggles—takes a moment to realise what Hongjoong is referring to.

“I know, hyung,” he says, “but knowing doesn’t exactly help.”

Hongjoong hums, eyes seemingly caught by the giggles, too. He takes a sip of his tea. “I’m sure saying this will also help,” he starts with a self-effacing smile, “but you really don’t need to stress. Not yet. We’ve got about seven matches to go before you need to start worrying.”

“Seven?” San snorts. “How’d you get that number?”

“Secret captain calculations.” Hongjoong shrugs. “You’re doing well in simulations. Decently on the field. Seven matches and you’ll be golden.”

Golden, San’s got one association for the word and it makes his palms sweat. He doesn’t tell Hongjoong that seven matches is too generous—that he needs to do well, now, before the season actually starts and everyone sees—and he doesn’t ask if that’s how Hongjoong views his own issues. That would make San vulnerable, open the space for questions about something else, and San doesn’t even want to start thinking about how he’d explain it out loud.

The way he’d stood in front of Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s hotel door before the dinner, One Piece card deck in hand, then turned around without knocking. How he wants to stand up, now, and go steal the cheese from Wooyoung’s plate just to get a reaction. The fact that, just two minutes ago, he caught himself glaring at Park Seonghwa, one of his closest friends.

San is supposed to be jealous of Wooyoung—his football skills and his charisma, the ease with which he’s befriending some of San’s favourite people. He shouldn’t be wondering about what Seonghwa has said, to make Wooyoung snort so hard he has to cover his cheese-filled mouth.

Day by day, San is running out of explanations.

“Well,” he says, “I always trust your math, captain.”

⌢

Although Kim Yonghwan’s team appears to be in good condition after their pre-season training, its performance against Yunnan Yukun lacks the confidence we’ve witnessed throughout their 2024 winning streak.

“We are looking forward to the season,” says Coach Kim. “Newly recruited players are quickly assimilating into the team, and the atmosphere between seniors and juniors is really good. We’ve made positioning changes that the team is still adapting to, but the players are all thinking positively about the new season.”

Coach Kim’s words are encouraging but only time will tell if the changes made were for the better. In the following month, the eyes of all Ulsan KQ fans will be on the—

San stops reading when a notification pops up at the top of his screen, letting out a big breath.

jjongbear:

on the way now

b there in 10

He sends back a thumbs up and melts into the sofa. The phone feels heavy on his thigh.

San tries not to touch it, not to read the rest of the article. Analyses can be good, and he likes hearing the perspective of other coaches and experts to improve his performance. Doom-laden predictions shared around KakaoStory are not useful. Not when he’s already overthinking.

It’s a Sunday, a day off from training and the time when he and Jongho usually meet up to go for a drive. San doesn’t need the practice anymore, and they both know it, but they’re still keeping the pretense to hang out for the afternoon. San, because he—despite all his attempts to curb future pain—misses his Jongho time. Jongho, because he likes having a personal driver.

San has been dressed and ready to go for the past thirty minutes—before Jongho’s gone quiet in their chat—and that’s how the scrolling happened. He needs a new hobby, probably. Something to do with his hands.

He’s thinking of the pros and cons of crocheting versus origami while he’s already on his phone again, closing Kakao in favour of Instagram. He likes Seonghwa’s latest foodie reel, and Hongjoong’s photo of a random rooftop, and then he somehow finds himself looking at Wooyoung’s latest mirror selfies.

Posted just an hour ago, he’s wearing a hoodie San recognises—pushed up to his elbows, making the tattoo and the veins on his forearms stand out. San has never paid attention to someone’s veins. Focusing on the sharp angle of Wooyoung’s jaw is more reasonable, but not by much. Nor the neck. The nose is safe, San decides, but something in his brain must snap because he likes the post without even noticing.

Ah.

He’s not following Wooyoung, and Wooyoung’s not following him. It’s one like out of three thousand, and he unlikes the post as soon as he realises. Then he feels even stupider.

They’re meant to be friends now. They only compete for fun. Wooyoung hasn’t hurled an insult at him in weeks.

jjongbear:

oh btw

wooyoungie’s tagging along

hope thats ok

we’re almost there

San closes his eyes and lets his nape hit the headrest. His mind easily conjures up Jongho’s mischievous smile. It’s too late for San to back out—and there’s some excitement in all his trepidation, he can’t even deny it—but he doesn’t reply. He looks down at his comfy sweatpants and gets up to change.

⌢

The drive is casual—disconcertingly so.

Wooyoung is sitting in the backseat when San goes down to meet them, making one throwaway comment about Jongho being too trusting with his car before he gets absorbed in something on his phone. Jongho lists off their destinations—an ATM, a convenience store two neighbourhoods over, and one of their favourite BBQ places as the final treat—and Wooyoung starts fiddling with the playlist. No need for talking when Jongho starts singing, and then San starts singing, and then Wooyoung starts singing too—a surprisingly soft and husky voice that turns into a loud screech whenever San makes a song suggestion.

It takes fifteen minutes to make their first stop, Jongho barely comments on San’s driving, and then he leaves them in the car alone.

“I can come with—”

“You’re the taxi driver,” Jongho deadpans, one leg on the sidewalk and not even bothering to look back. “Stick to your role, hyung.”

“What does that make him?” San looks towards Wooyoung, only for Jongho to close the door in his face. San sighs and twists back behind the wheel. “So rude.”

“I’m the DJ,” Wooyoung mutters, catching San’s eye in the rearview mirror, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” San says before looking away, just for the sake of saying something.

They both fall silent afterwards.

Wooyoung goes back to his phone, comfortably sprawled in the back and smiling at something San can’t see. He’s got a cap on, jacket in his lap, the same hoodie as the one in the photos. San sees his own reflection gulp when he looks from the phone to the hoodie to Wooyoung’s neck and then out the window. There’s no way Wooyoung hasn't seen him fumble with the likes.

Perhaps if San brings it up first, he can turn the awkwardness around. I think my phone is broken and does things on its own—which is stupid, and San doesn’t want to lie. You looked so handsome in those photos my thumb liked them on its own—which, god. It’s something San could tell Seonghwa with a grin, but not Wooyoung.

He opens his mouth and closes it. Knows that Wooyoung has seen him do it. Looks out the window again, finally realising that he can just ask Wooyoung about his flat or baseball—

“It’s two minutes ahead,” Wooyoung says.

Leaning over the centre console to adjust the time on Jongho’s dashboard, he almost speaks into San’s ear, face too close. San can’t stop a shiver from running down his spine, arms breaking out in goosebumps. He’s careful not to turn his head.

Flat. Baseball. The DAY6 comeback.

“Are you cold?” Wooyoung asks.

From a safer distance away, but the question takes care of making San feel like he’s being shot at. It’s his own fault for only wearing a T-shirt in five degree weather. Not like the cold is his biggest problem.

“I’m fine,” he says, and Wooyoung only hums.

He leans back, making San’s shoulders drop, but he’s not even done exhaling by the time Wooyoung’s all up in his space again, this time with a phone in his hands. He aims it at San, sideways, laughing at whatever grimace San pulls for the camera. The shutter goes off three times before San grabs the phone.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Wooyoung stops taking photos but doesn’t pull back. “You know.” He rolls his eyes. “Isn’t that why you’re dressed like this? For a photo-op?”

That’s as clear of a callout as it gets, and he swallows before some part of his brain decides it doesn’t like being on the defensive. “Dressed like what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Like you’re showing off,” Woooyoung blurts out. He seems to regret it, trying to pull back, but San doesn’t release his grip on the phone and Wooyoung’s hand. “Like you didn’t look—”

“Showing off for who?” San pushes one more time. He can see it happening, from this short a distance: Wooyoung’s cheeks getting warmer, his eyes dropping, his mind working at full speed to get himself out of the fluster. “For Jongho?”

“For your fans,” Wooyoung says.

“You’re my biggest fan,” San says. He doesn’t even know where the words come from but he can’t say he regrets them. There’s something exhilarating in pushing for Wooyoung to look away again, to trail his eyes down San’s face and pause before grinning.

“Dream on, sweetheart.”

At last, he wrenches his phone out of San’s hold and escapes into the safety of the backseat, turning the volume up on the car speakers. He looks out the window. Looks at his knees. Taps his phone display almost angrily and exaggerates each expression like it’s for show. Maybe it is—San is still watching.

When his phone eventually lights up with an incoming call, Wooyoung doesn’t turn down the music but his voice grows almost inaudible.

“Hey, hyung. Yes, yes, I’m just about to go eat,” he says, flicking at his thumbnail. “I’ll call you later about Sunday, okay? Just—don’t worry about it. And tell eomma it’s fine. Right, but I think she needs to hear it from you.”

He clears his throat when he ends the call, and San is not watching by then, trying to pretend he’s not there, not intruding, not trying to puzzle out Wooyoung’s words. Their eyes briefly meet again in the mirror, and that’s when Jongho comes back with a package under his arm, ignoring the strange tension inside the car. He slaps San’s shoulder for attention, demanding that he get the engine started. For a minute, San feels like he’s back to his first ever drive, even the task of turning the key much too overwhelming.

He gets there, though. Wooyoung forcefully invites himself inside the bank, and Jongho sits between them at the barbecue place. As a buffer, San thinks, but he soon realises he should never underestimate Jongho’s motives.

“Oh, this is way more even,” Jongho says, tasting the sirloin San’s been grilling. A few minutes later, sampling the meat Wooyoung’s been in charge of, he hums with his eyes closed. “Oh, the char on this is much better!”

San can’t say he’s ever engaged in competitive meat-grilling before, but his life has been full of new experiences lately. It’s not uncomfortable, anyway.

Like the conversation in the locker room, San feels a little odd to be listening to Wooyoung’s impressions of Ulsan, asking him if he’s found a good gym yet, snorting when Wooyoung says that’s the least of his priorities. Odd, but only until San stops overthinking it. It actually feels nice to be having an everyday conversation. Some kind of a new normal, to be sneaking glances of Wooyoung’s tattoo where his sleeve keeps riding up, while also fighting Wooyoung for the last piece of pork belly left to grill.

Wooyoung wins.

Somehow, the meat ends up on San’s plate.

“What about you? Where’d you like to visit?” Jongho turns to Wooyoung, having just confessed his dream of visiting Munich.

“The usual.” Wooyoung shrugs. “Barcelona and London for football. Switzerland for the Alps.”

“Also for the flag,” San says, shielding his half-full mouth and cutting Jongho off before he can geek out about snowboarding. “It’s a big plus.”

It’s a lame joke, San knows. Jongho cuts through him with a look of disbelief and, for a moment, San thinks he could hear a pin drop. Then Wooyoung laughs: his number one most annoying laugh, the one that makes San’s hair stand on end, the one that’s never been about him or for him. It melts something in San’s chest and makes him smile around his mouthful of pork belly, makes him feel like he’s scored a goal in overtime. Almost makes him suggest what he’s been holding back—that he can show Wooyoung around the city, that they can exchange numbers—but then his phone rings.

“Sorry,” San says, folding up the napkin on his lap. “It’s my agent. I promised I would call tonight, so…”

He’s almost out of the room when he notices that Wooyoung’s face—somewhere between San standing up and picking up the phone—has gone completely blank.

⌢

wooyoun9: pls check your inbox??

San’s been home for a few hours when he sees the comment—under his post from almost a week ago, photos Minjae took of him on the way to Seoul. Though confused, he does as told, and finds Wooyoung among the list of message requests he usually ignores.

He’s still not following San, but he’s sent the photos from earlier: a nice one where San is oblivious, looking towards the windscreen with a small smile, and two blurry ones where San’s in the process of confiscating Wooyoung’s phone. San shifts in bed, looking at them, but catches himself smiling.

choi.san:

thank you?

No response except for a read receipt.

San should leave it at that and go back to watching his Valorant stream before sleeping, but soon he’s missed three minutes of the live, and then five. He posts the photos with only a snowflake in the caption and almost mutes the notifications in time to miss Wooyoung’s comment.

wooyoun9: show-off 😑

Hopefully, San has fed Jongho enough grilled beef that he won’t ask any questions about the photos. More likely, he won’t ask because he won’t even realise who took them. And if he does—San finds that he doesn’t really care.

He opens the stream back up, smiling.

⌢

There are few things as uncomfortable as ice baths.

San pretends he doesn’t hate them, lauds them wherever he goes, talks up the benefits hoping that the constant repetition will make them more tolerable to him. Years since he’s started the practice, he still dreads them. It’s not the initial discomfort that gets to him, nor the numbness. For San, the worst part is always getting out and feeling like he’s replaced the blood in his veins with ice, and now he’ll never warm up again.

Yunho bears them like they’re lounging in a swimming pool on a hot summer’s day.

“He should’ve been carded the first time,” he says, voice level. “So damn unnecessary. Half of them were acting like this was a league final.”

San hums, eyes half-closed.

Yunho’s serenity—related to both the ice bath and the game they finished less than an hour ago—couldn’t be more foreign to him. He’s sitting in the tub to help with muscle recovery, yes, but mostly he’s doing it to give himself time before he starts processing the ninety minutes. To numb the very aftermath, until all that’s left are rational analyses.

He’d played badly. Most of them had. Gimpo had been out for blood since the first whistle—and they’d been warned about this—but San didn’t expect to be eating the turf at a friendly. He can’t even complain because, inconsistent as he was at controlling the game, it wasn’t him who was the target of most attacks.

“I don’t get it,” Yunho keeps talking, adding a small sigh. “They’ve just won their cup. They’ve proven themselves, have thirteen other teams to actually worry about. What’s the point of—”

He goes quiet, making San open his eyes and look behind his shoulder. His body shudders with his next exhale, from more than just the ice. Wooyoung gives them a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Mind if I join?” he asks.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s tugging his T-shirt over his head, balling it up and throwing it aside. Down to a pair of shorts, he avoids looking at them and instead frowns at the water, lips pressed into a thin line like he’s squaring up to face an enemy. Similar to the expression he’s worn for the last twenty minutes of the match—after getting tripped for the third time, a kick to the shin not unlike the one San’s branded him with.

He makes sure not to check for a bruise, not to linger on the tattoo over Wooyoung’s ribs, not to stare anywhere and focus on his breathing. He shuffles to make more space, waiting for Wooyoung to take the plunge. Expects it to be a noisy affair, but Wooyoung just holds his breath as he steps inside and shudders at the impact.

“Are you alright?” Yunho asks once Wooyoung is in—up to his chin and slicing through the water surface with deep breaths.

“Ah—‘m fine.”

Yunho’s not happy with that answer. “You hate these, Wooyoung-ah. Why are you—”

“How’s your leg?” San cuts in.

Like his exhales, Wooyoung’s gaze travels through San with force. It’s not anger he sees there. Wooyoung’s voice is soft. “Can we not talk about it?” he asks. “Please?”

San has a lot of questions.

It was Wooyoung who’d warned them that Gimpo would be playing to win, and it was him who’d helped Gimpo win the cup last season. He’s been the most passive San has ever seen him on the field, fumbling his passes and barely finishing. A pretty disastrous game for both, it’s a miracle it ended with a draw.

San nods and starts talking about a webtoon he’s been reading, asking Yunho how he’d go about surviving a zombie apocalypse. It’s hard to talk, really, when San can’t even feel his limbs and each word feels like it’s constricting his airways. Wooyoung is quiet, though, and San doesn’t want to emphasise the silence with his own. He’s grateful to have Yunho playing along.

“No, I agree, Hongjoong-hyung would be fine,” Yunho says. “But only if Seonghwa-hyung was with him.”

“Good point.” San bites his tongue not to mention the elephant on the field—how the two of them are still out of synch, and how it’s getting more noticeable with each game. He’ll talk to Seonghwa about it first. At some point. “They could keep us all alive.”

“Well, I don’t know about all,” Yunho teases.

There’s a clicking sound that makes San turn to his right, and he immediately forgets about the zombies. Wooyoung’s teeth are clattering, lips turning a reddish purple. “Wooyoung-ah?” he says, nudging him with his knee. Whether it’s the name or the touch, it makes Wooyoung jolt, and then he’s getting out of the bath with another full-body shudder, reaching for a towel.

He shakes himself off, then wraps the towel around himself so tightly that San can see the bumps of his biceps. San shakes that off, too, in solidarity. He catches himself with a hand extended, to make sure Wooyoung keeps his balance, but he dips it back inside the ice and closes it in a fist.

“That was terrible,” Wooyoung says, a second later and misleadingly chipper. Purple shade of lips aside, he also looks it—facing them with the first proper smile San has seen on him since the end of the match. Still nothing like Wooyoung’s usual beaming smiles, but it’s a start.

“Go warm up,” Yunho says.

“Drink some water,” San adds.

“Yeah, eomma.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Congrats, anyway. You win this one.”

“It wasn’t a competition.”

San’s spontaneous reply has him smiling wider. “Thank you,” he nods at Yunho, still keeping a vice grip on the towel. San almost has a chance to feel upset about getting zero acknowledgement, but then there’s a warm puff of breath near his ear. “Thanks, San-ah.”

Wooyoung’s gone fast, the door creaking closed, and San doesn’t turn to watch him leave. He couldn’t if he wanted to—stuck and still, frozen despite Wooyoung’s parting words having the opposite effect on his insides. Sitting in the ice-cold water, San thinks there should be steam coming off him, thinks that he could get out and have no issues warming up right away.

Yunho clears his throat. His mouth is quirked. Kind as he is, he lets San babble the moment off with another round of zombie hypothesising.

⌢

The night before the season’s first official game, San and Mingi meet at Seonghwa’s place to build LEGOs.

Since the morning, San battles the urge to take a raincheck. He’s been looking forward to the night, it’s been a tradition since the days of their shared dorm, but he knows the LEGO is only a smokescreen for talking—and San feels like he needs to talk to someone just as much as he doesn’t want to do it.

“Pass me the green piece, San-ah? No, the big one—ew, not with the greasy hand!”

San gives Seonghwa an apologetic smile, shrugging. He and Mingi have checked out of the actual building minutes ago, only assisting Seonghwa by handing over blocks and flipping the instruction leaflet. It’s the best way to ensure both success and harmony, and they’ve still got uneaten kimbap, mandu, and nurungji.

“I don’t think we can finish this one today, hyung,” Mingi says, looking up from his phone.

“Of course not,” Seonghwa says, unphased. “It’s over three thousand pieces.”

“Then why—”

“So you have to come back and help.” He looks at San as he says it, just briefly. “And soon. Before the pieces start mysteriously disappearing.”

In the two weeks since their arrival from Koh Samui, San doesn’t think he’s been very distant. He’s gone out with Jongho and Yunho, joined all the camaraderie surrounding the friendlies, stayed behind after trainings to chat with the team. He’s been doing all the things he had previously told himself he wouldn’t, setting himself up for something painful because it’s still the same team as last year, his team, and the same dilemma.

Unless…

San dismisses the thought. He gets back to Seonghwa’s words. Between the schedules Bora’s sorted for him—school visits, a charity event, a podcast appearance—San’s gym habit, and his thoughts, he supposes he’s been going through the motions.

“We will, hyung,” he says.

They don’t chat about football, doing their best to avoid the topic of tomorrow’s match. Seonghwa abandons the Death Star set about one quarter in, Mingi crunches on the nurungji to the beat of whatever song is playing, and they get caught up in discussing how their team would work if they were in a band.

“No, I don’t think Wooyoungie plays any instruments,” Seonghwa says, fixing the edges of his sheet mask. “He’s a good dancer, though.”

“Oh?”

“We went out last week,” Seonghwa says, and then he diverges to talk about Wooyoung’s flat, how empty it still is, how his landlord allows pets, and other things that don’t make it through San’s skull, because he’s still stuck on the first piece of information.

Went out. Could that mean—

No, that’s silly. Seonghwa and Wooyoung are friends, he’s seen them growing closer. It’s the jealousy speaking. Another irrational, all-consuming, embarrassing flare-up that San has been slowly accepting as a regular occurrence. At least he’s got a sheet mask of his own to hide whatever grimace he must’ve pulled.

“San-ah?” Seonghwa addresses him, head tilted.

“Huh?”

He points at the leftover kimbap. “I asked if you wanted the last piece?”

“I—uh, yes. I mean, no. Go ahead, hyung.”

Mingi chuckles, eyes sparkling. “Are you malfunctioning?” he says. “Imagining Wooyoungie at the club?”

San sputters, choking on his own spit. Mingi laughs louder at that, and Seonghwa can’t resist a smile of his own, though San can see he tries to be gentle about it. He’s very obvious about changing the topic and San would be grateful—is grateful—except he knows that he needs to talk. He’s known for a while, if he’s being honest with himself, but nothing has made it clearer than the morning.

Waking up to the sound of his alarm—sweaty, worked up, rutting his hard-on against the mattress. Nothing new, nothing worth thinking about, but San could still remember his dream. He could still picture golden skin and strong thighs, a flat chest with nipples hardened from the cold. He could hear himself saying that he’d make it right, that he’d warm Wooyoung up. Wooyoung and his snort and then his whine and his lips.

San swallows.

He’s not about to share all of that with Seonghwa and Mingi, but he feels like he has to tell someone before the confusion makes him implode. Or do something worse.

“Alright, there’s something I need to talk about,” Seonghwa says, his tone so serious it draws San’s attention back from his spiral. “I’ve been trying—not to overthink it. But I’m not getting anywhere with that—”

“Hyung?” Mingi takes his mask off with obvious concern.

“—and now it’s starting to be an issue on the field. I don’t want it to be. I thought I could get over it,” Seonghwa goes on, looking at his hands. “I’ve been trying to get over it for years.”

“Is it about Hongjoong-hyung?” San asks.

Seonghwa nods. He’s still got the layer of tea-tree sheet covering his face, but San can read him well enough to shuffle closer, making their knees bump. Mingi mimics the motion, bracketing Seonghwa from the other side.

“Did something happen?” San starts, voice soft. “In Jinju?”

Seonghwa nods again, smiling under his nose. Not a happy smile. “We had a good time,” he says. “He came for five days. Stayed with us. He went fishing with my dad and helped us clean the garden shed—well, he tried.” He pauses and the smile grows warmer before flickering out. “And then he tried to kiss me.”

Mingi sucks in a sharp breath and San holds his own. He’s surprised by how little surprise he feels. Gently, he decides to press for more. “Tried to?”

“He laughed it off,” Seonghwa says. “And then he started avoiding me. All through the camp, he just pretended nothing happened.”

“Damn, Joong,” Mingi grumbles. “That’s an asshole move.”

“It is,” San agrees, though he sounds less vehement. “Did you—did you talk to him, hyung?”

“I think I screwed up,” Seonghwa says. He’s careful, choosing his words. “I think it was getting better, or at least less tense. But something must’ve happened the night I got drunk. I know that Hongjoong, uh, he helped me get back from the bar. But I don’t remember much, it’s all hazy and—he’s been worse, since.”

“Worse?”

“He can’t even look at me.”

San bites into his lip, tasting the sheet mask essence but not caring much. He thinks of Hongjoong during their weekly tacticals, and the affection with which he always speaks about Seonghwa. His confidence, telling San that Seonghwa is meant for greater things than being the eight to his six. The friendlies with their delays and hesitations.

He’s wondered before if Hongjoong’s feelings could run deeper than friendship, suspected it but also trusted Seonghwa’s instincts when it came to the matter. He knew Hongjoong better than anyone, he could read signs San probably couldn’t. With the gravity of Seonghwa’s words, he just contains a sad snort.

Figures that San can be more in touch with other people’s feelings than his own. If that wasn’t the case, maybe it wouldn’t have taken him twenty-five years to realise he might be attracted to men.

A man.

Wooyoung.

“Whatever happened, hyung, I think there must be a misunderstanding,” he says, squeezing Seonghwa’s hand.

“Yeah,” Mingi joins in. “Maybe you just—vomited on him. That’s enough to make things awkward.”

Seonghwa chuckles. “It is.”

“Maybe you should talk,” San says. “He’s your best friend, right? Nothing can change that.”

He can tell that Seonghwa agrees, and he can also tell that he’s shelving the advice, humming for the sake of it. He squeezes San’s hand back before letting go, taking the mask off and standing up from his spot on the carpet. The bubble pops, heart-to-heart over. Seonghwa starts cleaning up the table and asking if they want to watch something, and San doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved about missing the chance to mention his revelation.

Doing it now would be selfish, he decides, and goes to help Seonghwa with the dishes.

⌢

San doesn’t really do game day superstitions.

He has his good luck charm, but he doesn’t believe that practising penalties during the warmups is going to waste his goals. He’s not religious like some of the players, so he respects the pre-game prayer but never joins. Opening the season with an away game has never phased him, but when he boards the team bus and sees the only empty seat left, he’s a bit shaken.

Wooyoung doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

He looks up from his phone long enough to give San a smile, moving closer to the window. Six in the morning, he looks like he’s barely slept and San can’t judge. If not for Seonghwa and Mingi, he might’ve snoozed his alarm for good.

“Big day,” San says, noncommittal, once he’s fastened the seatbelt.

“Saturday,” Wooyoung hums, failing to sound cocky.

“Did Jongho drive you?”

“Yeosangie did.”

San looks around the bus, finding the man sitting with none other than Jongho. With Seonghwa and Mingi one row ahead, he reminds himself not everything is a conspiracy. The others don’t know that sitting next to Wooyoung immediately reminds San of his dreams, which makes his hands clench, which makes his face heat. At most, they think that he and Wooyoung are still awkward over their rivalry.

“Woosan,” Mingi says, draping his arms over the headrest as he turns around, “can we recline the seats?”

“Sure,” San says, at the same time as Wooyoung deadpans a ‘hell no’. Mingi chuckles and goes with the first answer, minimising their already tight space. San regrets his answer already, and then he regrets it more when Wooyoung shoots him a pained grimace. “Sorry.”

“I guess if we’re all doing it,” Wooyoung says, trying to get his own seat to lower back. It doesn’t work, stuck no matter how hard he presses.

“We can swap—”

“It’s fine.” Wooyoung yawns and pulls up his hoodie, resting his head by the window. “Just wake me up when we get there?”

It’s a silly request but San nods. He can tell, behind the tiredness, that Wooyoung must be as nervous about the game as he is. Not talking about it is probably for the best, and not looking at Wooyoung would be the best for San’s sanity but he can’t quite manage. The bus sets off, Wooyoung keeps his eyes closed, and San is free to steal glances.

All is good until the bus jostles and Wooyoung somehow ends up sleeping on his shoulder.

That’s when San starts wondering if he should have a ritual to beat bad luck. Maybe if he knew a prayer, he would recite it, because Wooyoung smells like his woodsy perfume and his breath falls in warm puffs on San’s neck. He’s scorched San like that in the ice bath, and in Jongho’s car, but he doesn’t pull away like he’s done in those moments. San thinks of Wooyoung catching him, the time he’d stumbled in the bar restroom, and how it made his skin feel tight with something he didn’t dare name.

Now he’s done it, and San tries his hardest to disassociate. To remember the worst of the camp, their fights and Wooyoung’s skills, the jealousy that wasn’t just a figment of San’s imagination—even if he now understands that it’s never been his biggest issue.

It was just something he could explain, simple in its ugliness. The other thing…

San has only felt it once, this deeply, to the point it made him stupid. It was at the height of puberty, with his girlfriend that he’d dated for six months before they made it beyond a kiss.

To want another person like that…

San closes his eyes, not letting himself slide down this particular slope.

When he opens them, he catches a curious glance from Seonghwa. San instinctively tries to smile and shrug. The movement makes Wooyoung shift back, still asleep. That should make it easier for San to doze off but he doesn’t.

Not once during the four-hour drive.

⌢

It’s all downhill from there.

Their first opponent of the season is Gwangju FC, a mid-table team that’s barely changed since their last encounter in November. They’re hosting a club function right after the game, so San and a couple other players are rushed to do a press-con beforehand. He’s been steeling himself for it, treating the podcast he filmed a week ago as his media training when it came to fielding off the expected questions. Why the position change? Won’t you miss playing forward? How are you planning to make sure you don’t repeat the mistakes from last year?

Most of the reporters are harmless.

They focus on Eden and Hongjoong, and question Gwangju’s coach and captain at equal length. When it comes to San’s first question, it’s about the Dazed photoshoot; he’s not thrilled about it, blushing before the reporter finishes, but it’s something he can skip over quickly.

“Are you excited for the season?” another man asks, and that’s even easier.

“Very excited,” San says, smiling towards the microphone, “and also very nervous.”

Some people chuckle. Bora, who’s driven to Gwangju by herself, gives him an encouraging thumbs up.

“I guess that’s always how it goes at this point—starting with a clean slate. We can talk about it again in a couple of months, but, I promise, I’ll do my best to play some good football.”

They move on after that, San slumping back in relief. It doesn’t last long.

“Hello Wooyoung-ssi,” a reporter starts, looking towards the end of their team line-up. “How are you feeling about your new team?”

Wooyoung adjusts the mic, the scratchy sound almost making San wince. “Sorry,” he says, his smile audible. “I’m feeling good, thank you.”

“You look tired,” the reporter says.

“I was practising late.”

“Practising?”

“You know me.”

Both Wooyoung and the news guy speak like they’re in on a secret joke, but something about it makes San uncomfortable. He knows Wooyoung was practising, he’s heard from Jongho who’s heard from Yeosang, who said Wooyoung had been at the Big Crown until midnight. San shouldn’t be the one saying that, though, and the conversation has already moved on.

“There were lots of rumours last year,” the guy says. “That you’d be signing with Jeonbuk, amongst others. How come it’s Ulsan in the end?”

“Ulsan is the better team,” Wooyoung says, simply. “Nothing against Jeonbuk, of course, but I was lucky to have options and thought Ulsan would be a better fit.”

“Is that it?” the reporter presses. San finds himself glaring at the man.

“It helps that Ulsan players are more handsome,” Wooyoung says. He holds up his hands, pulling an innocent face, but there’s a bite to his words. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

More chuckles from the press, they’re not like the ones they’ve given San. Nervous, stilted, uncomfortable. San feels the same energy travelling through his body, and he’s grateful when the reporter thanks Wooyoung like he’s about to move on. Glancing at the clock, they’ve got about five minutes before the conference gets called.

“San-ssi,” someone else addresses him, “you’re not the centre forward this year. Has this caused any tension in the team?”

San’s defense mechanism manifests in a polite smile. He seeks out Bora in the crowd. He can’t bring himself to lie. “There was an adjustment period,” he says. “Mainly on my side. Not because I don’t value the new position, but if you’ve been doing something for a long time, it’s hard to adjust immediately.”

“There are concerns that you and Wooyoung-ssi have very different playing styles.”

San blinks. “We all have different playing styles.”

“They have seemed to clash in the friendlies,” the reporter ignores his interruption. “Is that a cause for concern?”

“No,” San says.

“But the two of you—”

“San-ssi hasn’t had it easy,” Wooyoung jumps in. When San looks sideways, he’s facing the press. “Of course there’d be tension. I stole his spot. You can’t expect him to love me for it.”

San opens his mouth and closes it. He doesn’t know what to say to that, already on edge from the entire spectacle, now feeling like Wooyoung’s pushed him the rest of the way. Most everyone takes a moment to react, more eyes turned to San. “But we’re fine now,” he says, weakly, and he could hug Hongjoong when he takes over, directing some polite questions at the Gwangju team.

When the reporters start leaving, San only catches the back of Wooyoung’s head, being taken aside by Eden. Bora comes to get San, looking unimpressed and talking under her breath about the importance of agents. With no more camera flashes and media grilling, San realises they haven’t even changed into their jerseys and he already feels exhausted.

That, and there’s a sadness in his gut that he doesn’t know what to do with.

⌢

“Where’s Wooyoung?” San asks Jongho, after they’re done with the warmups and back in the locker room. It’s a cramped space compared to Ulsan’s facilities, less state-of-the-art and smelling like mildew.

“I don’t know.”

San turns to Yunho. “Have you seen—”

“He’s with his friend,” Yunho says, not letting San finish. “Daehwi? They both used to play for—”

“Seoul Jungnang,” San stops him this time.

He knows. Wooyoung has mentioned it several times during pre-match prep, and San has seen them stealing random moments to chat throughout the warmups. They have their own handshake, apparently. Maybe it’s a club thing. Maybe they should have their own handshake—Ulsan as whole—to go with their chant.

“Oh wow, look at that,” Yeosang says from behind San’s shoulder, so quietly he doesn’t make anyone look anywhere. It’s for the best, because he’s pointing towards San’s backpack, which San’s brought along with his training bag. A bit superfluously, except—“Is that Shiber?”

San nods but zips the bag closed. He stashes it in his assigned locker, shuts it, then opens it again because he doesn’t want to leave the backpack squashed. “It’s for good luck,” he tells Yeosang. “Figured we could use it.”

Smelling his doubt, San doesn’t want to let it spread. He hugs Yeosang around the waist, squeezing tightly, making him yelp and making Seonghwa grin in excitement, because he’s caught the whole thing on camera.

Wooyoung gets back a minute before they’re due to go on the field. His smile seems genuine. San wishes he could return a grin just like that, but then, Wooyoung doesn’t look at him.

⌢

“Are you mad at me?”

San looks up from his half crouch, catching his breath while the ball is out of play. Wooyoung—arms crossed and face set—looms above him.

“No,” San says, standing up. “No, I’m—”

“Then get it together, honey.”

Wooyoung’s tone has a bite to it and he sprints away before San can respond. He can tell what Wooyoung’s doing—or at least he thinks he can—but he doesn’t think it can work.

Getting provoked off the field is different than when San is standing under the gaze of thousands, thirty minutes away from losing the season’s opening game. It’s not the playful jab Wooyoung wants it to be when the words are the first thing he’s said to San in hours.

San tries his best.

He doesn’t play particularly well in the last third, but at least Eden doesn’t bench him. Minute after minute, San keeps waiting for the whistle and the wave; he wouldn’t blame the coach. It’s all the same mistakes from their first friendly, like San hasn’t learned anything, like he and Wooyoung are set on showing everyone just how wonderfully their styles clash.

It’s not the passes that are the problem, San is quick on his feet and Gwangju’s play is predictable. But something won’t click, something is missing—or, rather, San feels like from the first whistle, he’s trying to play football with a massive brick wall between himself and the rest of his teammates.

He built a similar wall last year, by himself, after the Jeonbuk game. But right now, he doesn’t know why it’s there, and he doesn’t know how to break through it.

There’s a brick added when he sees Wooyoung saluting Daehwi after Gwangju’s almost-goal. Another one when Wooyoung scores, twenty minutes before the end of the game, and leaves him out of the hugging spree once again. But those feel like two bricks out of a hundred—they could trip San up and he should still get to his feet and try harder. Push stronger. Find a lick of space, get that perfect ball, weave it towards the goal line.

They lose their first game 2:3, and San wants nothing more than to lie down on the cold grass and disappear.

He wasn’t raised a coward, though, so he lines up for the congratulatory handshakes and when it’s Daehwi’s turn, he even manages a fake smile.

⌢

Eden gives them a talking to before they’re allowed to shower.

His kind of punishment, he makes them listen while they’re stewing in their sweat and grime, their first loss another layer of dirt that penetrates below the skin. He doesn’t single anyone out, which San both appreciates and takes as a callout of its own.

A few of them have underperformed but San has never been the weakest link. Not during last season’s downward spiral, not since his first season playing pro. It hurts with the kind of dull pain he can’t shake if he drums his fingers on his thigh or bounces his knees.

Mingi shoots him a sympathetic look that serves as a warning of him wanting to talk. Hongjoong looks like he wants to corner him with advice. Knowing the bus will be leaving at seven—after the Gwangju club dinner—San lingers in the showers again. Seonghwa is notoriously slow, and they all joke the captain gets distracted in there, daydreaming about strategies, but San makes sure they’re all gone by the time he turns off the hot stream and grabs a towel.

Sending a mental apology to Gwangju management for the water costs, he corrects himself when he remembers the final score. They’ve beaten Ulsan. They can pay the damages.

“Were you trying to shower yourself out of existence?”

San jerks. He tightens the towel around his hips before turning, hoping the day has reached its quota for making him miserable. He and Wooyoung don’t have a good track record with one-on-one confrontations—or bathrooms, for that matter.

These are just the showers though, San reminds himself wisely.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying his best to sound casual.

“Looking for you.”

Maybe not miserable, but the day certainly wouldn’t let San have it easy. He holds back his initial reaction—now?—which would rat him out faster than confessing his state outright. “Why?” he asks instead, walking a few steps through the lingering steam to shield himself in the illusion of normalcy.

“That was a terrible game,” Wooyoung says.

“I’m aware.”

“I’ve never seen you so… Unfocused. All over the place.”

San hums.

“Which is saying something. You were pretty out of it when we—”

“I promise, Wooyoung, I know.” He appreciates the lack of honeyed words but, right now, he doesn’t need the cold hard truth. “I know, and I’ll be going over every single mistake in my head. Again and again, all week. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t think that’s gonna help you.”

“—rub it in.” San takes a moment to register the words. “Huh?”

Wooyoung shrugs, looking thoughtful. His hair is still damp, curling around his neck, and he pushes it away like it’s making it harder for him to think. His mouth moves side to side, a thin line that hides his mole. San wishes he could stop looking for it; he’s standing a good distance away, the letters on Wooyoung’s printed tee impossible to read.

“That’s the thing,” Wooyoung says at last. “I don’t think you’re playing with your head.”

“What do you mean?”

He studies something behind San’s shoulder—like his vision is downright superhuman—and when he finally catches San’s gaze, San realises it’s the first time since he’s come in for the ambush. The behaviour is odd. Odder still is how San sees himself in it, painfully self-conscious these days of where his eyes wander whenever his teammates start undressing.

“You’re playing with your feelings.”

“What feelings?” San scoffs, trying to make it sound like a joke, like the very suggestion is ridiculous. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“You tell me.”

Jealousy would be the obvious answer—San has admitted to it, he’s felt jealous seeing Wooyoung turn San’s poor performance into his own advantage. Nobody watching today’s game could leave it thinking that it was a mistake, making Jung Wooyoung their centre forward. His lapses were fewer than San’s, easier to excuse as him just being confident and overzealous.

But that kind of jealousy, shameful yet simple, has become only a shadow of what it once was.

San didn’t feel nauseous, seeing Wooyoung advance towards the box; his mind grew ten times louder, stomach tied in knots, the time Wooyoung scored and Mingi swung him around in a hug.

Obsession, then—that’s what Seonghwa’s called it.

San knows what it means to be obsessed with something: his favourite strawberry cake, webtoons read until the soft hues of dawn, and football, always. The obsession with proving he can be better, a worthwhile number ten, a star player. He doesn’t think he’s obsessed with Wooyoung.

Drawn as he is to seeking out, competing with, or constantly thinking about him, San just as often wants to run in the opposite direction. He does it now, too, walking towards the door with the intention of escaping the room and leaving the conversation.

Because there’s also the fear.

The thought of failing scares him more than he cares to admit. The thought of failing others brings bile to the back of his throat. The thought of confessing all of that to Wooyoung—who scares him in a way San has never experienced—feels equivalent to him jumping out of a plane with a 50-50 chance of having a working parachute.

He’s extending his arm towards the door, wanting to push it open and take the easy way out, but Wooyoung blocks him. San could scream. He could sigh. He can see the dot on Wooyoung’s lip now.

“Seriously?” Wooyoung asks. “Come on, sunshine! Make an effort! At least lie and say it’s exhaustion. Stress. Basically anything can be blamed on stress. Or say you’re—”

“Why did you say all those things?”

It’s Wooyoung’s turn to look confused, eyes zig-zagging over San’s face and not falling any lower. At one point they almost do, hovering around San’s chin, but he brings them up alongside an eyebrow to look unimpressed. “What?”

“Why did you lie? In the interview?” San says, watching realisation dawn on Wooyoung’s face.

It softens it, though the confusion becomes even more pronounced. Then Wooyoung pulls the shutters, leaning back against the door.

“I didn’t say anything they weren’t already thinking,” he says. Somehow, he makes it sound both resigned and inciting.

“But you—”

“It wasn’t a lie, was it? I stole your spot. You weren’t exactly happy about it.”

“You were practising. Yesterday.”

“I—” Wooyoung stops himself, painting over the uncertainty San can see in his eyes. He opts for a very sweet and very fake smile. “Did you bomb the game because you were feeling concerned, San-ah? For me?”

“No.”

Wooyoung nods. “So you’re just changing the topic.”

He doesn’t smell like his perfume, just the club-provided body wash. San isn’t surprised that he can tell—of course he can, he’s had dreams about it—but he’s embarrassed that his first instinct is to be disappointed. “Please, let’s just—not talk about it right now,” he says, forcing his voice out.

“I’m trying to help you.”

“This isn’t helping.”

“Just tell me.” Wooyoung’s voice mirrors his, much quieter than usual. “One good excuse.”

“I was tired and stressed,” San says, moving a step closer and hoping it will get Wooyoung to step aside. It doesn’t. “Happy?”

“San, come on.”

“Wooyoung,” San echoes, “please.”

There must be limits to how far Wooyoung is willing to go for his stupid answer. They’re both wasting their time, San’s skin almost dry now, Wooyoung leaving the others waiting. He’s probably going to meet with Daehwi again; San frowns, suddenly thinking he should keep them here even longer. Right there by the door, with Wooyoung’s lip pushed out as he comes up with a reply, with his eyes fixed on San, the same piercing gaze that he—

“Ack!” San hisses, blinking at Wooyoung in disbelief. “Wooyoung, what the hell?!”

Wooyoung slouches back, non-apologetic. There’s a faint mark on San's arm, just above the elbow, an uneven circle left behind by Wooyoung’s teeth. The pain is fast and fleeting, and San still feels his stomach flip.

“What—why—”

“Wanted to,” Wooyoung says.

He’s attempting to sound indifferent but he’s too close, too obvious with the dark glint in his eyes and the way his voice jumps. Too shy, which is perhaps the biggest tell of all, Wooyoung’s cheeks growing the same colour as the imprint of his bite. He studies San like he’s still looking for the answers he’s come to collect, but San feels like the question has changed.

“You look out of breath.”

It’s the truth, San’s chest is heaving.

If Wooyoung got any closer, he could probably tell that his heart is racing, too. San sees his gaze lower—and maybe he can tell—all the way down to San’s hips. He didn’t mind walking around in a towel before, no shame about his body and quite happy to flaunt it in Wooyoung’s direction, but now he feels the blood rush to his cheeks. Scrambling for something to say, all that comes out of his mouth is Wooyoung’s name.

It draws Wooyoung’s eyes up to San’s lips, then his eyes. “What?”

“I…”

“What, San?” he asks.

Wooyoung must already know, no point in asking; what this is doing to San, how close he is to his breaking point, that any more taunts will tip him over. Looking back, San doesn’t think he’s been subtle. With the way that Wooyoung gulps, San’s being incredibly obvious.

“Come on,” Wooyoung says, the words more breath than sound.

“Wooyoung.”

“Do it.”

San can’t tell if it’s a permission or a challenge. He’s too far gone to care. He moves the moment Wooyoung’s words land, a warm exhale on his face, pulling San across the little distance that remains. Like he’s shot for the golden goal, the one that determines a game’s outcome, San hangs in the balance.

He recovers when Wooyoung’s lips move against his own, and the world falls away.

There’s nothing soft about the kiss—San immediately pins Wooyoung against the door, outstretched arm bending, joined by the other to keep himself upright. Losing the focal point of Wooyoung’s dot, he feels unbalanced, like the smallest taste has already made him drunk.

The moment their tongues brush, San’s stomach turns like he has taken his chance and gone into freefall. Wooyoung’s hands find his sides but the painful grip does nothing to steady him. It makes his head spin even more, pressing into Wooyoung’s body, almost whining when Wooyoung’s teeth catch against his bottom lip.

Based on San’s past experience, it’s nothing like a first kiss should be, and no drink can compare to the sting of Wooyoung’s mouth.

It isn’t chaste and it isn’t tentative, San pours all the confusion he’s built up over the past weeks into the slide of their lips and Wooyoung matches him beat for beat. Urgent, his nails dig into San’s skin, dangerously close to where the towel sits, but San doesn’t mind. He threads his fingers through Wooyoung’s hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling just a little and—

Wooyoung’s moan shoots sparks up his spine. It sends his blood rushing downwards. San’s cock stirs, brushing against the rough fabric of the towel, and San knows that they should stop.

There’s no reversing the fall, though.

He’s too keyed up, lost in the sensation of Wooyoung’s tongue licking over the same spot he’s just bitten. In the whimper that sets San’s nerves on fire when he finds Wooyoung’s jaw, and then his neck, and then his collarbone. It’s the same image San’s had branded into his mind since catching Wooyoung with Benz, but now he’s the one drawing out the sounds, bolder by the second and sucking a mark into Wooyoung’s tender skin.

When Wooyoung stops him, San feels the loss all over, an ice plunge after being overheated.

“Easy, now,” Wooyoung says, husky like San’s never heard him before. He flicks his gaze to the door. “We’ll have to—”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He can’t say anything more, struggling to make his brain work, and struggling even more to accept the sudden stop. He wants more. Wants it now. Feels like he’s been wanting it since the very first time Wooyoung’s quirked an eyebrow in his direction. There’s no sense to any of it, and still, things fall into place in the pause; exactly like Wooyoung has said, San isn’t playing with his head and he doesn’t want to be.

But two need to play this game, so San takes a step back.

Wooyoung grabs him by the elbow. “No. I mean—”

Half-lidded eyes, he just looks at San for a second, a hand drawing up to touch his cheekbone. He’s so soft with it, San has to close his own eyes on an inhale. When he opens them, Wooyoung is already tracing his fingers lower, smearing spit over the corner of San’s mouth.

“No hickeys,” Wooyoung finishes.

Then he pushes forward, away from the door, making San’s back hit the tiles and falling into him with another kiss. Like it’s another game that he’s set on winning, he nuzzles his face into San’s neck and sucks, then bites over the same spot as if to ease the sting. San has to muffle his groan but he’s too weak to fight against the injustice of it all. He’ll let Wooyoung have this one if it feels like this: unfamiliar, rough, making his knees weak.

“You like that?” Wooyoung asks, smiling as he pulls back.

“What do you think?”

He chuckles at San’s gruffness. Leaning in, he’s even more calculated—leg pressing between San’s thighs and hips lining up to see exactly how much San likes it. All of it. Wooyoung’s hard cock included, the bulge in his sweatpants unmistakeable and brushing against the towel just so—

“Wait,” San says and freezes—momentarily—noticing a string of spit between their mouths. “The door.”

“It’s locked,” Wooyoung says.

“What?” San blinks at the smugness. “Were you coming here to kill me?”

“Mhm. Exactly that.”

“Or were you coming here to ki—”

“Shut up, San.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

He grins against San’s mouth, effectively blocking San from attempting more words. It’s a good strategy. Downright foolproof, San thinks, once Wooyoung’s thigh presses against his dick and up. It draws a mortifying gurgle out of San’s throat that he rushes to hide in another kiss. It gets San to throw his arms around his shoulders, knowing Wooyoung can hold him up if he chooses to.

For now, he seems to be choosing to.

With his back arching and Wooyoung’s cock bumping against his hip, San feels very foolish, moping about other players getting to hug Wooyoung on the field. Like this, he’s only just realising what obsession means, discovering it one touch at a time. Weeks of tangling himself into knots, the only thing he fears now is stopping.

Maybe the answer to Wooyoung’s questions is one and the same; San has never felt desire like this.

It grows with Wooyoung’s chorus of whines, to dangerous proportions that make San forget the point of discipline. Courage, that’s what he needs. He gathers it as he inches a hand towards the tented fabric of Wooyoung’s sweatpants, and delights in Wooyoung’s gasp when he palms it.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung mutters, slamming his hips forward again.

San shudders in response.

For a moment, he isn’t sure what follows. Not like he hasn’t done this to himself before, but there’s a marked difference: in the angle, the weight of Wooyoung’s cock, the way it twitches and the noises that come as San’s hand grows bolder. It’s not awkward, though. Not weird at all.

San just wants to make it feel good. He doesn’t care they’re in a grubby shower room, and he doesn’t want to care about what comes after.

“Can I?” he asks, hooking a finger over the waistband of Woooyung’s sweats.

Wooyoung’s nose brushes San’s ear, tickling it as he nods with urgency. It’s all the encouragement San needs, getting a better feel of Wooyoung through his underwear, then reaching inside to close his hand over the bare skin. He wants to see but he doesn’t want to move, seeking the pressure of Wooyoung’s body against his own cock. Dragging his palm up, slowly, San hears his trembling exhale and explores by touch.

He can tell that Wooyoung is smaller but thicker, that the veins he’s dreamt about are, in fact, there and warm under his fingers. Wooyoung is wetter than him, precome leaking and making the slide of San’s hand smoother. He tries to tease out more, playing with the head, and Wooyoung shivers against him.

When he grabs the edge of the towel, San pulls away.

“Don’t.”

“What?” Wooyoung frowns at the reprimand.

He looks confused, mostly, but San can see dread in the press of his lips. He gives Wooyoung’s cock another tug, to reassure him it’s not regret nor shame, and definitely not disgust. “You said no hickeys.” San shrugs, trying for a playful smile. “It’s only fair.”

Wooyoung’s groan makes it clear he doesn’t agree. He leaves the towel be, anyway, rutting his thigh forward and making sure he gets his hickeys’ worth.

The new layer of sweat on San’s back makes the tiles feel cold. Wooyoung is hot all over. They find a rhythm, one that reminds San of another race—his hand versus Wooyoung’s leg—but they’re not really playing against each other. San grinds his cock into Wooyoung’s thigh, chasing the friction. Wooyoung sucks another mark into his neck, pushing into his grip. The door could fly open, the handle could be rattling, the team could be calling for them—San wouldn’t notice and he doesn’t want to.

He’s the first one to come, making a wet mess of the towel.

His hand slows, his breath catches, he leans his forehead against Wooyoung’s shoulder as the orgasm rips through him. Quivering, he tries to stop but can’t. It takes a while until he can control his body again, Wooyoung addressing him with something like concern before San starts moving his hand to shut him up.

It doesn’t take long.

Wooyoung comes all over his fingers, the squelching sound of San’s palm stopped by a loud hiss. He seems just as out of it as San feels, on the verge of buckling to the floor if their limbs weren’t still tangled. His T-shirt is damp where San brushes a hand over the small of his back, gently and without realising. He drops it as soon as Wooyoung leans away, and that’s when it hits San.

He regains his sense of place and time, takes in the ceiling grime in the corner of the room and the drying come on his palm and—god, they’ve really just done that. Wooyoung has fucked himself into his hand, and San’s humped his leg like a horny teenager.

Except, even as a horny teenager, San has always had more control over himself.

“Well,” Wooyoung says, voice still raspy, “that explains things.”

“Does it?” San blurts.

He knows Wooyoung is right. It certainly confirms what he’s been trying to accept—the embarrassing truth that, all this while, San has been acting out because he wanted Wooyoung’s attention, and his touches, and his teeth over San’s clavicle. He looks down, clumsy about removing his dirty hand and mortified about how long he’s left it near Wooyoung’s crotch.

“Yeah. Though, to be fair, I was pretty sure by the time you—” Wooyoung, nodding, stops himself “—I mean, I’ve suspected. For some time.”

San just groans.

“But don’t worry, okay?” Wooyoung hurries to add. San can swear his voice sounds awkward, too. Awkward and unsteady. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

And that…

Everything in San swells into a bubble and pops at those words, making him swallow.

It’s the truth, of course. A rushed and ill-advised hookup in the showers of an opponent’s club is probably best left forgotten. Out of San’s system, maybe he can resume the life he’s had before Wooyoung entered the picture, knowing himself better now but not acting on that knowledge.

But Wooyoung’s lips are still red from kissing, and San knows what his mole tastes like, and he can’t say he regrets any of it.

“I don’t think I can just—” he pauses, becoming aware of his own pout. “Pretend this didn’t happen.”

Wooyoung considers him—his own hair in disarray, splotches of red lingering on his face. Because of San, and if he had even the tiniest bit of regrets, the rush of satisfaction would wipe them all out.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Wooyoung clears his throat.

“Then what—”

“Don’t be dense, San-ah. You liked it, right?” he asks. Going by his smile, San must’ve given him enough hints to make the question unnecessary. “I know I did.”

“Oh.”

The spark of excitement San feels at that should be more embarrassing than his earlier match performance. He toils to keep his face unaffected.

“But we should get going,” Wooyoung starts rambling, like he hasn’t set San’s mind bouncing off the walls, “before someone gets suspicious. Seonghwa-hyung, most likely. He must think you’re crying your eyes out in here.”

“Hey!” San grabs his wrist, hold soft. “You better not spread that—”

“Would you rather I tell him the truth?” Wooyoung teases, obviously not expecting an answer. “So, you should go first and put his mind at ease. Just, uh, be careful with the…” He tries to motion towards San’s neck, and then just lets his arm hang limp when San releases it. “Yeah. I’ll give you a few minutes headstart. Have to clean up again, anyway.”

That’s right, San nods. He has made a mess of Wooyoung, just like Wooyoung has of him, and they could probably make an even bigger mess of Gwangju FC’s water costs if they—

“Hey, dimples,” Wooyoung pinches his arm, “are you even listening?”

San nods again. “If they ask, I’ll say you are—”

“Don’t say a thing. I’ll deal with it.”

With one last nod, San unsticks himself from the wall. He gathers all his capacities. Thanks a deity he doesn’t believe in for the fact his legs don’t shake, walking to the door. Fights it for a good few seconds before remembering the latch.

Wooyoung’s laughter—annoying and loud and completely at his expense—only makes San smile.

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.

Chapter Text

caution

(in football) a yellow card given to a player or team official by the referee, indicating a warning for breaking the rules.

⚽︎

Monday morning sees San preparing himself for an easy conversation with Bora and a difficult one with Wooyoung; things, of course, don’t go the way he expects.

“It’s just an idea, Sannie,” Bora says, sipping on the lavender tea latte San has slipped across the table. “It would take one thing off your shoulders. And Yerim-ssi is really good at what she does.”

San pops his bottom lip out, back ramrod straight in the comfortable wingback chair. “I don’t know, noona. I don’t really think it’s necessary.”

“You could set up your own private accounts, of course. But social media is a whole other business opportunity these days, and it would be good to capitalise on that. We have to think strategically.”

“Is it because of the…” San sounds off, embarrassed and not quite knowing how to ask if Bora is suggesting a social media manager just because of him posting some thirst traps.

“Oh—oh no, buddy!” She laughs, setting her cup down so that she can lean over the desk and regale San with a glint in her eye. “Actually, the engagement on those shows why this could be a good thing. You had them up for, what—an hour? And you got over 400k likes in that time. That’s pretty insane.” She catches San’s gaze, her smile growing facetious: “Just make sure you don’t end up with a dating scandal, okay? We have an image to maintain.”

It’s a joke—a conspiratory one at that, Bora clearly dismissing the possibility of San bringing some scandalous relationship rumours upon her doorstep. San promises her to think about it but his stomach feels heavy when he gets inside his car, both because he does have a potentially career-tanking secret to sit on, and because he dislikes the idea of a total stranger commandeering the way he presents himself online.

San has let Seonghwa do it before, but Seonghwa knows him. San trusts him. Realistically, it wouldn’t be a big deal—he’d have less to do, just like Bora said—and San doesn’t even post that often. But he thinks about how that’s a freedom he never even realised he had, and he hates the idea of giving another part of himself up like that.

He heaves a big sigh and looks at his wristwatch.

Wooyoung’s train is slightly delayed, and San texts him a simple ‘here’ before he turns the engine off and checks his hair in the rearview mirror. It isn’t until the first people start trickling out of the station, greeting their families and loved ones in the parking lot, that San realises this—him picking Wooyoung up, camped there in the daytime for anyone to see—very much goes against the idea of becoming more sensible.

It’s too late though.

Wooyoung is in a good mood and he looks rested; as much as San can gauge from his demeanour, Wooyoung’s face completely covered between the mask, the sunglasses, and the cap. He embodies the opposite extreme of caution, and San entertains his chatter about yesterday’s game, his hyung’s unfortunate haircut, and Kyungmin’s impressions with a persistent bubble in his gut.

“So—” Wooyoung fiddles with his sleeve, exposing a sliver of his tattoo “—where to?”

“I don’t know,” San says, honestly. It’s too early, the sun is too bright, and the parking lot has become a hazard in his mind. Wooyoung doesn’t want to come to his place, and San doesn’t think it’s a good time to ask. He swallows. “Yeosangie—he, uh, knows about us.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets go of his jacket. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“He told me yesterday,” San says. “We sat together on the bus and he—he didn’t really say how he knew. Just said we should be careful.”

Wooyoung snorts at that, the sound harsh even though it’s muffled by his mask. “Good advice,” he mutters, looking out towards the station entrance and obviously biting his lip in frustration. “Priceless, really, I never would’ve thought of—”

“He means well,” San jumps in. He’s imagined this chat going many different ways, but he didn’t expect himself having to defend Yeosang.

“I know,” Wooyoung rebuffs, but the fight seems to leave him with another sigh.

He drums his fingers against his knee, looking ahead and not giving San anything much to work with for a long stretch of silence. The air in the car feels heavy and too-warm, and San wonders if rolling down a window counts as another show of irresponsibility. Speaking at last, Wooyoung does away with the thought.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

The fact that he doesn’t specify what—that he also seems to find no name nor term for their dangerous play—should make San’s answer clear. And it is, when it falls out of him: quick, bold, and clear.

“No,” he says, and he doesn’t budge when Wooyoung looks at him. “Do you?”

“No,” Wooyoung agrees.

There is no way for San to know, he’s faced with his own reflection in Wooyoung’s sunglasses, his walls drawn up so high he could as well be talking to a set of bricks; still, San tells himself he sees a smile in there. He holds onto that as some of the tension leaves his body, the bubble of dread in his belly splitting into several smaller ones—relief, uncertainty, something else warm that travels upwards to his chest.

They don’t do anything that afternoon, San just fires up the car and starts driving towards Wooyoung’s apartment. With the biggest decision agreed upon, Wooyoung just remarks that none of this is actually suspicious—friends give each other rides and they hang out outside of work.

“They don’t make out in empty parking lots,” San jokes, testing the waters.

“Details,” Wooyoung replies with a laugh.

After a breath, San continues: “There’s a lot more to see around Ulsan. Many other places—”

“For making out?”

“No. Yes. We could—”

“You can come over to mine, if you want,” Wooyoung says, shrugging like he’s not dropping a whole bomb somewhere between San’s brain and the car console. “Maybe not today—I’m pretty tired. But, you know. Next time.”

“Next time,” San repeats under his breath, trying to mirror Wooyoung’s nonchalance. He doesn’t think he succeeds. “Okay. Sure.”

When they arrive, Wooyoung bumps his knee once before he retrieves his bag from the back, shutting the car door so hard it shakes San’s seat. He winces; this is not how friends behave, and he makes a mental note to tease Wooyoung about it next time, but San sees him glancing back just as he’s about to shift the gears, and Wooyoung’s raised palm could almost pass for a wave.

‿

There’s another conversation waiting for San that same evening, one that gets sprung upon him out of nowhere.

“Thanks, San-ah.” Seonghwa opens the door for him with a smile, taking the plastic bag from San so that he can untie his shoes and hang his jacket. Peering inside the bag, Seonghwa’s eyes widen and his smile grows. “And you got the cheesy fries! My saviour!”

Seonghwa sounded like he needed it when he’d called—the comfort of fried chicken and cheese and an impromptu hangout—but San won’t say that. He just sweeps Seonghwa into a quick hug.

When they part, Seonghwa scrunches up his nose like he’s judging San for his laundry choices again. He walks into a trap of his own making, asking: “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hyung. What?”

Seonghwa is already walking towards his kitchen, putting the takeout bag in the middle of the table and procuring a box of napkins when he answers. “You smell like Wooyoung.”

San resists the urge to sniff his own T-shirt, but he realises that Seonghwa’s right. He can catch a note of Wooyoung’s usual perfume on himself, the woodsy, warm scent that had clouded his brain on more than one occasion. It’s ironic that Seonghwa calls him out today, when he and Wooyoung had barely even touched one another, and it’s a testament to how familiar it’s grown to San that he didn’t even notice.

“I picked him up from the station,” he says.

“You did?”

“Yeah. You know he doesn’t drive.” San thinks of their short chat, keeping his eyes down as he helps Seonghwa with the takeout boxes and shrugs. “We’re friends.”

The more he says it, San hopes, the less he’ll start thinking about the unspoken part and the more convincing he’ll become; at least to his own ears, as far as their caution is concerned. He isn’t lying, and Seonghwa seems to let it drop. San sits down and opens a can of Coke for him, then digs into the crispy chicken once Seonghwa starts eating.

Out of pre-season, they all tend to be a bit more lax with their diet, like they’ve had their settings adjusted, bodies calibrated, and now they’re just running with it. Quite literally—as much as San tries to limit his indulgences, between the matches and the training, he knows he’ll run things off. And so, he hums with delight, licking the spicy sauce off his chopsticks.

“That hits the spot.”

Seonghwa hums in agreement. “It really does.”

For as long as they’re eating, he doesn’t address the topic, and San gives him space. Seonghwa suggests they continue the Death Star LEGO once they’re cleaning up, but it’s just a joke—going off his stories, Mingi is out with Yunho, and though the actual building never holds his attention, they both know he wouldn’t forgive them if they finished the set without him. They’re in the living room, TV on and San cuddling a pillow, when Seonghwa finally brings up the obvious.

“So, I tried to talk to him yesterday,” he says, looking off into the middle distance. “It didn’t go very well.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. He tried to talk to me about the game for about five minutes. Gave me a rundown of the U-21 upcoming matches, then pretended to fall asleep. I can tell when he’s faking it—and Hongjoong knows that. But still, he kept it up the whole trip.” Seonghwa keeps his voice level, detached. It sounds so uncanny San has to hold the pillow tighter. “He gave me another two minutes when we arrived. Apparently he’s been struggling with sleep. No wonder, huh? The saddest part is—” Seonghwa takes a deep breath, dragging it through his nose with a resigned smile “—this was the most we’ve talked in months.”

“Since we…”

“Since Thailand,” Seonghwa confirms. “And I know I shouldn’t have done it. I think—I regret letting myself get so drunk. If I hadn’t, maybe he wouldn’t be freezing me out.”

“Hyung.”

“I also blame that stupid game.” Seonghwa chuckles, self-deprecating enough to reveal he only really blames himself. “You know, the truth or dare? I remember now, what happened when we got to the hotel. When Hongjoong walked me back.”

“You do?” San shuffles closer, wary of encroaching on Seonghwa’s space but wanting him to know he’s there, ready to throw the pillow away and cuddle whatever part of Seonghwa he can get his hands on.

Seonghwa nods. “I dared him to finish what he started. You know. The kiss.”

San’s eyebrow jump. “And—”

“He said it was a mistake. We probably fought. I don’t remember all of it but here we are. He won’t talk to me and, honestly, if he keeps acting like this—” Seonghwa pauses like he’s fighting against his own words “—it might be for the best. Friendship is a two way street.”

There is a lot that San holds back: his conviction that Hongjoong is acting out of some misguided sense of care, his ever-multiplying questions about Jinju and just what exactly nudged his friends on this downward slope. He cuddles Seonghwa the best he can, and he asks if he should talk to Hongjoong on his behalf, but he’s not surprised by Seonghwa’s refusal.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’d rather you didn’t, San-ah.”

And San doubts that he could help, anyway.

He tried talking to Hongjoong after the red card he got in Jeju and he got nowhere. Hongjoong called it a lapse and apologised for inconveniencing the team. He wasn’t otherwise forthcoming, promising it wouldn’t happen again instead of explaining why it had. In the end, San left it at that because—when it came to lapses—the captain had always afforded him the same courtesy.

“Thank you for listening,” Seonghwa says when he untangles himself from San, sniffling once. He didn’t tear up the entire time he was talking, which makes San think he’s out of tears by now. The thought stings. “It helps a lot.”

“Anytime, hyung.”

“I’m here too, you know,” Seonghwa adds, giving San a wan smile. “If you ever need to talk.”

San nods. He pats Seonghwa’s head as he gets up and offers to make them tea, hides out in the kitchen when he sees Wooyoung has sent him some random reel, then feels guilty when he gets back with two steaming mugs and a cheerful grin.

He knows Seonghwa would listen to him, and he knows he can’t talk about it, and—fear mingled with a morbid sense of possessiveness over sharing the secret with Wooyoung—San doesn’t even know if he wants to.

Not yet.

‿

The Sunday crowd is even wilder than it had been for their first home game, but it’s also a lot more nervous.

San can see it as he scans the faces in the closest rows, the fans with their scarves and slogans that they hold onto with white-knuckled hands. He knows the uneasy atmosphere has its reason, can relate to the tension buzzing through the masses, and still wishes everyone was less obvious about it all.

It’s enough that the locker room feels like a minefield. That Coach Eden—stoic, cool-headed Eden who used to scare San with how little emotion he tolerated within the team—has been pacing the touchlines for the length of their warmups, looking like a disgruntled crow. Those were Wooyoung’s words, and San smiles, glad at least someone is acting like they’re not about to square off against some unbeatable football colossus.

Still, underneath the jokes, it’s clear that Wooyoung is on edge, too.

The whole week, he’s been zoning out, spewing cheerful reassurances in everyone’s direction, clearly hoping they would calm him by proxy. He’s not trying to seduce San by his usual means, not making bets or hiking his shorts up just because; that’s for the best, really, since San doesn’t have the mental capacity to worry about the match and deal with the visual flashes of carpet burn, flushed skin, and Wooyoung’s upturned gaze.

They all know they can beat Jeonbuk—they have done it before, more than once. But the season has started shaky, and losing against their biggest rival, now, could trigger a whole new earthquake.

“Hey, mountain boy.”

San raises an eyebrow, not needing to look around to know who’s walking up to him but doing it anyway. “That’s a new one.”

“I’m just reminding you—” Wooyoung shrugs “—of your roots.”

“Mountains don’t have roots.”

“Oh my god.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m just saying… Remember not to get overwhelmed, right?” he says, voice pitched low and oddly rough. San only realises why as Wooyoung continues, his tone rising again, then dipping low: “Be the mountain boy you are. Y’know, do your thing.”

“Wait.”

“They got nothing on you, Sannie-haengnim, if you just—”

“Is that supposed to be satoori?” San cuts him off with a laugh.

“Supposed to?” Wooyoung drops the dialect, focused on conveying his indignation. “Here I am, trying to speak your own language. To reassure you. And instead of appreciating it, you insult me?”

“I appreciate it, Wooyoung-ah,” San says, chuckling. “But make sure I can actually understand you, next time you try—”

Just then, Eden walks onto the field and starts waving at the players currently doing their cone dribbles. Likely to gather them for the final 7v7, which means they have about ten minutes before the game begins. San must pull a face at the realisation because Wooyoung flicks him on the shoulder.

“Ouch!”

“For luck,” Wooyoung says.

San thinks of the hair tie he’s still carrying around in his backpack, and Shiber—still grimy, but San has now watched a video tutorial on how to wash plushies without ruining them. He replays Wooyoung’s words and they have been nice—for the encouragement and the obvious attempt to distract San from getting inside his own mind.

The sting of Wooyoung’s fingers, however, is a better reminder than the spoken one. San can’t stop feeling things, but he can regulate what he does with them—like he can make an annoying flick feel almost like a hug.

“If today goes well,” San says, cheeks warming before he even opens his mouth, “can we—”

“Yes.”

“Wooyoung.” He flicks Wooyoung back, close to his collarbone. “You have no idea what I wanted to ask.”

“That’s fine,” Wooyoung says. He works up a strange smile, cocky but also a bit sheepish. “Hold onto the thought and—you know. Play for it.”

‿

Out of all the games San has watched to prepare himself for donning the number ten, he’s definitely analysed their Jeonbuk derbies the closest.

For years, the two teams have been evenly matched—be it the lacklustre season three years ago, when they both went through squad shakeups, or last year, when they spent months one-upping each other in the rankings. The matches are usually intense. Fun. Popular with the fans. And the fans are usually nervous not just because of team loyalty, but the betting tickets many have doubtlessly brought inside their wallets.

The odds are fairly even, and the money can be big.

After the Jeonbuk match last November, San often caught himself wondering how much money he’d lost their fans with his two missed penalties and abysmal attacks. The turning point of his season, he remembers walking into the following home game shaking in his boots, expecting a shower of boos and whistles. And there was some jeering—there always is, no matter how well they play, with emotions running high and many fans thinking themselves experts—but the crowd had nothing to do with San’s downward spiral.

That was all inside his head.

He glances around the stands once more before the whistle blows. He focuses on the cheering and the smiles. He looks away, looks at his teammates, looks at Wooyoung—who gives San the smallest nod—and then the game is on.

Like Ulsan, Jeonbuk have an offensive style of play. They’ve got their trusty forwards, their swift transitions, and their beautiful long balls. Five minutes into the game, Yunho has already had to steel himself for two shots, and Jongho pulls a downright miraculous manoeuvre when faced with three Jeonbuk attackers alone.

But there are gaps, too, and San leans into them: Jeonbuk’s new captain is easy to steal from, their wingers are a touch too slow, and their new striker is nothing like Wooyoung. He couldn’t wish to be on a regular day, and definitely not today—not when Wooyoung is playing like he’s got a point to prove.

There’s a tactic Jeonbuk is fond of, an overlap where they move their midfielders into attacking positions. It’s just to hold possession while they set up a proper scoring chance. They do it often, and they do it well, and—this time—San easily spots it and breaks the pattern before they get the upper hand.

“Turn, turn!”

He hears himself yelling once he gets the ball. Finding a relatively easy trajectory, he sprints it upfield and plans to take his chances. There are only two defenders ahead: one of them is blocking Yeosang and the other could be easy to feint.

“On your back!” Hongjoong’s shout is urgent, but it’s almost drowned out by Wooyoung’s simultaneous: “Hey, San-ah! One-two!”

He’s further out but San knows he can swing it. They don’t need the Shadow Pass, the intention is loud and clear. The moment the ball touches Wooyoung’s feet, he takes off like someone has lit his fuse—like there should be sparks dancing under his studs, like an arrow that’s flying so fast it’s threatening to burst into flames. The fastest San has seen him run, he races clear of the defence and makes the crowd jump to their feet as he goes in for the solo dribble.

It’s another beautiful goal from him: tight, smooth, with a perfect finish.

The stands explode and so do their teammates, many rushing up for the usual congratulations. But when Wooyoung turns around with his beaming grin, San is the closest—and Wooyoung almost hugs him.

San knows it, instincts working overtime as Wooyoung loops towards him. He widens his stance, lets his arms drop, angles himself for the impact—and when Wooyoung stops a few steps short, he can see the way it dawns on his face.

The decision not to.

“Handshake?” Wooyoung asks instead, out of breath, and San can only nod.

It’s a fumbled version of the one they practised in the car, weeks ago, and he doesn’t pull Wooyoung in under the gaze of thousands. That had been an accident, anyway. The game needs to resume, the referee starting to look impatient, but—just for a bit—San thinks he could take a yellow card for wasting time if it meant holding onto Wooyoung’s hand a little longer. Chasing the sparks he’s watched with his own lungs constricting. Letting them catch.

Wooyoung, thankfully, lets his hand go with a short squeeze.

Neither team scores again until halftime and, with their one-goal lead, the locker room is lively with a hopeful buzz, the antithesis of what it looked like before the game started. There are shouts of “Woosan!” that San tries to ignore, Coach Eden’s short brief, and water. Lots and lots of water.

Sitting a few spots away, Wooyoung chugs his own like his life depends on it. He drinks, and he drinks, and he gazes at a spot on the floor; San gets stuck on his expression—weirdly emotionless and tired—until Wooyoung snaps back into the present, smiling at Yeosang who’s offering him a bite of his energy bar.

Jeonbuk evens the score in minute fifty-seven.

Well-deserved, San has to admit, they’ve come back to the field even hungrier for the goal. But Ulsan plays well, too. Seonghwa almost turns a corner kick, Wooyoung almost sends in a volley. San keeps checking in deep; he doesn’t look at the crowd, not even when they start chanting various player names, demanding a goal.

They get it, delivered by Wooyoung in the final third. And then they get an unwanted one just two minutes later, the Jeonbuk centre forward tricking Mingi with a fast dribble. Both teams substitute players for the final push, the ball flying from one box to the other but not inside the nets.

A draw, San can’t even pretend he’s disappointed.

He might be, later, once he’s reviewed match footage and found their weak spots. It feels like a victory though, not having crumbled from the pressure. He’s had fun. The team looks satisfied. And the audience—at least the majority—is happily singing along to Dreamers. Forming a line for the handshakes, Hongjoong gives him a significant look and San remembers his advice to give it seven games. This was game eight. He allows himself to feel hopeful.

The fuzzy feeling disappears the moment they start walking off the field and he spots Wooyoung, already by the tunnel. It might be subtle, just a slight favouring of his right leg, a shortened stride on the left. But once San notices, he can’t unsee it.

The limp.

‿

Amidst the celebrations, Wooyoung brushes off his concerns, claiming it’s just a tight calf.

“I’ve already booked a date with Oliv-hyung,” Wooyoung says, winking at the PT. “You don’t need to fuss.”

He says it lightly, but San can sense a warning behind his words, Wooyoung drawing a line and telling him not to cross it. San doesn’t think it’s the calf. He hums and lets it go.

They don’t meet up that evening, and Wooyoung acts his usual self at training the next day—not going easy on himself, drill after drill, passing and juggling and finishing off their rondo without a single wince. San almost concedes he’s trying to make an issue out of nothing.

choi.san:

do you feel up for a drive?

wooyoun9:

can’t tonight

sorry

Walking down an empty stadium corridor, San reigns in his pout, having prepared himself for the response. He’s stayed behind to talk to Eden—discussing the Jeonbuk game and the upcoming match in Seoul—but the rest of the team has already scattered. He’s typing out his response, an understanding ‘okay, have a good night!’ when he notices that there’s light coming from a door that’s been left ajar.

It’s the physio room.

San doesn’t mean to spy, but he’s a moth to a flame when it comes to Wooyoung’s laughter. The specific kind that rings out into the corridor—hollow and a little pained—gives him no choice but to take a peek.

“—looks fine now. But,” Oliv is saying, sitting by the treatment table with his fingers around Wooyoung’s ankle, rotating it gently, “you need to rest it. You know better than anyone, Wooyoung-ah. Next time, it could—”

“Of course, hyung,” Wooyoung nods, overly deferential. “I’ll tell you if it starts feeling funny again.”

“You should consider—”

“Thank you for your help.”

Wooyoung moves, making Oliv drop his hands. It’s clear he’s about to flee, and the only way out is through the corridor. San doesn’t want to get caught. He does the only sensible thing that he can think of—retraces his steps towards Eden’s office, pretends to be absorbed in something on his phone, and slowly walks the same path as before.

“San?” Wooyoung calls when he spots him, clearly surprised. “You’re still here?”

“I was with the Coach,” San says, pointing a thumb behind his back like Wooyoung doesn’t know where the office is. “And you—”

“Just having a checkup. For the calf.” Even if Wooyoung managed to keep his voice steady, his eyes would give him away. They flick side to side, too fast. He switches into distraction mode. “It’s all good, so. I suppose—we could—”

“I’ll drop you off,” San cuts in. “If you’re heading home?”

He thinks of what he’s heard Oliv say, and of the border Wooyoung has drawn earlier. San’s got a lot of questions, even more concerns, and, spending the evening with Wooyoung, he knows he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from overstepping. But Wooyoung doesn’t drive, and San can control his mouth for twenty minutes.

At least he hopes so.

The drive isn’t quiet, but it’s awkward like it hasn’t been since their first parking lot hookup: Wooyoung talks about the traffic, criticises the Melon song suggestions, and gloats that—three weeks late—he’s finally found the perfect birthday gift for Seonghwa, some kind of an expensive branded hoodie. San, also scared of silence, talks about Dungeon Crawler of all things. He no longer even has the game installed on his phone.

“Fascinating,” Wooyoung mutters, about two blocks from his house. He swallows, gnawing on his lip. “You, uh—you played well. In the last game.”

“So did you,” San shoots back automatically.

It makes Wooyoung smile. “Yeah, yeah. I just mean, you had something to ask, right?”

There are a lot of answers San could give, requests of the kind Wooyoung is expecting. They’ve got Wooyoung’s flat at their disposal now, and San’s imagination has been running rampant ever since they started sleeping together, unlocking a part of himself he’s never really been in touch with. But that’s not what he wanted, and his real request is dangerous.

He doesn’t want to ask for twenty minutes. He might be crossing over a different line altogether. He grips the wheel a bit tighter, humming under his breath; they’re friends so they need to act like friends, and Wooyoung has already said yes.

“We’re off tomorrow, so,” he says, turning into Wooyoung’s street. “Do you want a driving lesson? A real one?”

The San from a while back would be proud of himself for rendering Wooyoung speechless—he looks at San, opens his mouth and swiftly closes it. “I don’t think that’s a…”

He doesn’t need to finish for San to get the gist. It’s okay. He already likes the routine they’ve got, no longer risking it all in the parking lot. Wooyoung’s flat is cool and convenient and, the three times San has visited, it was nowhere near as cluttered as Seonghwa has made it out to be. It’s true that he hasn’t had much of a chance to scrutinise it, their encounters always fast with a single-minded purpose, but that’s the thing—they are booty calls, San always gets to drive home content in the afterglow, and asking for more is—

“Sure,” Wooyoung says, fracturing his train of thought. “Sure, just—let me sleep in a bit, okay?”

Wooyoung waves at him from the building’s front door, and one of his neighbours comes out at the same time, shooting a curious glance towards San’s car. It should trouble him, and perhaps it does—somewhere deep down in his heart where he’s concerned for Wooyoung’s ankle and their teammates and how far the friend excuse really stretches—but his excitement takes over.

Compartmentalising at its finest.

‿

San’s always been good with his mouth.

At least that’s what his previous partners used to say, and he really hopes the girls had been genuine, not just lying to spare his ego. He did always try his best, and he did enjoy it. The taste, the scent, the messy intimacy. He also knows how good it feels—and knows how good Wooyoung, in particular, can make it feel—which adds to the thrill, wanting to elicit a particular whine, have nails scraping at the base of his skull, get pulled closer with the needy urgency.

It’s still scary, getting down to business.

They’re in Wooyoung’s bedroom, half naked and panting, and San knows he wants to do it. The perfect cherry on top of everything they’ve done that afternoon, he’s been wanting to do this for weeks. He’s researched it. The last few times Wooyoung sucked him off, he’s tried to stay present enough to pick up on the little tricks—and though it has been mostly impossible, skilled as Wooyoung is, San is ready to learn by doing.

If he’s bad, his ego might bruise but he will live. He knows that practice makes perfect, and he knows Wooyoung won’t kick him out of bed unless he does something terrible. Like biting, but even then—knowing Wooyoung—it might be fine.

He chuckles against Wooyoung’s mouth and pecks it, not answering his hum of a question. Instead, he stops Wooyoung’s hand from sliding into his underwear and breaks away at his indignant groan. San has a mission. He has to focus.

“Wait,” he says, Wooyoung already latching onto his neck. “Wait, I—I want to try something.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to—uh, use my mouth.”

Wooyoung stops nipping at his jaw. He looks at San from below, eyes glazed over and narrowing. “Are you—”

“Yes.” San nods to emphasise the fact. “Yes, Wooyoung-ah. Please. I really want to.”

Maybe it should be embarrassing—and even moreso, given their history—how serious he sounds asking to take a dick down his throat. But San doesn’t care, and he waits. Just like he had waited when they met at two, asking if Wooyoung wanted to grab a coffee before their driving lesson, and waited when he asked if Wooyoung wanted to see the murals up in Shinhwa. Both times, Wooyoung hesitated but quickly caved, and they sipped their drinks while walking down cobblestone roads in the biting April wind.

When San suggested they take a drive around the baseball stadium, he didn’t even have to wait for an answer: Wooyoung’s eyes lit up and he started nodding like his life depended on it. Maybe one day, San hopes, he can earn that sort of reaction for other things.

“Okay,” Wooyoung says. There’s not the same kind of glint in his gaze now, but there’s a softness that doesn’t really match his words: “Sure, dimples, show me what you got.”

Both nervous and eager, San starts by kissing him.

That has grown familiar, they’ve perfected it so that San easily slips his tongue inside Wooyoung’s mouth, pulls at his bottom lip, licks over the mole there. In all honesty, San doesn’t think he’s ever kissed someone this much. Between the caution and shyness of his first relationship, and him prioritising football in all the others, Wooyoung might just be the person he’s kissed the most. Somehow, it still doesn’t feel enough.

There’s a disparity between how often they see each other—basically every day—and how often San gets to have Wooyoung like this. The unspoken agreement still stands, they only kiss when it’s a prelude to other things. San had been staring before the Gwangju showers, yes, but he’s afraid he hasn’t gotten any better since: mid-training, post-match, Wooyoung sitting beside him in the passenger seat—time and again, he finds himself gawking at his lips.

He needs to sort that out. Friends don’t do that.

“Cold feet?” Wooyoung teases, and that finally gets San to move lower.

To Wooyoung’s neck, first, and since he hasn’t established any rules against it today, San makes sure to leave a hickey or two. The tattoo on his ribs, next, and then his chest, feeling Wooyoung’s nipples harden against his tongue. Wooyoung’s little gasp spur him on, hands digging into Wooyoung’s sides. It can’t be that different, San tells himself. If he can do this well, he can take a cock. He trails the kisses down to Wooyoung’s stomach, laving at the skin just below his belly button.

“You’re stalling,” Wooyoung says. San, knowing he is, sinks his teeth in and holds Wooyoung down as he jolts. “Hey!”

“You were saying?” San asks, digging his chin into the same spot and looking up. The angle does terrible things to his own arousal, and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

“Don’t bite when you’re down there!”

“So don’t insult me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Not yet.”

“Right.” Wooyoung smirks, pushing a strand of hair behind San’s ear. “Right, I forgot. You respond better to praise, San-ah, is that it?”

San flushes and doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Refocusing, he presses a few more kisses to Wooyoung’s belly before he moves lower. And lower. And then he holds, just breathing in, just carefully mouthing over the outline of Wooyoung’s clothed cock. He’s already taken by the musky scent, completely different from his past exploits, and there’s still a layer in his way. He leans back to see the wet patches on the material—spit, but also not—and when Wooyoung lifts his hips, San pulls the underwear down.

Don’t stare, don’t stare, the familiar mantra immediately runs through his mind.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Touched before. Wooyoung’s cock springs to his belly and it’s already pink and leaking. A little shorter than San’s, a little thicker, definitely a good handful. He knows that much, and it’s not what he cares about at the moment. His stomach tingles, heart speeds up, and San lets his eyes close as he leans in.

“Hah.”

Wooyoung tenses for a moment. Whines. The sound runs through San like an adrenaline shot and he’s only kissed the head, only let his tongue peek out.

“There you go, baby. Take it slow.”

Going by his own experience, San knows that must be the opposite of what Wooyoung actually wants. His words are gentle, and so is the hand he keeps atop San’s hair, just resting there. The pet name… San decides to ignore it, not wanting to soil his own briefs before he gets Wooyoung off.

He drags his tongue down the warm skin, tracing the most prominent vein. The taste is different but San likes it—musky and clean and so very Wooyoung.

“Already feels so good, San-ah,” he says with a shaky voice.

It’s the perfect encouragement for San to wrap his hand around the base, at the same time as his lips close around the head. That comes with a bitter tang but it’s not unpleasant, and San chases after it with his tongue, feeling the first drops of spit trickle down his chin. So far, so good, he thinks, feeling the slight thrum in Wooyoung’s thighs and the way his palm cups the back of San’s head. Still not pushing, only resting.

“Can you take more?” he asks, thumb rubbing over San’s neck. “I think you can. Nice and slow.”

San tries, his cheek bulging when he changes the angle.

It’s not the best, he’s still so far from where he wants to be. But he doesn’t want to choke, doesn’t want to start coughing and spluttering around Wooyoung’s cock—perhaps some people find that hot, perhaps he could find it hot, but San can hardly imagine something less appealing for his first time. He wants to prove that he can make it good. His own dick is getting painfully hard, San barely resisting the urge to rut against the mattress, but he can’t choke and he can’t come yet; he wants it to be hot for Wooyoung.

“Oh, fuck.”

Going by his noises, it seems to be.

He’s always expressive, it’s one of the things San finds so intoxicating about their hook-ups. Wooyoung groans when he takes him a little deeper, he whines when San starts bobbing his head, and he rasps out a low “sorry” when his hips buck and San has to take a breather just to centre himself. He doesn’t mind the intrusion or the slight burn as his lips stretch, but it’s still overwhelming, the rush of it making San forget to take even breaths.

He shakes off Wooyoung’s apology and descends again, almost taking him deep enough now to brush his nose against Wooyoung’s belly. Spit leaks out at both corners of his mouth and he just hopes Wooyoung likes it half as much as San loves it when he gets wet and filthy on his knees. The hand that pushes him down—soft, guiding—seems to say so.

“You’re so good, San-ah,” Wooyoung confirms. “Look at you. I wish you could see yourself.”

San can’t do that, but looking up at Wooyoung—pushed up on his elbows, watching—makes his dick twitch. He thinks of Koh Samui and the first weeks they’ve known each other, how the thought of being in this spot—between Wooyoung’s legs, feeling both small and horrifically unguarded—would’ve made the San of the past shudder in disbelief; San can’t say he would’ve hated the idea, now that he’s more aware of why Wooyoung made him act out in ways nobody else ever managed. But, attracted and obsessed or not, past San wouldn’t have wanted to give Wooyoung this much power over him.

He swallows. Wooyoung’s eyes close on a pretty whine. San has to look away.

Ambitious by nature, he can’t help but be disappointed when Wooyoung pulls him off a little while later. San has found a good rhythm by then, managed to shut his thoughts off and focus on the heat, the slide, the pressure of Wooyoung’s hand on his nape. But he hasn’t come anywhere close to taking Wooyoung down his throat, and apparently he won’t.

“Too close. Gonna come,” Wooyount mutters, holding him off.

“It’s fine, I—” San pauses, shocked by the gruffness of his own voice. He licks his lips and tries again. “I want to—”

“It’s your first time. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“Please.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “I know you. I know you’re like—”

San doesn’t take him all the way down, but he tries to swallow when Wooyoung’s orgasm rips through him. It’s a lot. He sputters a bit. He’d be embarrassed, probably, if not for Wooyoung kissing him right after and wiping the come off his chin.

“So good. So good, baby, you did so well.”

The sticky remnants spread over San’s own cock when Wooyoung reaches for him. Up and over, his other arm hooking over San’s neck and pulling him close. Close enough that he can feel the tremble of Wooyoung’s breath, still unsettled from coming, already so frantic and dedicated to tipping San over the edge.

He falls with a groan, burying his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder. Unknowingly—his mind feels blank for a hot minute, the orgasm almost painful in the best way. He feels warm and a bit groggy, comfortable, and Wooyoung doesn’t shake him off.

On the contrary, he lets San lie there and plays with his sweaty hair. He says things that San’s fuzzy brain can’t take in. He shifts—after what could be a minute or an hour—and meets San’s gaze, smiling.

“You alright, freckles?” he asks, poking San’s neck as the nickname falls out of his mouth.

A nickname, San thinks, one of many. There might be a new addition now, but it’s hardly something to dwell on. “Yep.”

“Good.” He smacks San’s ass without a warning, making him jolt. “Move, then. My legs are going numb.”

‿

Wooyoung’s bathroom is very…

Him, San thinks. There is some basic skincare above the sink, two empty tubes of toothpaste that clearly need throwing out and one fresh one, several perfume bottles lined up on a glass shelf. San’s seen them before, but he’s never really seen them. He knows the bedroom, and he’s familiar with the sofa, but this is the first time he’s actually stayed at Wooyoung’s place to take a shower.

Alone, because Wooyoung simply threw a towel over his head and told him to use whatever he wanted. Which is fine. They’ve spent half the day together, and it’s good that Wooyoung is still reminding him that there are boundaries. Back on his bed, in San’s floaty and comfortable headspace, it felt too tempting to forget.

Drying himself, San realises he definitely smells like Wooyoung now. He doesn’t mind. They could plausibly be using the same shower gel—though the sandalwood is a bit too strong for San’s taste—and he’s not meeting anyone that evening. After Seonghwa’s comment, he’s also been keeping a bottle of his own cologne in his car as a precaution.

He’s yet to use it.

“No, no, don’t worry. It’s nothing like last season, I promise.”

Wooyoung is talking to someone when San emerges from the bathroom. It sets off his alarm bells, at first, making him wonder if he should walk right back into the shower to hide. But Wooyoung continues humming and making small interjections, a one-sided conversation that has to be a call.

“Well, it’s too early for the scouts to start showing up,” Wooyoung says, just as San turns the corner into the living room. “But yeah, I hope—ah, I’ll call you later, okay? No, I just remembered I have to do something.”

Sitting on the sofa, he’s quick to finish the call and put the phone away. San is just as quick with his question, not doing much to hide his hopeful tone: “You got a new agent?”

“No.” Wooyoung shakes his head, eyes sharpening before he turns them away and waves his hand through the air. “Just my older brother. Always too busy for a proper catch-up, you know how it is.”

Back in his wrinkled shirt and jeans, San regrets not folding his clothes properly. Padding closer and taking in Wooyoung’s oversized tee and sweatpants, he regrets not dressing more comfortably. He stops fiddling with the crease on his sleeve when he notices the food on the living room table—two cups of instant ramen, two sets of cutlery.

“Are you hungry?” Wooyoung asks, stuffing the phone in his pocket. He’s got one leg on the sofa, hugging it to his chest. Left without an answer, he stretches his mouth and looks at the ramen cups. “Don’t worry if you have other plans. I just thought—it would be less suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” San frowns.

“Yeah. If you stayed a bit longer.” Wooyoung shrugs, still studying the table. “You’ve been coming over a lot—and, uh. Always leaving just after—you know.”

San can’t say the same thought hasn’t crossed his mind; there was that time last year—at the height of their winning streak—when a fan posted his licence plate online and he got people camping under his apartment building for “accidental” meetups. Nothing too terrible, they weren’t harassing him and San has never even thought his car or his home should be a secret. But it was not something he’d previously considered happening to him. He isn’t an actor or an idol, and football doesn’t have that kind of following.

“You’re still a public figure,” Bora told him at the time, sympathetic but matter of fact. “If you keep playing like this, it’s only going to get worse.”

Better, she’d meant in a sense, because only the best of the best gained that sort of a problem. She made San issue a polite statement asking for privacy, made him change the plate, made him promise to report any suspicious interactions.

There has only ever been one—months down the line, when the on-field pressure started getting to San—but, as much as getting yelled at in front of his house wasn’t a nice thing, he has never felt unsafe.

In a flash, he wonders if Wooyoung has, and the thought makes his stomach turn.

“Thank you,” he says, trying to mask the discomfort. He sits down on the other end of the sofa, grabs the chopsticks and the ramen, and slurps up a mouthful of spicy noodles. With his cheeks full, he adds: “I’m starving.”

He really is, and the food does him good. It’s just ramen, but there’s fresh spring onion sprinkled on top, a bit of kimchi, and a soft-boiled egg. He doesn’t make a show out of enjoying it because he feels like he has to—his eyes crinkle because the ramen is good, it hits the spot, and Wooyoung’s made it.

“That good?” Wooyoung asks, looping noodles around his own chopsticks.

“Mhm. Easily top fifty instant ramen I’ve had.”

Wooyoung pretends to aim a kick at him and San grabs his foot. They laugh. Fragments of the day loop through San’s mind as he eats, and he knows the warmth in his belly is only partly caused by the spicy broth.

They’ve kept their distance while walking around Shinhwa, a respectable space of an invisible third person between them to demarcate them as friends. Someone recognised them while they were waiting in the coffee shop, but the guy just nodded. To any onlookers—and to Wooyoung, perhaps—nothing about their afternoon would seem out of the ordinary, an outing like San could have with any one of his teammates.

A walk, a drive, some food after sex so that San doesn’t have to leave Wooyoung’s place hungry. It could even be called transactional. It’s only San’s treacherous mind trying to label it romantic.

“So who’s your favourite player?”

“Um.”

Wooyoung holds the chopsticks halfway to his mouth, then lets them drop in order to cackle properly. “You don’t know the first thing about baseball, do you?”

San shrugs. He’s listened to Wooyoung go on and on about the Lotte Giants and Hwang Seongbin and the anatomy of a perfect baseball pitch throughout their drive and he hasn’t had to offer much input of his own. Back to the same topic, now, he can’t bring himself to lie. “Not really.”

“You must be bored to death,” Wooyoung says, too self-conscious to cover it up with a smirk.

“Not really.” San shrugs again. There are still some noodles hidden in his cup but he puts it away, shifting in his seat. “My father is a big baseball fan. But when I was growing up—we would mostly talk about football, so I only know the basics. Nine players, strikes, home runs.”

“That makes sense.” Wooyoung nods. “Did you use to go to his games a lot?”

“Yeah. My grandparents did, so they’d take me if I finished all my homework on time.” San can hear his voice becoming softer, faded images from the past flashing through his mind. “But it got harder when I started playing. For them, too, because the matches would often be at the same time. So sometimes grandma would come to mine while grandpa went to dad’s. Sometimes they’d take turns and go with me one weekend, then…”

San smiles at the memory, though it feels like a lifetime ago. He misses his grandparents. His father hasn’t played football in over a decade.

“I could teach you,” Wooyoung says. Softly, casually, giving him the briefest glance and then looking away. “About baseball, I mean.”

“That would be nice,” San says. He’s very proud of how casual he manages to make his own voice sound, all while his heart is doing little somersaults inside his chest. “If you have the time.”

“I can find some.”

There’s a joke San could make about also needing patience, or another to exaggerate just how far his baseball ignorance stretches. Safe options, guaranteed returns, San would be wiser to go with them. Instead, he clears his throat and fiddles with his rolled up sleeve again.

“Do you know why my dad retired?” he asks.

“Injury,” Wooyoung answers with ease. “He was playing for the Dragons at the time, right?”

He had been the captain, San doesn’t say.

He’s spent years repeating the same story sans the conclusion—that was the part everyone was familiar with, the one he hated rehashing. His dad had been plenty famous in his own time, had played for the national team, had been on the squad the year Korea placed fourth in the World Cup. San was only five back then and mostly remembers it from photos and a camcorder video. He’d already been training at the time, the striker for an under-7 club that met in Jinju. There weren’t enough players his age in Namhae, so his mum would take him all the way up for training, and his dad would drive him on the off chance that he wasn’t busy with his own team.

By the time San turned six, his dad was driving him each time. He wasn’t playing anymore.

“It was his ankle,” San says. Tentatively, even though he knows it’s not going to make much difference. He sees the immediate shift in Wooyoung’s posture—the stiffening of his shoulders, the way he draws his leg up again and guards his ankle like the very mention of it could give something away. It gives everything away. “Arthritis. They said—”

“San.”

“—it developed because of an earlier fracture,” San doesn’t stop, just softens his voice further. “But appa had only ever had sprains. That’s what the doctors said. They must’ve misdiagnosed—”

“I have things to do.”

Wooyoung jumps up, almost hitting the table with his shin. Wincing, he stacks the leftover ramen, lets a chopstick roll to the floor in his haste, flinches when San holds it out and their hands brush.

“Wooyoung-ah—”

“Thank you for the driving lesson, San,” he says, inflectionless. It feels like more of a slap than him simply yelling. “I forgot I had, uh—I’m meeting a friend. Here. So you should go.”

“Wooyoung, please.”

“Go.”

It’s one word, one syllable, cold as ice. Wooyoung is walking away by the time he says it, back turned, and San knows he doesn’t have a choice. He can sense it in the tone, in how Wooyoung holds himself: like a player who’s lost a match and refuses to let the frustration show, only to blow up the moment he gets off the field. It isn’t that San fears being on the receiving end. He just knows he’s not going to turn the score around.

“Thank you for the afternoon,” he says, eyes fixed on Wooyoung’s nape, voice almost drowned out by the aggressive stream of water Wooyoung is using to wash his hands. “And for the food. I’m sorry, I—”

“Good night, San.”

San awkwardly walks himself to his shoes, throws his jacket over his elbow, inhales to say something and then doesn’t. He’s screwed up, he knows. His footsteps seem to echo as he walks downstairs and, suspicious or not, he sits in his car for a long, long while before he can bring himself to get the engine started.

‿

San doesn’t take the team bus up to Seoul.

He offers to drive himself, Seonghwa, and Sumin, so that they can stay an extra day after the match—San, because he’s got a sponsorship event, and the others just for fun. The drive itself is not exactly fun, though, as Sumin has just been dumped, Seonghwa has his own baggage, and San is back to being ignored by Wooyoung at training and outside of it.

They’re not fighting: Wooyoung hasn’t tried to trip him, call him stupid, or use any of the numerous weak spots San has exposed since the last time they were on bad terms. He’s just giving San the cold shoulder, like Hongjoong is doing to Seonghwa, like Sumin’s ex had apparently been doing to him for weeks, and San can’t even moan about it.

He’s not the one dealing with a breakup, he can’t tell them the truth, and he’s brought Wooyoung’s wrath upon himself—knowingly.

“Sumin-ah, please change the song,” he sulks instead, the heavy rock beat making his head thrum.

“But hyung, this is—”

“Please. You don’t want me to crash, do you?”

“If a song is all it takes, I don’t think you’re qualified to be giving driving lessons.”

San sucks in a sharp breath. Seonghwa sucks in a softer breath, and then changes the song. Sumin apologises. But the remark stays buzzing in the car like an annoying fly, circling San’s head with an incessant chorus of Wooyoung, Wooyoung, Wooyoung. He opens the window in hopes of clearing his mind with traffic noise. It fails. Seonghwa looks for a napkin in his glove compartment and all San sees are the wipes and the glasses and the cologne he never actually wears.

Pathetic.

When they arrive, San leaves the backpack with Shiber in the car but pockets the hair tie. What others don’t know, they can’t judge—and San judges himself appropriately. He spends more time at the hotel gym than he should, a day before the match. Passing Yeosang on the way in, San just gives him a tight-lipped smile and hurries his steps.

Exhausted from his workout, he sleeps well.

‿

“Christ, Sannie! Why do you keep getting bigger?”

“Shhhh!” San blushes at the greeting, now bouncing off the walls in the empty corridor. “It’s good to see you too, man.”

The team isn’t meant to be at the stadium for another hour, and Seunghee—San’s roommate for the trip—had still been on his third snooze-sleep cycle when San left the hotel. He knows a few FC Seoul players so he’s there early, hoping to catch up. There’s Jihoon—Ulsan’s former number 10—a few guys he met during his national team stunt, and one of his old friends who went to the same academy in Ulsan but then moved to Seoul.

“No, but seriously. How are your shoulders still getting wider? They used to be half this size!”

“Yeonjun-ah. It’s not—”

“I keep saying the same thing.”

San whips his head around, mouth dropping before he can help it. Wooyoung looks past him, at Yeonjun; he approaches slowly, arms crossed, a navy PVC jacket zipped up almost to his chin and the duffle bag San knows well thrown over his shoulder. He lets it drop to the floor when Yeonjun beams at him.

“Wooyoung-ah!”

The cogs in San’s mind turn at double speed as he watches them hug. Tightly, with the familiarity of long-lost friends. Like a flash of lightning, he remembers—

“You both played for Suwon.”

A year in Wooyoung’s case, and two in Yeonjun’s. Somehow, San has never made the connection. His muttered realisation makes Yeonjun chuckle, while Wooyoung gives him a guarded look that he can’t read.

“Yeah, Youngie and I used to kill it on the offensive,” Yeonjun says and then smirks. “Maybe not as much as you guys do, but—”

“We were good,” Wooyoung interrupts.

“We should grab a drink after the game. All three of us.” Yeonjun still keeps his arm wrapped around Wooyoung’s shoulder, squeezing him to his chest. San very consciously keeps his eyes on their faces. “Hell, I’ll buy you drinks if we win. Or—are you leaving tonight? Please tell me they’re giving you tomorrow off.”

“Sannie doesn’t drink.”

San opens his mouth. “I—”

“It’s for the best.” Wooyoung smirks, weakly. “Gotta maintain that physique. And the image. You know how—”

“I can drink just fine.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Was it not you who almost puked on me in Thailand?”

“I didn’t puke on you.”

“I said almost.”

“I didn’t almost puke on you.” San pulls his mouth into a thin line to avoid pouting. “I’d be up for drinks. And—I’ll pay if we win.”

“Cool! We can—”

“I already made plans with my family, sorry.” Wooyoung leans down for his bag, Yeonjun’s arm finally shaken off. He angles himself away from San, cocking his head towards one side of the corridor. “Yeonjun-ah, I need a snack. Is there still a vending machine by the staff exit?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He kisses Yeonjun’s cheek and pats it twice for good measure. “I’ll catch up with you later!”

San stares at his retreating form.

He can’t help it, his inner supervisor taking leave alongside Wooyoung, the loud mwah looping through San’s mind like a chant. Not the supportive kind. Wooyoung is long gone past the corner when Yeonjun clears his throat, making San unclench his fist.

“So, the rumours are true?” Yeonjun tilts his head, considering.

“Rumours?” San sputters. “What rumours?”

“That you don’t get along.”

Ah, those. They’re the rumours that shouldn’t concern San, mindless gossip that has no actual bearing on his life or the football. The notion that they’re still getting spread—this far into the season, with him and Wooyoung working well on the field, hanging out so often that San’s been afraid of a different set of rumours altogether… it should calm him, honestly.

Rivals can be good PR. Whatever else they are—were?—is a ticking time bomb.

“No, they’re not,” San mutters. “We’re friends.”

“You can be honest, Sannie. I love you both but—”

“He’s just sulking over something,” he says, still quiet, hoping his voice doesn’t carry to wherever the vending machine is. “We’re fine.”

They aren’t, but San hopes they can be. He’s apologised. He regrets pushing when the signs were clearly telling him to stop, but now the ball is Wooyoung’s to take hold of. He can dribble it, or he can kick it out of play—but San has rarely seen him fumble a chance that way.

“We should still meet up, even if Wooyoungie’s busy. Just the two of us?” Yeonjun suggests.

San agrees, and they make their way to the home team’s locker room for San to say his hellos, and San tries not to wonder if the vending machine has swallowed Wooyoung up whole.

‿

They lose against FC Seoul.

San does a middling job that he would’ve seen as great at the start of the season, but not after the recent streak of hope. Two times, he tries to make the Shadow Pass happen. Two times, Wooyoung doesn’t pick up on it.

If San knew nothing about his ankle, he’d assume there’s no issue whatsoever; Wooyoung doesn’t rest it, he’s constantly up and down like he himself can carry the team on his back. He scores Ulsan’s only goal of the match—after San’s cross, five minutes before the end, when everyone knows it’s just to save them some face.

Wooyoung doesn’t do his usual celebratory loop afterwards, no hugs and no lifts into the air by their defenders. He shocks San by running up to him, though, initiating that stupid handshake.

“Good goal,” San says, letting Wooyoung’s hand go immediately.

“Lazy assist,” Wooyoung says, already turning around.

The good thing about spending so much time with Jung Wooyoung is that, now, San doesn’t need to see his mouth move to recognise a smile. Even when he tries to hide it, it still dwells in the corners of his eyes, the tiniest lines around his mouth.

The bad thing, though, is that San also knows Wooyoung is the type of a person who likes to express his emotions, larger than life. Once again, San hates to be the reason why he puts on the mask of not caring.

When he meets Yeonjun that night—and orders a soda, much to Yeonjun’s amusement—there are a million and one questions burning on San’s tongue. What happened that made Wooyoung regret signing with Suwon? Did he already have issues with his ankle? Why are there so many things he refuses to talk about, his walls so high that San sometimes feels like—

“You sure you don’t want a beer?” Yeonjun asks. “At least one? I feel bad, San-ah! I promised I’d pay if we won, but now we did, and I’m just treating you to peach water.”

He’s hard to hear through the hum of other pocha dwellers, though they’ve found a relatively quiet corner. Two men have already approached them earlier in the evening, asking for signatures. Not a place for private conversations, and the questions are not for Yeonjun, anyway; San already has a bad track record, trying to learn about Wooyoung from all the wrong sources. He knows there’s only one person he can ask, when the time is right.

And if Wooyoung never gives him the answers—well, that’s his right.

“I can’t. I have the event in the morning.”

“Right.”

“Next time,” San says. “When we’re playing in Ulsan. There’s a whiskey bar you’d like.”

“Whiskey.” Yeonjun chuckles. “You’re offering to pay?”

“If we win.”

They stay out for a little longer, trading stories of their respective clubs but also talking about the future. Yeonjun is in talks with a Japanese club, currently considering the offer. San keeps his own plans vague, hiding his mouth behind the soda can when Yeonjun brings up the Premier League. Thankfully, the man is in his anti-dating phase after a recent situationship, so there’s not any talk of that.

“I’ll remember that whiskey thing,” Yeonjun winks as they’re parting ways.

“I’m counting on it.”

He nods, leaning in for a last quick hug, his bus slowing to a stop. “Take care, San-ah!”

“You too.”

“And take care of Wooyoungie for me, okay? He deserves a friend like you.”

The shouted remark is like a bitter pill, very slow to dissolve in San’s belly on his way back to the hotel. In spite of it, he’s glad for the catch-up.

Yeonjun had thrown an arm over San’s shoulder on the way to the bus stop, and the touch helped ground him. That’s what friends do, San reminded himself. They bicker, they tease, they kiss each other on the cheek sometimes.

He and Wooyoung aren’t just friends.

San doesn’t know what they are, then, but at least he knows how they work. When one pushes, the other pulls. The cycle hasn’t failed him yet, and he really hopes it doesn’t this time around.

‿

The CEO of the skincare company seems to love him, so San leaves his morning schedule feeling like staying behind wasn’t a waste of time. He doesn’t really want to shop for bags with Seonghwa, and Sumin is getting measured for new football boots, so San just walks around Myeong-dong for two hours—streets, bookstores, a random park—clearing his head.

They treat themselves to sushi for lunch and there’s not much moping on the drive back. San drops Seonghwa off first, then Sumin, and he gets home just before six, planning to immediately hit up the gym.

There’s a box waiting for him on his kitchen table, one that wasn’t there when he was leaving.

Hey buddy!

I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in - just wanted to leave this for you, and say I’m sorry if the idea we discussed on Monday made you uncomfortable. It was just a suggestion, but I can tell you’ve been down the last couple of days so don’t worry about it!

Let me know if anything else is bothering you, okay?

The box is a set of financiers from an upscale bakery near Bora’s office. San, gym be damned, immediately sends her back a selfie—nibbling on the salted caramel piece—along with a thank you message. He remembers Seonghwa’s agent trying to put him on a stupidly strict diet last season; San is grateful for the people he has.

But once he’s got a phone in hand, it’s easy to let himself wander.

ULSAN KQ STILL ON SHAKY GROUND, a headline reads and San doesn’t open the article. There are no bold letters to warn him off of reading a post on his news feed, the author analysing what would be the best career steps for San going forward. On Instagram, he still doesn’t follow Wooyoung, but his post is one of the first things San sees.

It almost sends his phone flying to the floor.

There are five photos: Wooyoung in his big hoodie and a cap, facing towards the sun, colourful murals as the backdrop for each. San knows the photos. He’s seen the photos. He took the photos.

wooyoun9: ulsan is nice in spring 🌼

San has a matching set from their walk in Shinhwa, one he’s been debating posting but now knows he can’t. So much has happened this week, he struggles to believe it’s only been four days since their—outing. Taking a quick look through the comments, he stumbles upon an exchange that almost makes him sigh—fondly—standing in the middle of his living room.

poothepoodle: who took these??

wooyoun9: passerby! ☺️

Quarter past six, San glances at the clock before he shoots off a quick ‘passerby???’ message to their silent chat, and then he bites the bullet. He follows Wooyoung. He puts his phone on do-not-disturb right away and goes to pack up for the gym.

One of the regulars tries to talk to San about the FC Seoul match so he puts his headphones on as soon as he can. Blasts the music louder than he should. Pushes himself more than he should, again, running on the treadmill for close to an hour instead of his usual thirty-minute cardio finisher, because he starts composing a whole imaginary chat conversation in his head. It includes another apology and a mildly pathetic offer of a driving lesson—the fake kind.

His resolve not to check his phone only lasts until he gets out of the shower.

choi.san:

passerby???

wooyoun9:

yeah

not good at taking photos

half of them were blurry

wooyoun9:

did u run away

ㅋㅋㅋ

wooyoun9:

YOU LOSER

knew you’d cave!

choi.san:

i have no idea what you’re talking about :)

San leans his head down as he sits, drying his hair. The phone immediately buzzes on the bench and he just lets the towel hang over him like a terry cloth veil. Underneath it, all his previous conversation plans vanish alongside the changing room.

wooyoun9:

ah

so uninspired

i thought u would

claim it was an accident

choi.san:

i know you must’ve kicked your feet over it

wooyoun9:

yessss

because you lost 😉

choi.san:

honestly wooyoung-ah

i didn’t know

it was a competition

wooyoun9:

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

bullshit

now quick

think of a prize

The chat feels odd in how much ease it brings San, and how all of it is laced with equal discomfort. Acting like nothing happened the other night is exactly what a part of San wants: to go back to the old routine, the comfort of Wooyoung’s touch and the firmness of his boundaries. To concede another loss, San has stopped counting them a while ago. It’s a victory for San, after all, his blunder forgotten and smoothed over.

A hollow victory, he goes back to towelling his scalp as he thinks of a good answer.

choi.san:

can i come over?

wooyoun9:

oh good

you got the message

choi.san:

is that a yes?

wooyoun9:

yes

choi.san:

alright!

It’s a calculated risk, San decides as he packs his things and gets on his way.

He’s going to dribble the ball alone and risk losing it. If he does, the match will reconvene as it was before. If he doesn’t—well, San isn’t letting himself think that far. He drops his bag off at home, throws on a nicer hoodie, makes two stops on his walk to Wooyoung’s place. The evenings are still cold, so he can’t dawdle, even when the nerves start getting to him.

There’s no championship on the line, no crowd of thousands watching him—just Wooyoung’s voice on the intercom and the five floors of stairs San decides to climb. He’s an athlete, he shouldn’t be winded after that. He’s still catching his breath when Wooyoung opens the door for him.

“Hey,” he says, eyes falling to San’s hands.

“Have you had dinner yet?” San asks.

With samgyeopsal from Wooyoung’s favourite place, just down the street from San’s apartment, and a selection of Wooyoung’s favourite 7-Eleven snacks, he knows he’s bending the rules. But Wooyoung made him ramen last time, so maybe—just maybe—San won’t lose the ball.

“No,” Wooyoung says. He bites his bottom lip, staring at the takeout bags with caution. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well. Could you—” San pauses, feeling a stutter coming on. He chuckles at the ridiculousness. He feels like he should be wiping his palms on his pants. “I thought you could teach me about baseball.”

Stuck in thought, it doesn’t take long for Wooyoung’s face to melt into a smile. He nods, he hums, he opens the door for San. It’s a goal that won’t go on any official scoreboards, but, smiling back, it might just be the most significant one San has scored in a long while.

‿

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Wooyoung takes a deep inhale, shaky with his frustration, and then sighs it out. His entire body stiffens like a cat that’s been poked in the wrong place, incurring patience before he looks back at San. “Because the runner got to first base. If he touches the base before the defense, it’s not an out.”

San has to hold back a grin, watching him. He keeps a neutral face and blinks at the laptop screen where the latest Lotte Giants vs Samsung Bears game is still running. He tilts his head. “But the first baseman touched it before the runner.”

“But he didn’t have the ball,” Wooyoung says.

Another sigh follows and he hits pause, the click setting off multiple pop-ups on the sketchy website he’s found for the purpose. Wooyoung ignores them, scrambling up from the sofa to the small desk in the corner of the room. San closes the pop-ups and watches Wooyoung dig through his clutter: empty product boxes, some receipts, a magazine.

The Dazed magazine, San realises as Wooyoung carelessly sets it aside. The one with his infamous photoshoot. The one he’s signed for Wooyoung.

Fighting back his smile becomes impossible by the time Wooyoung returns with a pen and a paper, pushing their takeout and snacks to the side so that he can sketch out a baseball field. San would almost feel guilty—he really doesn’t have any issue understanding the rules of force outs—but he’s enjoyed Wooyoung’s cute annoyance, and he also enjoys the way he pulls up his sleeves and reties his hair before he starts drawing, only to end up with a wonky diamond and several stickmen wearing baseball hats.

“So the batter hits a ground ball—” Wooyoung starts, tapping one of the stickmen with the pen and looking at San to make sure he’s following “—and let’s say that it rolls here, close to the second baseman.”

“Okay.”

“Then he can grab the ball and throw it to the first baseman.”

“Yeah.”

“But in the meantime, the batter is already—San, are you having me on?”

“What—”

“You are!” Wooyoung lets the pen drop in favour of a cushion. He hits San over the head with it, not so gently. San’s laughter earns him a second hit to the chest, but then he grabs onto Wooyoung’s wrists to prevent another attack. Mouth twitching, Wooyoung regards him with an unimpressed scowl. “Ugh! I’m doing my best trying to be patient, trying so hard to explain this to you like you’re five, and you—”

“Sorry,” San says, far from apologetic. “Sorry, I really appreciate it, Wooyoung-ah. I do. You were just—too cute, trying not to lose it.”

Wooyoung’s mouth opens but a retort doesn’t come.

The living room is dim, only a small standing lamp painting Wooyoung’s skin with an orange glow, but San can see when the pink starts blending in. He becomes very aware of the pillow between them, and the ssamjang on his breath, and then Wooyoung smiles and moves away.

“I got a better idea,” he says, completely closing out the website. “Just a sec.”

He hunches over the laptop, back to San, and San catches himself wanting to reach out. He doesn’t. He leans back and scans the room again, collecting all the details he’s never had a chance to notice before: all the different shades of grey and black across Wooyoung’s furniture, a few different cameras scattered about, a single shelf with framed photos. He knows the bedroom is similar, and the longer he looks, the more he starts thinking about the negative space.

How there is no team memorabilia or trophies, no decorations and no trinkets that would make the space feel more like home. San keeps his own place minimalistic but he still has a ton of Ulsan KQ keepsakes that he’s too sentimental to throw out, his plushie collection, all the little things his parents had either passed onto him or bought for him when he started living alone. Wooyoung’s place is nice. Comfortable.

It looks temporary.

“You love anime, right?” Wooyoung interrupts his musings, reclaiming his previous sofa spot. At San’s hum, he points at the laptop. “Have you seen Ace of Diamond?”

“No.”

“Well, this will teach you everything you need to know about baseball.”

They finish their takeout during the first episode, and Wooyoung keeps a running commentary to which San responds in his best self-taught Japanese. It’s just to show off, but Wooyoung rewards each instance with the distinctive, rumbling sort of a laugh that San once dared call annoying. It makes him warm. By the time the next episode starts, it’s pushing eleven and San knows he should get going.He lets it play.

It might’ve been a mistake for completely unforeseen reasons, he realises, when the episode is ending and he feels his eyes burning.

Steadying his breath, San does his best not to let it show. He watches Sawamura’s friends bid him goodbye, reassuring him that he’s not betraying them by leaving his hometown. That joining Seidou is his best option if he wants to grow as a player, that moving on is a part of life.

“Last season I—uh, I got a good offer midway through,” San finds himself saying, five minutes into episode three. “A really good offer. The kind you accept without a second thought.”

He can feel Wooyoung looking at him and then the laptop, not stopping the episode but lowering the volume. “You didn’t?”

“I didn’t,” San confirms. “I wanted to think it through. I wasn’t—it would be a big change.”

“What club?”

“Arsenal.”

“Shit, San.”

“I know.” San wishes he could steal the singular cushion from Wooyoung and hug it for support. He settles for folding his hands together, nervously squeezing them in his lap. “It—they withdrew it. After the last couple of matches. I was dragging my feet, making a decision, and then I—I played so terribly, I kinda made it for them.”

Wooyoung straightens and turns to face him, cross-legged and bumping San’s thigh with his knee. He takes a moment to answer. “Is that what made you spiral?” he asks, and shakes his head. “I watched your games last season. I knew something must’ve set you off in those last games but—was it the pressure? Because that’s normal, San, most people would struggle with that.”

It’s kind of him to say, despite ignoring the obvious: San could’ve said yes and saved himself the trouble. If he’d signed right away, the club would’ve had no way of changing their minds. There had been no pressure from their side to start with.

“If you got that offer—just, hypothetically—you would’ve said yes, right?”

“Yes,” Wooyoung says without hesitation.

San nods to himself, worrying at his bottom lip.

He’s been over this countless times, nothing left to ponder with the whole deal off the table. Bora had wanted him to say yes. His dad would’ve wanted him to say yes, had he known about the offer. San didn’t share it with any of his teammates—not even Seonghwa—but he knows, without a doubt, they would’ve all wanted him to sign.

Regardless of whether San prefers other teams to Arsenal, his decision should’ve been immediate. It would’ve opened so many doors for him once he got his chance in the big leagues. Every football player’s dream—the kind he’s grown up with, the kind that his father’s injury had taken from him.

“But, let’s be real here.” Wooyoung nudges his thigh again. “Arsenal is no Barca. Their current squad—it leaves a lot to be desired.”

He isn’t wrong, but it’s clear he’s just saying all that to make San feel better. He is also succeeding, San smiling despite himself and getting overwhelmed by the sincerity when he meets Wooyoung’s eyes. He clears his throat and steals the cushion at last, dropping it in his own lap.

“You watched our games?” San asks, knowing the swerve is awkward but pushing through.

“Of course I did, I was a fan.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. They widen, and he hurries to add: “Of the team, I mean. Ulsan KQ, the underdog that could. I’ve been rooting for you guys for years. Even before Yeosangie joined. I even watched—yeah.”

San’s smile widens. “Weren’t you supposed to sign with Jeonbuk?”

“Actually, I did sign with them.”

“Huh?”

“They withdrew their offer.”

“What? Why?” The smile disappears. It’s San’s turn to gape. “Is that even allowed? Like, legally.”

“It is, if you word the contract right.” Wooyoung shrugs. “And if the person signing it is stupid enough not to notice.”

“Hey, Wooyoung-ah! You’re not stupid.”

San’s quick protest doesn’t have much effect—Wooyoung just gives him a tiny half-smile and draws one leg up into his chest, one hand cupped around his ankle. It’s the same posture he had the last time San tried to push his limits, and so, he forces himself to swallow the rest of his words and all the immediate questions: Why did Jeonbuk change their minds? Did they take advantage of Wooyoung just because he didn’t have an agent? Should San even feel this angry, given that, otherwise, they probably wouldn’t have met?

No, that’s not right—he would’ve met Wooyoung.

Two weeks ago, they would’ve played against each other. San would’ve still been the number nine, and maybe they would’ve shaken hands on the field and sparked an instant friendship, with none of the roadblocks they had to go through in the real sequence of events.

The air castles do nothing to calm him down.

“Officially, it was because of my ankle,” Wooyoung says, keeping his voice low. “Which is fair. But they knew about that before I signed so—I think it was the other thing.” San raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Wooyoung gives him a look, like the silence amuses him but not really. “You know. The rumours. Being gay. They didn’t want to have someone like that on the team.”

And that admission…

It sets off a whole other chain reaction within San, more dominoes falling as his anger grows. On Wooyoung’s behalf, towards a bunch of shadowy men he’s never met before, sitting in an imaginary office he’s never seen before, and then more faceless figures jeering from the stands. San curls his hands into fists, letting out a ragged sigh.

“Fuck, Wooyoung. I’m so sorry.”

San wants to hug him, itches with the need, but he doesn’t want to make it worse. Wooyoung keeps the same guarded expression as he unfolds his legs and stretches them across the sofa, placing his feet on the cushion in San’s lap. The anime playing in the background registers in the short silence, but San can’t turn his gaze away.

“It’s okay. Maybe it was the ankle thing,” Wooyoung says, shrugging again. “Maybe I’m just… It doesn’t matter, right? I’m with the better team now.”

“Still—”

“I never liked Jeonbuk that much. Not really. They’re a great club, sure, but they’re so—robot-like? Every club is a business, I know that, but Jeonbuk doesn’t even try to hide it.” He nods to himself, clearly happy with the assessment or the wording. “But at the time, I was so desperate to leave Gimpo, San, I’d go anywhere. Just win and go, anywhere that would have me. Los Blancos, even, and that says enough.” He chuckles at the joke when San doesn’t give him a reaction. “Sorry, I forgot you take your fanclub duties seriously.”

Right now, San couldn’t care less about Real Madrid if he tried.

“So, Jeonbuk was alright, but that’s when the rumours started. They withdrew the offer once the press got really bad. And—the thing is, the fans don’t really care, right? They don’t love it, they might say terrible things, and of course they’d prefer it if I had a bunch of unclaimed kids littered about but—”

San’s fists start hurting at the tight clench. He gulps, nodding for Wooyoung to continue.

“It’s whatever. They can turn a blind eye to it as long as I help their team win. But the clubs—they don’t get that. It’s all about reputation for them. So, afterwards, not many wanted to risk it,” Wooyoung finishes. He’s so astonishingly pragmatic that when his voice lowers and cracks on his last words, it gives San’s heart a painful squeeze. “Risk me.”

San leafs through his mental catalogue of what he’s read from that period, all the tabloid headlines he had tried to use as fodder for his early hostility. There was Wooyoung supposedly dating some dancer girl, him briefly linked to a make-up influencer, the Kim Eunsol affair… Nothing to fuel the sexuality rumours except anonymous sources and their soundbites, and then—towards the end of the season—one set of pap photos where Wooyoung was spotted leaving a gay club in Itaewon.

“But those—they were just rumours,” San sputters, knowing full well that the reasoning is weak.

“Well, no. You know they were true.”

“But you’re the best striker in the league,” San says. “The best in Korea.”

Wooyoung looks away, then, leaving San to study his profile: his sharp features, the glint of his earrings, the glassy sheen of his eyes that slowly disappears as he blinks and grins.

San feels stupid.

This isn’t new information—it’s something he’s known for a long time as an objective truth, and something he’s grown intimately familiar with as a daily threat. That no matter how great a player, football isn’t accepting of those who don’t fit a certain mold. That the players can hug and fondle and even kiss each other on the field in the heat of sporting passion, but that is where the line gets drawn.

San had once judged Wooyoung for being too careless with his image; he wants to scold his past self but he can’t, so he settles his hands on Wooyoung’s legs, gently.

“Young-ah.”

“About the ankle—” Wooyoung speaks over him. He must misread the touch—or he just wants to brush the previous topic under the rug, jump to something equally unsettling. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ve dealt with it—I’m dealing with it. It’s fine.”

Cautious of the boundaries, San still can’t help but rub his thumb over the right ankle, his touch so light Wooyoung might not even feel it over his socks. He turns his head, though, proving San wrong. For a moment, he looks like he’s debating fight or flight; he stays put, launching into more explanations at a rambling speed.

“It was just an ugly sprain that didn’t heal well. I saw a specialist and—that’s why I was late to camp, you know? The first day? Me and hyung went to see a doctor. A really good one, in Australia, and I did proper rehabilitation. Got all the conditioning tips and exercises and—it’s fine now, San. Just—” he closes his eyes for a moment, like he can tell that his gaze is getting too imploring. “I need you to leave it, please. I can deal with it.”

San swallows.

The clock says it’s half past eleven, but he feels like he’s stepped into another day, into another dimension altogether. He doesn’t know where to begin processing all the things Wooyoung has shared with him in the past hour. The feelings they bring—those are a whole other predicament.

He tightens his hold a little, still making sure it’s soft. Nodding, he focuses on the one victory he’s claimed without really knowing how—the fact that Wooyoung has shared, so Wooyoung must trust him.

“Just let me know if you—”

Wooyoung hums, giving him a wobbly smile.

They pretend to watch the rest of whatever episode Ace of Diamond is currently on—sitting in silence, San gathering his wits one ankle caress at a time. Once they clean up, he starts working his way towards an awkward goodbye, wondering if a hug is too much or too little. He’s scared that if he gets his hands on Wooyoung, he will struggle to let go.

But if his hug can provide some unspoken comfort, perhaps it can’t be that greedy.

“You walked here?” Wooyoung hisses when San admits the fact. “You can’t walk home at this time, San-ah. You—uh, you should stay.”

San, leaning onto Wooyoung’s kitchen table, almost crashes to the floor. He tries to keep his voice normal. Unaffected. “It’s fine, it’s not that late. We don’t have training until—”

“No! It’s too cold and, uh. It’ll be suspicious if you go now,” Wooyoung says. Not even he believes the words he is saying, San can tell, but he remains steadfast. “I’ll get you something to sleep in. Might be a tight fit, but that’s your own fault, right? Nobody asked you to become an actual mountain.”

San feigns a sigh. “Can you stop with the shoulder jokes?”

“No.” Wooyoung is already turned into the hallway, a corner of his mouth twitching. “No. I really can’t.”

“Do you find them ugly, then?”

“Sorry, Sannie.” He cackles. “I won’t fall for obvious bait.”

Despite the warnings, the T-shirt San gets tossed is several sizes too big for Wooyoung and, thus, perfectly comfortable. The shorts aren’t, and San suspects Wooyoung never wanted them to fit. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, underwear baring his legs and a high flush on his cheeks, and shakes his head before reaching for the spare toothbrush. Wooyoung has seen more. It doesn’t matter.

He walks back to the living room with his face damp but still pink, clearing his throat to make Wooyoung look up from his phone. He immediately smirks, trailing his gaze down San’s legs. San makes a concerted effort to turn into a statue, and fails as soon as Wooyoung meets his eyes.

“Do you—uh, do you have a spare blanket?” San asks, leaning on the doorway.

“A blanket?”

“Yeah.” He gestures towards the sofa, shrugging. “It’s fine if you don’t. Your place is warm, so—”

“You’re not sleeping here, San,” Wooyoung says, laughing like the notion is ridiculous.

“I’m not?”

“Not unless you want to have a sore back tomorrow. I don’t think the team would appreciate that.”

“Right.”

It’s odd, climbing into Wooyoung’s bed when the purpose isn’t just to get horizontal on a convenient flat surface. Odder still when Wooyoung walks him to the bedroom door like he’s making sure San doesn’t get lost in his one-bedroom apartment, and then leaves San to it, locking himself in the bathroom.

San stares at the ceiling, willing his heart to calm down. He lies on the bed stiffly, not drawing up the blanket, feeling like he’s in a furniture shop testing the firmness of the mattresses. It’s the first time he notices Wooyoung’s is exactly as soft as San likes, and the pillows are exactly the right height. They smell of Wooyoung—not his perfume, not his body wash, but the scent that’s impossible to describe, the one San couldn’t carry on his clothes if he wanted.

If he sleeps here, maybe he will.

He resists the urge to groan at himself, closing his eyes for just a second before he’s back to studying the ceiling, ignoring the little spots that float at the sides of his vision. He should really start wearing glasses. Get the contacts Seonghwa has recommended or look into lasik—he’s got the money for it now. Maybe not the time.

Hands folded awkwardly across his belly, he’s trying to assess if the poor eyesight could be genetic when Wooyoung returns, pausing in the doorway. He turns off the ceiling light and chuckles. San lifts his head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Wooyoung says, his smirk saying otherwise.

With him making the mattress dip next to San, and with the room now a more muted shade of yellow, the pitter-patter of San’s heart gets worse. He can’t stop it. Ridiculous though it is—San flustered like a schoolboy when he’s already seen his crush naked and panting in his own arms—he knows that this is crossing an entirely different line.

Maybe not for Wooyoung, but San can’t pretend it doesn’t mean anything to him; just friends don’t sleep together that way, and friends with benefits don’t sleep in the same bed with their hearts trying to bruise their ribcage.

Despite all that, he lets himself steal a glance at Wooyoung: wearing an oversized T-shirt of his own and shorts that fit, lying on his side and watching San with amusement. He closes his eyes the moment he gets caught, smile not disappearing.

“What?” San repeats, voice scratchy.

“You’re so loud.”

“I’m not.”

“Your nose whistles.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Mhm.”

Wooyoung tugs the blanket up—just over himself, not San—and assumes the same position. On his side, hands folded under his head, leaning onto the very edge of his pillow. He stays like that long enough that San gets his fill, staring, and then goes back to playing an anxious vampire, too-conscious of the space between them. It’s not ideal. Not comfortable, and he misses having an extra pillow to hug, and if he turns—

“San-ah,” Wooyoung speaks again.

“Yeah?”

He crosses the space between them, leaning up to kiss the corner of San’s mouth. Just a peck, just a whiff of minty toothpaste mingling with San’s own breath. And then more, as he hovers close to San’s face, scolding without any heat: “Stop thinking so much, okay? I want to sleep.”

Wooyoung has a hand resting just by the pulse point on San’s neck, and San knows his speeding heart must give him away. Instead of panic, he feels relief spread through his limbs, a warmth no blanket could compete with.

He might be flying too close to the sun, might be reading everything wrong because his stupid romantic self is convinced that the kiss has changed the rules, once again. Because it barely lasted a second. Because it was so soft, and so insignificant, and Wooyoung was the one who broke the unspoken agreement and risked a penalty, kissing San just for the sake of it.

“I—can I?” San asks, stretching his arms to save himself more words.

Wooyoung just hums before he shares the blanket—just a sliver of it—and settles into San’s hold, head tucked under his chin. There, he can probably count every thump, can use them to call San out on his ruckus again.

He doesn’t, though.

And as soon as Wooyoung falls asleep, San is quick to follow.

Chapter Text

showboating

(in football) when a player performs flashy or exaggerated movements and skills, not necessarily for tactical advantage, but to attract attention or impress the crowd.

⚽︎

Letting himself stare is more freeing than San could’ve imagined.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing it, there’s an attempt at a whisper at the very back of his mind. Suspicious, telling, transparent. The words are practically inaudible when Wooyoung is looking back, the corner of his mouth lifting each time their eyes catch across the locker room, a private little smile that would probably be the most damning tell of all—if San could pretend he wasn’t smiling back.

It’s worse than before, when San would stare for his own benefit and the occasional smirk. It’s stupid, when Coach Eden is currently briefing the team before their training starts, likely saying all sorts of important things that San is disregarding. And it’s out of San’s control—again and again, his eyes fly to the same spot, get caught or wait for it to happen, and linger long enough to see the smile.

The kind that’s berating him but not really. One San has seen flashes of, now grown to something devastating. Another piece of Wooyoung to keep chasing, and another reason to keep staring.

San could lie to himself and claim he’ll stop once he reaches a certain quota; but, just hours ago, he had woken up in Wooyoung’s bed, in Wooyoung’s shirt, with their legs tangled and a sleeping Wooyoung to look at to his heart’s content—and here he is, still acting senseless.

“So, how much of that did you take in, San-ah?” Seonghwa asks, sitting to his right on the bench, as soon as Eden finishes speaking.

“I—uh, the party is on the twenty-first?” San stutters, whipping his head around.

Seonghwa hums, amused. “Amazing.”

Not for the first time, San thinks that he must know. It’s been the kind of slowly setting in awareness that his mind keeps deflecting with questions: How would he know? How long has he known? If he knows, why is he not saying anything? Theorising about the answers has always tempered them, eased the initial surge of alarm.

Now, though, San feels like he actually wants to know if Seonghwa’s answers match any of the ones he’s imagined, or any of the real ones.

“We start with agility today, then 3v3s, then a rondo,” Seonghwa says instead, ever helpful. “Quick tactical brief just before we finish. And—the party is actually on the twentieth. That’s a Tuesday, so we get two days off.”

“Neat.” San nods.

“Yep.” Seonghwa mimics.

He talks a bit more about Ulsan KQ’s upcoming anniversary gala, the location and some of the guests, and then he goes to Jongho to discuss how they could use social media for the evening’s raffle. That leaves San with Yunho on his left, who immediately bumps San’s shoulder.

“So you and Wooyoungie—” San holds his breath “—are finally following each other?”

“What?”

Yunho just laughs at him. “On Instagram.”

San blinks, slowly. He wasn’t even aware of the fact—the Wooyoung following him back part—and yet Yunho looks ready to coo over it. “How do you know?”

“The fans, obviously,” Yunho says, and when all he gets in response is another blink, he continues: “Some update accounts posted about it on my feed. The responses are quite funny, actually—you should check them out.”

Funny, San isn’t sure how he feels about that. He reaches into his locker, searching for his phone in the pocket of his folded sweatpants. When he doesn’t find it, he looks through his duffle bag. It isn’t there, either. Trying to remember when he last had it in his hands, he licks his lips at the realisation. “I must’ve, uh—forgotten my phone at home.”

Not true: San forgot it at Wooyoung’s.

Sometime between him waking up, staring, and awkwardly getting out of bed to get water, then awkwardly sitting in the living room and waiting for Wooyoung to get up, then getting his awkwardness rewarded with Wooyoung’s booming cackle. The best sound; sitting on Wooyoung’s couch in broad daylight, San couldn’t help but fear that the previous night had been a fluke, something Wooyoung would regret. But all he did was admonish San that, next time, he should at least try to make breakfast.

The next time they went against the rules—it should’ve been a scary thought.

Somehow, they had not foreseen—or chose not to—how much more suspicious it would be, for San to be leaving Wooyoung’s place in the early morning, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, making it back to Taehwa-dong in his very own walk of shame.

Except, the exact way the thought had failed to feel scary, the walk didn’t feel shameful. A little troubling, sure, but with San’s brisk pace, the brim of his cap low, and a borrowed face-mask to cover up his lips—still tingling from being kissed goodbye—he just felt giddy.

The same giddiness threatening to spill over San’s face, now, he reminds himself of what Yunho has just told him: that there are fans keeping tabs on his and Wooyoung’s Instagram interactions.

“It’s okay, I’ll send you a link later!” Yunho says, grinning, blissfully unaware.

“Sure, thanks.”

Left alone, San still has the duffle unzipped, resting on his knees. He stares into it, resisting the pull to look elsewhere. He can’t risk everything for a pretty smile. For Wooyoung’s sake, he can’t—

“Hey, San-ah.”

It’s futile; San is already looking before Wooyoung speaks, as soon as he catches the smallest trace of him in the periphery of his vision, Wooyoung taking slow steps until he’s right in front of him.

“You forgot this.”

The phone lands in the bag, on top of San’s old towel that desperately needs washing. He can’t help but feel self-conscious about it, like the phone has released whiffs of the stink into the air, like they’re going to chase Wooyoung away. San expects him to take off, anyway, phone delivered and mission fulfilled.

But he keeps standing there.

“Thank you,” San says. He gingerly takes the phone, closing the bag before the terrible smell spreads. When his thumb grazes the display, it lights up with several unread notifications. Near the very top, San reads: wooyoun9 started following you. “Thanks, I—”

“Sure!” Wooyoung throws behind his back.

The room is almost empty, and his voice almost echoes through the space. San stuffs the bag into his locker, phone into the folded sweatpants, and then he runs to catch up with Wooyoung, throwing an arm over his shoulder.

It only gets shaken off once they’re on the field.

‿

The morning of their game against Pohang, there is a crowd of fans waiting in the Big Crown parking lot.

Mostly adult men dressed in Ulsan colours, but also some women and children, many wearing the fake player jerseys that the club sells at extortionate prices. Unlike the previous games, and courtesy of the unexpectedly warm Saturday, there are few jackets or hoodies in sight. San’s brain halts for a moment, seeing a fan with CHOI - 9 walking away with an autograph.

It’s likely innocent, the guy not bothering to buy a new jersey when the old one does the trick. With how pricey they are, San gets it, and he’d spent well over a decade with the nine on his back. But it still bothers him in a way he can’t shake, not by the time he makes it to the staff entrance and sees more supporters hovering where they shouldn’t be.

“Excuse me, everyone, I don’t think you are—”

“San-sunbaenim!”

One of the men turns around—young, taller than San, distantly familiar. San can only place him once he takes a second look at the entire group and his smile returns, realising they’re not fans. There are five of them, four wearing the customary Pohang Steelers red-black kit, and one wearing a T-shirt with San’s cartoon likeness drawn mid-dribble.

“I’m not sure if you remember me,” the man—boy, really—continues, a soft blush rising to his cheeks. “I’m Gyuvin? Kim Gyuvin. We met last year. At the game—”

“In August,” San finishes, memories clicking into place.

Their last game against Pohang, the one they miraculously turned into a 5:2 victory. There was a boy that came to congratulate them after the press con, a Pohang fan who shamelessly professed his admiration in the midst of enemy territory. Confessing he was a football player himself, that San was a role model, that he could only hope to play half as well one day. San remembers looking him up, after, and being pleasantly surprised just how modest Gyuvin had been.

“You’re one of the newbie Kims in Pohang’s squad!” San grins.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you remember!” The flush on Gyuvin’s cheeks deepens and he takes a tentative step forward. There’s a magazine in his hands, San notices with a spark of trepidation. “This is the best day ever! Oh man, I already thought I was soooo lucky. I mean, getting to play on the same field as Choi San-sunbaenim! But—sunbaenim actually remembers me? That’s honestly—I don’t even care about the match now.”

He delivers his words at a rapid pace, punctuated by giggles and a happy sigh at the very end. One of Gyuvin’s teammates tells him off at the blatant betrayal, and San feels the heat rushing into his own cheeks, equal parts flustered and endeared. Waving the praise away with a fluttery aigoo, he jolts as something rams into him.

Someone, to be precise, two arms thrown over San’s shoulders and an entire body hanging off his back. He immediately recognises the weight, the scent, the bulky rings. But Wooyoung was supposed to be at the stadium already, hitching a ride with—

“Aw, Sannie, what’s this? A meeting with your fanclub?” Wooyoung says, his smirk practically audible, his breath tickling San’s jaw. “And I wasn’t invited?”

San, at a loss, only manages a weak chuckle. Gyuvin’s eyes grow two sizes, flitting from one to the other as his smile follows suit.

“Wooyoung-sunbaenim!” he bows, and then repeats the same ninety-degree bend to the side. “And Yeosang-sunbaenim! It’s an honour. I didn’t think I’d, uh—honestly, this day just keeps getting better and better!”

The other Pohang players snicker, keeping a friendly distance as they exchange greetings with the newcomers. “Gyuvin-ah!” one of them calls, like a parent trying to get their child away from the sweets aisle in a supermarket. “Wrap it up, will you? We have to get ready. Unless you want to change teams?”

“No! No, hyung, sorry—I. This is embarrassing.”

Gyuvin looks down, and then he holds out the magazine with both hands. There’s a purple marker in his grip. The page it’s open on makes Wooyoung huff a laugh right into San’s ear, his chin digging into San’s shoulder and arms squeezing, once, before letting go. San, very aware he must be the shade of an overripe strawberry, doesn’t even have time to mourn their loss; Wooyoung grabs him by the waist instead, clicking his tongue.

“Well? Come on, San-ah! We don’t have the whole day.”

San signs his half-naked photo and hands it back with a bow of his own, Gyuvin spends a moment shuffling in spot until his teammates bodily tug him away, and Wooyoung’s hold loosens once they leave. Though softer, it lingers while San tries to raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“Good morning?” he says.

“No heart?” Wooyoung asks, mirroring his expression.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t appreciate that.” San tries to shrug, even as he feels his dimple pop out. “Didn’t want to get strangled in the—”

“Yeah, yeah—what the hell do you have in here? Did you bring a pillow to the match?”

Wooyoung pokes his backpack to deflect, dropping his eyes. He’s sporting a blush of his own, San notes, and the warmth that spreads through his chest at the sight almost compensates for the imminent loss of Wooyoung’s hold—once Yeosang’s pointed cough makes it disappear.

”You should be so glad I didn’t film this,” he says to Wooyoung, casual except for the amused curve to his lips. “Seriously, Wooyoung-ah, I could feel my own dignity squirming.”

“Oh, shut up!” Wooyoung moves to play-slap his arm. He links their elbows before Yeosang can even attempt to retaliate. “What, are you jealous?”

“Sure, I’m the jealous one.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry, San-ah.”

“Why are you apologising? To him?”

“I feel like I should apologise to everyone who saw that display,” Yeosang deadpans. He avoids another slap, escaping Wooyoung’s grip and rushing a few steps ahead. “Doing all that just because you saw yourself in—“

“Stop being dramatic!”

“Oh, right—I forgot only you can do that. And only you can hang off San like a—“

“Kang Yeosang, don’t test me!”

They set off in a fit of laughter—soft but genuine, in Yeosang’s case, and uncharacteristically nervous, in Wooyoung’s—running through the staff entrance and into the stadium corridors, leaving San rooted to his spot. He feels like he’s just watched a match on TV, wanting to participate but unable to get a word in. Overwhelmed in the best way, he squeezes the strap of his backpack, hefts his duffle higher on his shoulder, and follows—smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, unable to stop.

‿

“Long time no see, Wooyoung-ssi. Congratulations on the win.”

A reporter pipes up from one of the conference room’s back rows. Familiar with all the regulars, San doesn’t think he’s seen the man before, though he definitely knows the photographer at his side. Wooyoung, a couple seats away, responds with a polite thanks. There’s a perceptible shift in his attitude—shoulders squaring up, mouth flitting side to side—from where he was just joking with another reporter about his future tattoo plans.

“Now that it’s been a while, how are you finding Ulsan? You’ve settled in fine?” the reporter asks, not giving Wooyoung time to answer. “Seems like it’s not your kind of a city.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.” Wooyoung tilts his head, obviously having his suspicions but choosing to play dumb.

“It must be boring for you.” The man shrugs. “I remember last season, you—”

“I think Wooyoung-ssi likes the city just fine,” San can’t help but cut in. He keeps back a wince, the mic amplifying his voice more than he’d intended. More casually, he addresses the front row of journalists: “Did you know he’s a big Lotte Giants fan? Oh, right, of course you did. Well, he’s counting down the days until their next game at Munsu.”

“In June, right?” Seonghwa joins in.

Wooyoung nods. “June third.”

The topic strays, a YTN reporter turning to the Pohang side of the room and their captain recounting some of the match’s missed opportunities. San is glad for the chance to zone out, pleased with the 3-2 outcome but, by now, yearning for a quiet room and some food in his belly. Clearly out of luck, the YTN reporter picks him as the next victim, asking about Ulsan’s second goal.

“I’ve seen clips of the same move circulating online,” she says, referring to another successfully executed Shadow Pass. “Is it really intentional? Or just a coincidence?”

Not knowing how he feels about their semi-secret move not being secret anymore, San swallows. “It’s, uh—”

“Everything in football is intentional,” Hongjoong jumps in, “except for the things that are a coincidence.”

That earns him a round of laughter and the woman doesn’t press. San shoots the captain a grateful look, relaxing into his seat as the coaches start bringing the conference to a close. Bulgogi or bossam, he’s trying to make up his mind, as he sees the man from before—the one at the back of the room—opening his mouth again.

“Sorry, just before we go—I want to give a shout out to Pohang’s number fifteen,” San says, looking at no one’s face in particular. “You played really well, Gyuvin-ah! Keep training hard until next time, yeah?”

He hears Wooyoung’s disbelieving chuckle, some of the Pohang players shoot him amused glances, and the conference finally ends, reporters saying goodbyes and packing up their equipment. As he makes his way to the locker room, San feels like he can finally appreciate just how well the day has gone for the team—his own play, and their victory. He earns another, Wooyoung bumping their elbows.

“He’s not that good,” Wooyoung mutters, looking ahead. “I mean, he’s okay for his age, but you shouldn’t overpraise players that young. It goes to their head.”

“What does age have to do with it?”

“Everything, duh? The younger you are, the less experienced.”

San chuckles, slowing down. “Weren’t you just telling Hyunwoo yesterday that he’s better than half the forwards in the league?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Wooyoung stops completely, letting the other players and club officials get ahead, scrambling to mask his lack of an answer with a slow-spreading smile. “Are you jealous of Hyunwoo?” he asks, quietly.

San laughs.

In truth, perhaps he is—in the same irrational way he gets spikes of jealousy when Wooyoung praises Yunho’s good looks, kisses Hongjoong’s cheek for an adrenaline boost, or twirls in Mingi’s hold on the field. He knows that Wooyoung only sees Hyunwoo as a talented junior, someone who works hard and appreciates his advice. But that doesn’t stop the immediate knots-in-stomach sensation that San gets in those moments, the one he’s been trying to figure out since Thailand.

“Wooyoung-ah,” he says, simply, earnestly.

Wooyoung hums, expectant. His eyes fall to San’s mouth, like he’s trying to coax the admission out. Playing dirty and shameless about it, San refuses to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re so…”

“So right?”

He waits, trying to let his expression suggest a variety of different answers—all true to some degree, none that Wooyoung needs to hear right now. “So infuriating,” San says at last, knowing his tone doesn’t match the word.

Wooyoung laughs into his face. He keeps pace with San once he starts walking again, the sound of their footsteps combining into parallel taps. Just before the locker room, San looks to the side.

“Hey—bossam or bulgogi?” he asks.

“Bulgogi,” Wooyoung answers with minimal pause.

Fine, San nods to himself. He’ll have bossam tonight, and tomorrow they can have bulgogi from the little place next to his gym—the one that gets the marinade exactly right and doesn’t put cucumbers in their banchan.

‿

San’s phone starts buzzing just as Wooyoung’s lips make it to his collar, fingers stretching the fabric out of the way. When San tries to shift, Wooyoung increases his efforts, thighs squeezing around San’s hips like he actually stands a chance of keeping him down. Not with his strength alone, and Wooyoung seems to recognise that, retracing his path back to San’s mouth. His whine becomes even louder than usual, competing with the incessant hum of the phone. Uselessly, San pinches Wooyoung’s sides under his soft hoodie.

“Wooyoung-ah,” he says, voice weak, breaking the kiss and turning his head to the side.

His phone is lit up with the incoming call, shifting in its spot on the table and nudging against an empty takeout box. The screen of Wooyoung’s laptop has gone black, San notices, so the Ace of Diamond episode they were watching must’ve finished. He catches sight of the caller ID—Bora-noona—just before Wooyoung pins him down again, hands splayed over San’s chest.

“Wooyoung-ah,” he repeats, more insistent. “I have to—”

“It’s late,” Wooyoung breathes against his jaw.

“Exactly. So it’s probably important and I—”

“You have better things to do.”

Correct as that might be, San also knows that he really should pick up. He’s already been more absent than usual, his last meeting with Bora a rushed video-chat because San had—just like now—plans he couldn’t really talk about. But it’s about time for the national team’s mid-season call-ups, and Bora had been optimistic about San’s chances for making the June line-up.

By the time he manages to grab the phone, it stops ringing. Though he tries to give Wooyoung his most chastising frown, San knows right away that it’s a lost cause.

“She’ll call back if it’s important.” Wooyoung shrugs, and then he steals the phone out of San’s hands, straddling him as he sits back on his haunches and types something out.

“Hey!” San stretches his fingers after him, too lazy to brush anything but air.

“Relax.”

“Young-ah.”

A few more quick taps and a satisfied smile, Wooyoung gives the phone back. “Just being polite.”

San frowns at the messages—busy rn sorry, pls call back tomorrow? 🙏—and then upwards, stifling another sigh. “That doesn’t even sound like me.”

“But it did the trick,” Wooyoung says and—sure enough—Bora responds with a thumbs-up sticker. “See? Probably not important.”

Though he looks smug, a line soon appears at the side of Wooyoung’s mouth, like he’s now starting to regret all his actions from the past minute. San puts the phone away and idly swipes a thumb over his hip bone, but Wooyoung only shuffles further back.

“Sorry,” he says, looking sideways. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “You should call her if you want. I know you guys are close.”

“We are,” San says. Thinking of all the previous times Wooyoung has acted suspicious around Bora, he’s hit with the sudden realisation that that, all this time, could’ve also been jealousy. More ammo for San’s teasing, and for more silly heart twinges. He could use it to push Wooyoung and get him to admit the truth, but instead he just uses his free hand to grab Wooyoung by the chin, tilting his head until their eyes meet. “She’s like my older sister.”

“Hm?”

“She was the first agent who offered to sign me,” San continues, “the year I joined the team. But it took me a while to agree. I guess I didn’t see the point? My dad has always handled these things—contracts negotiations, networking… But Bora was stubborn. She kept showing up to each game.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “She was an early fan.”

“No.” San laughs softly. “No, she—she used to play herself, growing up. And she was good, too. But you know how it is. Football is already a hard career to have, and for women…”

“So she—what, saw herself in you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. Bora has never admitted anything to that effect, but San’s had his suspicions since getting to see footage of her old matches. She used to be a good striker, powerful and smart. “Maybe she was just new to the job and saw some potential. In me. But she’s a good agent and I owe her a lot. And she is—she’s very supportive.”

As soon as he says it, San’s own smile dims a little, the unintended implication appearing like a dark cloud on a sunny day. Would Bora support this—would she support San liking men, liking Wooyoung? On a personal level, he doesn’t doubt her open-mindedness. On a professional level, however…

A faceful of Wooyoung’s hair breaks his train of thought, the crook of his head pressing against San’s chin and all of his weight settling back over San’s body. It’s both amazing and scary how well it works—like a blanket tugged over him, a sense of calmness hedging the doubts out.

Without his face visible, Wooyoung asks: “Did you ever date her?”

“No.” San scoffs. He can’t help himself.

“Did you ever want to?”

“No.”

“You know my older brother? Dongyoung?”

The change of topic confuses San but he hums. Wooyoung has lately been mentioning his hyung a lot more, how he might be coming for a visit soon, how they might get bikes and ride the Taehwagang path. Looking for a connection to Bora, San briefly wonders if the two have met, and then entertains the idea of Wooyoung’s hyung having a crush on his agent for approximately five seconds before Wooyoung bursts it like a soap bubble.

“He’s been helping me since last year. Since my agent—since we agreed not to renew his contract,” Wooyoung says. “And he’s good at it. Dongyoung-hyung, I mean. He’s learned a lot, just to help me out. But he’s also got a fulltime job and a fiancée, so sometimes it gets… complicated.”

That makes a lot of sense, San doesn’t say. Another piece of the puzzle that makes up Jung Wooyoung, he thinks of all the times he’s heard him on the phone with his brother, and of the Jeonbuk contract. He doesn’t ask Wooyoung if he wants to get a new agent. “I see.”

“And he refuses to take my money, which—there are only so many gifts you can buy before they start getting stupid.” Wooyoung laughs, his eye-roll practically audible. “And I can’t keep inviting him out for barbecue when we don’t even live in the same city.”

“He wouldn’t be doing it if he didn’t want to.”

“Sure, but—”

“I never paid my dad.”

“He’s your dad. That’s different.”

“Not really.”

Wooyoung shifts, looking up at him. San’s hand automatically drifts to his nape, and it hits him how intimate this is—how he could lean down to kiss Wooyoung’s forehead, or the crown of his head, or pull him down for more snuggles. Just a while ago, San was sitting on the same sofa, jolting at the barest brush of their knees.

“He’s also the Choi Jongcheol, so—” Wooyoung says, oblivious to his sappy thoughts “—agents wish they could have that much sway.”

For a second, San wants to admit how much of a relief it was, finally agreeing to let Bora manage him.

But his dad had never been anything but helpful, and San has never been anything but grateful, so it feels disingenuous to say that without offering a full explanation of how San has locked himself in a self-made cage of anxieties and expectations. That would spoil the moment, and the moment feels too precious—so he just answers Wooyoung’s questions about the high school team his dad is coaching, his involvement with the Namhae Sports Association, and his baseball opinions.

He lies about him being a Lotte fan.

They watch a bit more of the anime before Wooyoung gets handsy again, goes back to kissing San and rutting against his lap. Nothing new, it’s easy to let him. Just like it’s easy to forget about everything else when San has Wooyoung to look at and touch, his hoodie tossed to the floor, his hands raising goosebumps on San’s skin.

San tells himself it should also be easy, telling Wooyoung he’s ready for more.

Another juncture researched, San’s got the spirit, the lube, and several fumbling attempts at trying it on himself. It’s not that he’s scared, and it’s not that he thinks fucking Wooyoung is some final form of staking his claim; but it’s still a lot to ask, a lot to give, and he doesn’t want it now. Not like this.

“It’s fine,” Wooyoung says, once they’re cleaned up and he’s tossing San the same T-shirt as last time, and the times before that. “Just—your place could have terrible mould problems, right? Rats. Noisy neighbours.”

All excuses that will probably seem weak the next day but do the job just fine at one in the morning. San has, after all, brought a change of clothes, and his car is parked back in Taehwa-dong. Wooyoung likely won’t enjoy it, but he can whip up a simple protein smoothie for breakfast.

It isn’t until they’re in Wooyoung’s bed again, tangled up again, that San remembers his earlier thoughts. If Bora knew about this, would she be happy for him, or would she be more disappointed? Would his father think about his son, first, or would he think about his son’s career?

“Do you think the team knows?” San asks into the darkness of the room.

Right away, Wooyoung tenses in his arms. “I haven’t told anyone,” he says, with an edge that makes San’s stomach twist. “And Yeosangie wouldn’t. You know he—”

“I know. That’s not what I’m asking.”

For a long time, Wooyoung doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He becomes stiff, like a wooden statue, still radiating heat but making San momentarily wonder if the long-overdue conversation is going to leave him hurting with splinters all over. “I think some of them might,” Wooyoung says at last, quietly. “Does that—uh, does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

Maybe it should, maybe that would be safer for them both. But San trusts the team. None of them have ever acted unkindly towards Wooyoung who—willingly or not—already joined them with labels attached. A few of them even know about Seonghwa, and San never worried they’d treat him badly.

What he worried about was the interference; people knowing when he himself was still trying to figure things out, people putting names on something he didn’t dare name himself. Being upfront is one thing, and San doesn’t think he’s there yet, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the people he knows, the people he trusts, drawing their own conclusions.

What he worries about, still, is the world outside of Ulsan KQ.

“I think Seonghwa-hyung knows,” he says, and that somehow makes Wooyoung relax.

He turns around so he can face San, though there’s little to see with the curtains drawn and all the lamps off. “I think so,” Wooyoung says, a little more than a whisper. But he keeps talking, his voice growing steadily until San can even hear the joking lilt that puts his own heart at ease. “I haven’t told him but—hyung’s too sharp for his own good.” He punctuates that with a groan, making San smile. “I’ve been trying to make stuff up—you know, to get him off my back? But I don’t think he’s buying it. He’s not pushy, but he keeps asking me more and more about my fake boyfriend and—”

“Wait.” San attempts to stop the flood of information. “You told him you have a fake boyfriend?”

“He’s not dumb, San. He’s seen—things.”

What things, San would ask if he wasn’t stuck on the previous admission, a little voice in his mind repeating fake boyfriend like a mantra and wondering what that made him. Not just a booty call, he allows himself to believe that much.

“Who’s your fake boyfriend?” he asks, to stop himself from running his mouth. “Benz?”

Wooyoung’s laughter hits his face like a powerful gust of wind, loud and genuine and also smug. “God, you were jealous of him.”

He was, and San almost admits that before he remembers their current contest. It’s completely needless, no losers in the long run, and that’s what makes him stick to it. “Like you were jealous of Gyuvin, sure.”

Wooyoung barks another laugh before he shifts himself back into the previous spot, his spine resting comfortably against San’s chest. “Benz was just… a distraction,” he says, and blathers on before San can ask him to elaborate. “I didn’t give the fake boyfriend a name. He’s just—kinda scrawny, not good at football, has a terrible sense of humour. Really, I just keep him around for the sex. And he’s—ack!”

A bite to his shoulder cuts Wooyoung off, and then a yawn finishes the job. He doesn’t retaliate, probably saving that for when he’s fully awake. With his own eyelids growing heavier, San finally pushes himself to ask the question he’s been building up to all evening.

“I think I want to—I’d like to tell Seonghwa-hyung. About us,” he says. “Can I?”

Having kept his voice soft, he briefly thinks Wooyoung hasn’t heard or that he’s fallen asleep already, however miraculous that speed would be. His body doesn’t turn rigid, his breath doesn’t stutter. But he doesn’t answer. Not until a while later, when he squeezes San’s wrist.

“Yeah, San-ah,” he says. “If you want to.”

‿

When hotel arrangements for their Suwon Samsung game put San in a double with Seonghwa, he takes it as a sign from the universe. He’s forced to re-evaluate this impression when, a day before their departure, Seonghwa collapses on the field with a muffled groan.

Hamstring sprain, Buddy-ssi declares, after several players form a horrified circle around him, nobody quite certain what the problem is. Hongjoong, most of all, looks like he’s never dealt with an injury in all his years playing the sport.

He hovers when San and Mingi support Seonghwa’s wobbly form, stepping into their path with a determined look that doesn’t immediately translate into words. “Seonghwa-ya,” he says, hands hovering awkwardly mid-air. “Are you—”

“No, I’m not.” Seonghwa, who’s been brave about the pain—barely making a sound as the doctor examined his leg, ignoring the scraped knees on top of his actual injury—suddenly looks to be on the verge of tears. He holds them in, though, keeping his usual measured tone: “I’m not fine, Hongjoong-ah.”

He pinches San’s shoulder, and San gets moving, pleading for Hongjoong to step out of the way with his gaze and a muttered: “Hyung.”

Rest, cold compresses, gentle physio. It’s nothing serious, Seonghwa reassures a couple hours later, but he doesn’t go to Suwon with them.

There’s something good to be gained from it, guilty as San immediately feels about the thought, knowing he’ll have the room to himself now and a Wooyoung to invite over. They’re not playing against Suwon FC, his old club, but it’s still the same city Wooyoung had spent a year in, the same stadium, some of the same faces Wooyoung now associates with his biggest regret. San isn’t expecting him to talk about it, but he wants to stay close.

Just in case.

He’s thwarted once again when, the next morning on the bus, Wooyoung is already sitting next to Yeosang by the time San gets on. It’s nothing out of the ordinary—he most often sits with Yeosang—and Wooyoung greets him genially, no clue about San’s disappointment. They have only sat together once, for that Gwangju game. Sending back a long smile, San decides he can’t rely on universal signs. Then he determinedly sits himself next to Hongjoong.

“Hey, San-ah,” he says, discomfort as visible as the dark shadows under his eyes. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good, hyung.”

“Good.” Hongjoong hums. “I noticed you’ve been in a better mood lately. It’s nice to see.”

Swallowing down all the retorts San has prepared prior to the trip, he finds that he can’t actually be as blunt as he wants to—not with Hongjoong’s strained face, not with the genuine fondness in his words. “What about you, hyung? We haven’t talked much lately.”

“I’m fine.” Hongjoong cringes a bit as he says it, like they both immediately think of the same thing: Seonghwa limping off the field with a watery gaze. “Just really tired, you know how it is. These are the important games. And the U-21 team is doing really well this year, so—I’ve just been a bit spread out, I guess.”

San knows Hongjoong has been helping the other team, stepping in after the previous assistant coach had to go on medical leave. Maddox has been pitching in, too; San’s heard that particular tidbit from Seonghwa.

“You shouldn’t work too hard, hyung,” he says, carefully. “I know that’s easy to say, but—”

“Don’t worry, San-ah,” Hongjoong says, and before San can transition from his shakey opening to the other issue—the one that’s really weighing him down—he starts fiddling with his headphones, pulling them up from his neck. “Sorry, I’m… Probably not the best company today. I just need a bit of sleep, yeah?”

San wants to shake him. He wants to tug the headphones off his head, ring up Seonghwa, and force Hongjoong to—what, San doesn’t really know. He leans back in his own seat with a sigh, staring at nothing until his phone buzzes.

wooyoungie:

nice try dimples

but

it was doomed from the start

Wooyoung is a few rows behind, just visible when San twists around and looks over the aisle, too far to have heard any of San’s meek attempts at an intervention.

(you):

😓

you have superhearing now?

wooyoungie:

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

no

but i can read your face

pretty well

San smiles at that, which earns him another round of Wooyoung’s laughter—the text-speech kind. Though valuable in its own right, it can’t compare to the real thing. Yeosang is the one who appears to be laughing, when San turns again, hiding it behind a pointed eye-roll and a message of his own.

yeosangie 💕:

I’m not swapping seats now, sorry!

(you):

you don’t have to <3 <3 <3

swap tomorrow?

i’ll buy you a pack of those

chococake protein bars

yeosangie 💕:

Suuuuure

Napping for most of the drive, San wakes up about thirty minutes away from their destination, to a slew of impassioned good luck texts from Seonghwa. He tries to sleep more, fails, but apparently keeps up the facade well enough: with his eyes half-closed, he can see Hongjoong fidgeting with his own phone, repeatedly bringing up Seonghwa’s number in his contact list, repeatedly clicking away.

He does send a message, in the end.

It seems too short to amount to much, but it still eases some of the worry in San’s mind.

‿

In Suwon, Wooyoung scores his first hat trick of the season; San isn’t presumptuous enough to claim full credit.

Just about half.

It’s been a few matches since the last time Wooyoung propositioned him with a deal—which is a relief, frankly, because San’s future wouldn’t look too bright if he could only bring himself to play well for sexual favours. This time around, he takes it upon himself to flip the script. Because he’s got the room, yes, but also because he can notice the subtle shift in Wooyoung’s demeanour once they arrive at the stadium: the stiff shoulders, the quietness, the exaggerated cackles that hold no real sincerity.

Wooyoung changes quickly in the locker room, and then he just sits in one spot, zoning out. In the name of distracting him, San’s boldness comes to him surprisingly easy.

“So, tonight,” he says, leaning in.

“Hm?”

“I’ll make you come—as many times as you score.”

He almost gets body-checked off the bench for that, Wooyoung blushing and letting out another one of those cackles, exaggerated for a wholly different reason. “Shit, San,” he mutters, grinning, avoiding San’s gaze though there’s nobody in their vicinity, “you can’t just—say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Wooyoung shifts, then, the red climbing all the way to his ears. Ridiculous that he’d get so flustered after everything they’ve done, when he himself has said worse things. Ridiculous and endearing. “Sure, yeah. You wanna shake on it?”

San does.

And they shake hands again on the field, after the second goal, the assist coming to San as easy as breathing, the home crowd begrudgingly clapping their respect. That’s two, Wooyoung looks like he’s saying as he lets go. “One more?” San asks, getting shoved away.

But Wooyoung does score one more goal, and they win 4:2, and that’s how San now finds himself on one of the twin beds, two knuckles deep into Wooyoung and feeling like he’s going to pass out from sheer lust.

This wasn’t really a part of his plan—not that he had planned that much.

San just knew they’d have the promise, the privacy, and the surplus of energy after playing a good match, and he wanted to take his time. To make the rest of Wooyoung’s tension melt away, kiss him until his limbs grew loose and useless. Mouth over the tattoo on his ribs, the slope of his hip bone, the scar near his knee that he got from a bad fall. San wanted to tease and pull back just in time, have Wooyoung so desperate he would resort to whimpered gibberish, one of San’s recent discoveries and one he could never get enough of.

But, two orgasms in, San got thrown off course when he brushed his thumb over Wooyoung’s rim.

“Fuck me,” Wooyoung said at the touch—whined, really, with a wild look in his gaze that had San’s breath catching. “Please, please, Sannie. I need it. I need to feel you—inside.”

And how could San say no?

It isn’t exactly how he’d envisioned it. At this point, San had built the idea up to a stupidly grand event—no candles and champagne but something of a special night, all the signs telling him there wouldn’t be a better time. He knew it couldn’t be before a game, better not before training, and they just got off the field a few hours ago. He wanted to have Wooyoung all to himself, after, and there was no forgotten roommate coming to bother them in the hotel room.

So he folded, and Wooyoung talked him through the first finger, then begged him for the second. He currently looks like every single one of San’s repressed fantasies.

Except he’s real.

“You can go deeper. Just—” Wooyoung cuts off, biting into his lower lip, slick with spit that may or may not be San’s. “Like that, yeah. And curl them up a little—hah.”

Wooyoung digs the back of his head into the pillow, legs trembling, clenching around San’s fingers almost painfully. The heat of him is unlike anything San’s ever felt before, and he doesn’t know where to look first: at his face or at the way Wooyoung is taking him, so tight but so pliant at the same time. He gets swept into more needy kisses, the decision taken out of his hands. San can’t complain but he also feels like he’s sat on a rollercoaster. Heart hammering in his ears, he wants to enjoy the moment but there’s too much urgency and too much to notice all at once.

“Can you take another?” he asks, letting his hand still.

“Fuck, San. What do you think?”

“So that’s a no.” He chuckles when Wooyoung tries to lock him in with his legs, pretends it could’ve worked.

“That’s a don’t ask stupid questions when you’re—ah!”

Maybe there doesn’t need to be a perfect place or a perfect time, San thinks. He brushes his fingertips against Wooyoung’s prostate again, making him arch his back and clutch the sheets, and he’s reaching for the lube, ready to add another finger—when a loud knocking sound makes him pause.

“San-ah!”

San holds back a groan. He doesn’t think he’s ever been less enthused to hear Mingi’s voice.

“Come on, dude, we’re getting dinner! I’m starving so you better get your ass—”

“Mingi-ya, I told you to leave him!”

That’s Yeosang, and San sees the way Wooyoung’s face jumps—nothing like a moment ago, pleasure now replaced with the effort of containing his laughter.

“But it’s not even nine,” Mingi says. Considering it’s so easy to hear every word, and Mingi can get loud but right now he’s not yelling, San hides his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, like the action can retroactively hush every whine and groan. “He can’t be sleeping already!”

“He said he was tired.”

“Ugh, fine. Go get Wooyoungie then, we’ll meet—”

“He’s also sleeping,” Yeosang says, frantic like he rarely sounds. In the subsequent pause, San can imagine Mingi’s incredulous face. “Let’s just go and get Jongho, hm? I’m also hungry.”

That’s the end of it, footsteps fading until they sound off into a longer silence. All San hears is his own rapid breath mixed with Wooyoung’s, and his continued effort at stifling the giggles. Mood killed, San thinks, but Wooyoung clamps down on his fingers when he tries to shift.

“No, no, don’t!” he says, noticeably quieter. San gets it but he doesn’t really like it. “Just a bit more, San-ah, come on.”

True to his words, San doesn’t have to do much to get them to number three. He spreads his fingers, pushes them deeper, licks the precome from Wooyoung’s slit—and just like that, he’s swallowing the rest, Wooyoung’s legs printing bruises into his back.

He’ll get Yeosang several packs of those protein bars, San decides when he’s clear-headed again: after Wooyoung insists on making the final score a 3:2, dragging him into the shower, and kissing San under the hot spray. They get room service and both text Seonghwa at the same time, comparing his responses. They both get impassioned texts from Mingi before they fall asleep, calling them grandpas and insisting this won’t fly next time the team wins.

In the early morning on the bus, he’s mum and hungover. When San gets on, he doesn’t need to say anything—Yeosang stands up and goes to sit with Minjae.

“Can’t get a moment away from you,” Wooyoung says when San takes the free seat, not even trying to match his expression to the words.

“Yeah.” San nods. “Gotta make you sick of me.”

“You’re succeeding.”

Wooyoung’s grin settles into a quieter smile after that, the one San’s been noticing a lot more recently. It suits him, that’s why—makes his eyes glimmer and softens his whole face.

“I’m calling my dad tomorrow,” San says when the bus starts moving. “And there was the KIA Tigers—”

“God, they’re so overrated!” Wooyoung declares dramatically.

But he lets San pull up videos from yesterday’s game, provides running commentary, and reiterates all the ways his team is better. San probably isn’t going to talk about the game with his dad—they’ll be discussing the Suwon Samsung match—but he’s glad to have asked. Glad to listen. He can see the moment Wooyoung starts running out of steam, trying to make himself comfortable in the seat. He doesn’t recline it, and he doesn’t rest his head against the window, and San is almost ready to just offer his shoulder before he gets a better idea.

Taking the backpack out of the overhead compartment, he unzips it and watches Wooyoung bat his eyes open. “Here.”

“Is that—”

“Shiber.”

The plushie smells a bit sickly now, after San has fallen for an advertisement ploy claiming a detergent could rival fresh strawberries. Seonghwa would laugh at him. But he’s not here, and Wooyoung doesn’t laugh—he stares at the shiba like it’s some kind of an oddity, not a dog but a four-headed elephant of a plushie.

“You’ve been carrying it around,” Wooyoung asks, “all this time?”

San shrugs. He knows his cheeks are pink, he doesn’t see a way to dispel the truth. He doesn’t want to. “Yeah, for—good luck, you know.” He sticks his chin out as he adds: “You can use it. Instead of a pillow.”

Wooyoung keeps staring like he hasn’t heard. First at the plushie, and then he takes it from San and keeps staring at his hands. Then his face. San almost starts thinking he’s done something wrong without realising, that he’s found a new boundary he didn’t foresee crossing. Does Wooyoung hate stuffed toys? Shiba Inus? Has he spent so much time with Seonghwa that the scent disgusts him?

“Take off your hoodie,” Wooyoung says.

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes and reaches for the hem himself, rucking it up. “Come on.”

“Why?” San squeaks.

“It’s too warm on the bus.”

“So take off yours—”

“I run cold,” Wooyoung reasons, and then he’s seriously tugging the hoodie over San’s head, “and you love stripping.”

Wooyoung is practiced, that much is true, and he’s got the hoodie off in no time. San still doesn’t get why he’s doing it now, here, after being handed a stuffed dog. He doesn’t get it until the hoodie gets thrown over his hand in a messy pile and another hand finds his, fingers interlocking. Not until Wooyoung squeezes and stuffs Shiber between his head and the window, closing his eyes.

San takes his own turn to stare. He squeezes back. His thumb brushes over Wooyoung’s knuckles.

The hoodie isn’t really necessary.

First, because it doesn’t hide much; their hands might be out of sight if anyone passes by, but Wooyoung is resting his head against Shiber, the plushie San used to carry around for emotional support since he was fourteen. He hasn’t brought it out in public in over a year. One time, he almost cried because he couldn’t find it in the locker room.

Second, because San would hold Wooyoung’s hand without it.

“I can’t sleep when you stare at me,” Wooyoung grumbles, pretending to pull his fingers away.

“That’s unfortunate,” San says, and he holds on tighter just to be safe.

‿

When they’re back in Ulsan, Wooyoung decides to cheer Seonghwa up by organising a movie night. Except, the more people he invites, the more the idea morphs, and suddenly it’s not just him and Seonghwa, but also San, Jongho, and Yeosang, all watching a Tottenham-Liverpool game at Wooyoung’s place.

San is a bit nervous before turning up.

It’s Wooyoung’s flat, but San feels like he’s spent enough time there now to have developed some twisted kind of ownership. Emotional, not material; he associates the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom with both intimacy and privacy, knows the walls have seen sides of him that his teammates never have.

He’s not scared of being exposed, but it’s like walking into a game where he knows the rules might be flipped from normal, he just doesn’t know which rules and to what extent. Wooyoung, for his part, seems equally unsure.

The tension lasts about as long as it takes Jongho to open the betting pool.

He’s brought some beers that San doesn’t drink, Wooyoung and Seonghwa cook for everyone, and Yeosang proves to have almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the Tottenham squad despite claiming not to be a fan. The flat is the same as the last time San slept over, just a few days prior, but there are more photos of Wooyoung’s family on the shelf display and a cheap plastic medal with Thai writing.

They don’t sit next to each other—which stings a bit, San settling on a floor cushion while Wooyoung hogs the opposite end of the sofa, but it’s probably for the best. San can’t complain. The evening is for Seonghwa and their friends, and it’s not like Wooyoung spends it ignoring him.

“Here, San-ah, try this!”

He leans over the distance and almost elbow-checks Yeosang’s head in his fervour to drop a piece of fried squid on San’s plate. He then repeats the same action—minus the elbow-check—when San decides to exchange it for one of his pajeon. Instead of holding out his plate, Wooyoung just opens his mouth. That almost makes the pancake drop from San’s chopsticks to the sofa.

Somehow, they shuffle around so that by the time they’re done eating and San is imitating the whistle each time it sounds, Wooyoung is above him, kicking at his shoulder. San grabs and holds his foot a bit longer, kick after kick.

“Stop it, you’re too loud!”

San fake-whistles even louder than before.

“You live here, Wooyoung-ah,” Jongho chimes in, not taking his eyes off the game. “I’m sure your neighbours are used to—hey!”

Wooyoung’s foot doesn’t end up touching Jongho, San stops it just in time. He takes a quick glance around—at Seonghwa’s resigned smile, Yeosang bracketing his head for precaution, and Jongho shouting—very loudly—at the terrible Tottenham scoring attempt on the screen. He might get cautioned for misconduct but San takes the chance: he pulls Wooyoung’s socked foot closer, digging his thumb into the arch, just softly enough to make Wooyoung squirm without risking a broken nose.

Not showing off a red card, Wooyoung slumps on the sofa to make himself more comfortable.

Score.

San works his way down the sole, gratified when he feels the tension melt away under his hands. It’s not a proper massage and he’s no Oliv-hyung, but it’s still muscle memory from all the times he’s given foot rubs to his grandma. He makes sure to keep his gaze on the screen, acting casual. Nobody acts like it isn’t, and so San nudges Wooyoung when he’s done, asking for the other foot.

Same as before, he dares go a bit higher this time—to Wooyoung’s ankle. It’s his left foot, so relatively safe territory, and San just brushes his thumb around it in small circles. Maybe that’s not that casual but he keeps at it and Wooyoung lets him. Until he doesn’t—heaving a sigh, snatching both feet back, and declaring he needs to piss.

With him gone, San waits for the others to say something. ‘What was that?’ or ‘Gross!’ or ‘Where’s my foot massage, San-ah?’

“Coach would kill us if we played like this,” Seonghwa breaks the silence.

“We’d be doing bear crawls for hours,” Jongho adds.

“I like bear crawls.” Yeosang shrugs.

When Wooyoung gets back, he gives San a quick smile but crosses his legs; San tries not to read into it. They all hang around a bit after the game is done, just chatting about nothing, and then Jongho and San lose the rock-paper-scissors to do the dishes.

San is drying the last plate when he bumps Jongho’s shoulder, offering: “Is your car still at the shop? I can give you a ride.”

“No thanks,” Jongho says. “I’ll take the bus with Yeosangie.”

“I can drive you both—”

“Nope. Not getting inside your car, sorry.”

“What?” San can’t stop his pout from forming. “Why?”

Jongho used to be quite a strict instructor back in the day, but he has grown to trust San with his own car—surely a marker of his improved skills. It’s been a while since San last played his personal chauffeur, but even longer since Jongho last yelled at him for being too slow with the turn signals. Rinsing the soap bubbles off his hands, Jongho looks at San with a smirk that goes from tentative to calculated.

“You’ve been giving Wooyoungie driving lessons, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah, we—”

“Well, it’s been quite a while, hyung. And I asked him to give it a go the other day, out of curiosity.” Jongho shrugs, the smirk not budging. “And let’s just say Wooyoungie still can’t do clutch control. Like, at all.”

“Oh.”

San would like to say more. There must be many good excuses—if only he could bring himself to think instead of standing there with his mouth open, an incriminating flush spreading to the tips of his ears. “You, uh. How—”

“Don’t worry.” Jongho’s smile grows all toothy, obviously delighted to render him speechless. “I’m really happy for you both,” he says, and before San can interject, he lowers his voice. “Just maybe find a different innuendo, you know? Given our history.”

He leaves in a cloud of giggles while San clutches the dish towel like it could squeak out a response on his behalf. It doesn’t, and the embarrassment goes away after a minute—or two—something like relief settling into San’s belly again. Jongho knows, Yeosang knows, Seonghwa probably knows. San wants them to know, and so when he makes it clear he’s driving Seonghwa home, no protests accepted, Wooyoung must read his intentions off his face.

“Text when you get home?” he says, seeing San off with a brief hug.

It’s no goodbye kiss, and Wooyoung doesn’t hold him any longer than the others, but maybe they’ll get there one day. San nods. “Will do.”

‿

“You don’t have to keep bringing it up, San-ah. It was just a sprain,” Seonghwa says, light-hearted but resolute. “I’m completely fine.”

San hums, slowing the car as the traffic light ahead of them counts down to the red. He’s seen Seonghwa in their training sessions this week, back to his full capacities. He’s running out of topics to buffer his confession, barely perceiving the night-empty Ulsan roads while he looks for the perfect words. Jongho wouldn’t be proud.

Three, two, the green flashes and San tightens his grip on the wheel. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Seonghwa says. “Seunghee-hyung thinks it’s almost scout season. He’s expecting them by the Gwangju game, at the latest.”

“Bora-noona has been saying the same thing.”

“I hope you realise—” Seonghwa pats his knee, smiling “—that you’ve got nothing to worry about, San-ah.”

San hums, wishing the well-intentioned reassurance sounded less like a verdict.

“You’re on a roll. The way you’ve been playing lately, it’s like night and day from where you were at the start of the season. I wouldn’t even know you were struggling, just a couple of—”

“Ah, stop it, please.”

“I mean it! You should be proud.”

“Thank you, hyung.”

Seonghwa changes the song, then changes the playlist, swapping Wooyoung’s recent hip-hop favourites for ambient instrumentals. Almost like he’s trying to make it easier on San, praising him and doing away with distractions, creating the perfect conditions for him to open up between four eyes.

And still, San waits.

He’s determined to do it, won’t let Seonghwa leave the car without blurting out the truth. Even though he won’t be the first person to know, San wants him to be the first person he tells. Perhaps it’s needless—nothing about him has changed, and San isn’t struggling to accept his own identity. But it’s still new, still something he’s just learning to talk about, still a game changer in ways Seonghwa, of all people, probably understands better than him.

They’re pulling into his street by the time San clears his throat. “Hyung, there’s something I wanted to talk about.”

“Yeah?”

Seonghwa looks his way—encouraging, patient. Three. Two. “Remember when I told you me and Wooyoungie were friends?”

“You are,” Seonghwa says, nodding like he’s pleased to confirm San’s claim.

“Well, yeah. But that’s not all. I, uh—I think I like him.” San winces at the phrasing, while he also mentally pats himself on the back for waiting to talk until he’s brought the car to a stop. His heart thuds, his vision blocks out everything that isn’t Seonghwa’s soft expression. San nods to himself, smiling. “No, I—I really like him, hyung. In a romantic way, not like a friend. Like I—”

Like he wants to kiss Wooyoung, and hold him, and find new words each day to call him beautiful. Like he wants Wooyoung to trust him with all his worries and share, no matter how inconsequential. Like he wants Wooyoung to be his, in any capacity, wants it so much he’s scared of asking for it because he’s in too deep for a rejection not to break his heart.

“You do,” Seonghwa says, keeping the same tone as before. Soft and supportive, not surprised, not requiring San to spill his guts, as if he’s capable of reading everything that’s just flashed through his mind from San’s expression alone. He grabs San’s hand, resting it on his own knee as he squeezes. “Thank you for telling me, San-ah. I’m so happy you did. And I’m really happy for you.”

Same words as Jongho’s, but this time San has to blink away tears. “Hyung—”

“You and Wooyoungie both. You know I’m always here for you.”

He is crying, a few tears rolling down San’s cheeks when Seonghwa pulls him in for a hug, soaking into the softness of Seonghwa’s sweater. They’re relieved tears, the feeling once again spreading through San’s veins, making his heart thump with the peculiar happiness he’s only slowly getting used to. He never thought Seonghwa would meet his confession with anything but acceptance, but to hear it still gives San a rush.

“Thank you,” he says, wiping at his eyes once more before he shifts back.

“Of course.” Seonghwa pats his shoulder. San doesn’t really need one at this point, but he still fishes out a pack of tissues from his purse. Stubbornly opens it and makes San dab at his face, like he won’t stand for any attempts to mask his vulnerability.

“How long have you known?” San asks, once the tissue is just a torn-up ball in his hand.

“A while,” Seonghwa admits. He doesn’t take long to answer San’s unspoken questions. “Wooyoungie, bless him, isn’t a very good liar.”

San chuckles, finding that he agrees. Wooyoung rarely lies and when he does, it isn’t hard to tell: he starts talking faster, changes the topic, holds a defensive posture that immediately gives him away. It’s a big contrast to the way he can keep things locked up, no sweat, when he doesn’t want to share.

“And—don’t take this the wrong way, San-ah—but it’s not that hard to figure out?” Seonghwa continues. “You’re always busy at the same time. You’ve been spending a lot of time together, you’re always talking about each other, and also—I just have eyes, you know?” He shakes his head before San can respond, quick to add: “I don’t think everyone can tell, don’t worry. But I know you, right? I could tell since pre-season.”

San groans, weakly. “Don’t—”

“I’ve never seen you like that. I thought only football could consume you to that degree. Make you lose all reason.”

“Please.”

“But then the two of you finally stopped fighting, and you started looking happier, and—” Seonghwa smirks, obviously trying to lighten the mood “—Wooyoungie started making up all these stories about a fake boyfriend. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” San asks.

“I knew you’d tell me when you felt ready. It wasn’t my place to rush you.”

That almost makes San tear up again; Seonghwa’s unflinching sincerity is too much to bear, he’ll see one more understanding smile and burst, so he brings Seonghwa in for a second hug, perhaps even tighter than the one before.

“I wanted to tell you, hyung. I really wanted to, but…”

“It’s okay, San-ah. You just did.”

They sit in the muted dome light for a little longer, once San doesn’t feel at risk of crying anymore and he thinks he’ll be able to drive himself home once Seonghwa leaves. He skirts around the question of what exactly he and Wooyoung have, but shares that it’s been going on for just a little over two months. Two months, he thinks to himself, and he’s this hopeless—it gives him a weird sense of butterflies that don’t dare flutter their wings in his stomach, only twitching cautiously. He admits that Yeosang was the first to address it, that Jongho just sprung his own awareness on him half an hour ago, and—

“Does Hongjoong know?” Seonghwa asks.

“No.” San’s eyes fall. “I don’t know, actually, he might’ve figured it out? It’s not that I would mind him knowing—if Wooyoung wants to, I think we—”

“Right. Yeah, he’d be supportive. Might give you a lecture first, you know, to make sure you’re not bringing your relationship on the field.” There’s an edge of bitterness in Seonghwa’s tone again, one that has San frowning as it seamlessly transitions into fondness. “But he’d have your back, I have no doubts about that.”

Slowly, Seonghwa straightens and fiddles with the strap of his purse, projecting his departure. It’s almost one. San thanks him one more time, gets dismissed, then lets him open the passenger door.

“LEGO night next Thursday?” Seonghwa asks, leaning in once he’s standing on the sidewalk.

“Sure.”

“You can bring your boyfriend, too.” Seonghwa winks, waves, and closes the door.

San waves back, keeping his smile in place.

Boyfriend, the butterflies try to flutter again and he makes a weak attempt at containing them: they haven’t talked about it, still, and despite coming a long way from it doesn’t have to mean anything, San is still wary of using a label like that all by himself.

But the butterflies are already there, already trapped.

San couldn’t let them go if he wanted, so maybe it’s a mercy to let them fly. The smile grows into a foolish grin as he starts the car, hundreds of imaginary wings fluttering up a storm.

‿

They win big in Daegu.

San gets one handshake, one goal, and one painful shove to the ground that turns into a corner goal for Ulsan.

He’s fine to continue playing right after the fall, the scrape on his leg almost laughable as far as injuries go. Completely worth it for Yeosang’s penalty volley that sets the team cheering, and for Wooyoung cursing out the Daegu winger who had shoved San, keeping an arm around San’s shoulders while the referee deliberates further course of play.

“You okay?” he asks the next time the game gets stopped, ponytail slightly askew.

San wants to fix it. He holds himself back. “Right as rain,” he grins, sprinting closer to the midfield when Hongjoong gives him the signal.

They win five-nil: the best result they’ve had all season, extending their winning streak to five matches. Daegu has only had two losses so far, which makes it even more satisfying. Most crucially, to San, it’s the first game where he completely forgets about the number on his back.

His most recent stints in the analytics room have gone well enough, less looking through his fingers in stunted horror and more brainstorming for ideas on how to perfect an already good foundation. He’s been doing much better with the ten, even San can admit it.

But it isn’t until the Daegu game that the shadow of it disappears from San’s mind.

He scores. He holds the ball to set up chances for Wooyoung and Yeosang. He drifts down to cover Seonghwa while Hongjoong is blocked by a Daegu player, he helps a struggling Minjae hold possession, and does it all without thinking. Not chaotically—they’re considered decisions, both instinct and experience—but San isn’t thinking about himself from a bird’s eye view like he’s a chess piece to move around.

He stays present the whole way through, engaged to the point that he doesn’t once reflect on the number he’s wearing, the responsibilities and the past mistakes. To the point that, when the game ends, he realises the shove had actually given him a massive bruise on the upper thigh that hurts to the touch.

It’s in the locker room, before the showers, when Wooyoung sits next to him and immediately retracts his hand. “What?”

San’s grimace of pain turns into a grimace of regret. “Nothing.”

But it’s too late—Wooyoung is already hiking his shorts up, fighting San’s hands away, looking at the bruise with a grimace of his own. “Shit. That’s—”

“Completely worth it,” San says, and when Wooyoung gives him an admonishing smack up the head, he just laughs.

He feels more self-conscious about it in the showers—the deepening purple, the way it stretches almost to his hip—but the weight of Wooyoung’s gaze also gives him a perverse sense of satisfaction. He rarely looks at San in the showers, puts a lot of concerted effort into not looking, and San could never fault him for it because he gets it and he does the same thing.

But he looks now—with concern, even—and that makes San feel stupidly grateful for something that’s going to hurt for days to come.

After the press con, after they’ve changed, Wooyoung is still sticking close to him, occupying the same bench as before while the team tries to sort out dinner plans. Half want to get dakgalbi, the other half are considering fried chicken.

Minhyuk says he’s not joining either group, already having made plans with his family.

“...and my sister is bringing her new boyfriend,” he says, face lighting up with an idea that has him reaching for his phone. “A serious downgrade from the last one if you ask me. He’s a student and he looks like this? I wish Yejin had higher standards.”

He brings up a photo of the guy on his screen, turning it around like he’s expecting others to validate the complaints. First, the entirety of his audience. Second, he zeroes in on Seonghwa, pushing the phone under his nose.

“Do you think he’s hot?” Minhyuk asks.

“I think your sister can date whoever she chooses,” Seonghwa says, diplomatically. “And you’re going to be nice to this poor guy when you meet him. Right, Minhyuk-ah?”

Minhyuk rolls his eyes. He tries again, shoving the phone towards Wooyoung. “You tell me, Wooyoungie. On a scale of zero to ten?”

Wooyoung only hesitates a second before taking the phone with a considering hum. “A solid seven,” he says. Deceptively, he responds to Minhyuk’s prodding, but he’s back to looking at San. “Great hair. Looks reasonably toned under the shirt? Also the glasses really work for his features. Not everyone can pull them off this well.”

San, very conscious of what’s happening, clicks his tongue and grabs the phone. “Oh, yeah. I’d say he’s an eight.”

“Eight?” Wooyoung tilts his head.

“He’s got really nice skin.” San shrugs.

“Very clear, yes. But he should probably lay off the whitening products.”

“Might just be the sun.“

“Or the filters—”

“He’s not an eight,” Minhyuk interjects, taking the phone back before San can zoom in to look for evidence of airbrushing. “No offense, Sannie, but like. Your opinion isn’t really relevant.”

“What do you mean?” San frowns.

“You know. You’re not really the… target audience. For rating guys.”

The words are innocuous, Minhyuk delivering them with an amused, casual tone that suggests they’re all on the same page. There’s no reason for him to believe otherwise, San knows, but he still feels his throat working around an imaginary pebble that he can’t swallow.

“Weren’t you judging the guy’s appearance?” he asks, keeping his voice neutral.

“Yeah, but—not like that.”

“Oh?”

“I was doing it from the brother-in-law’s perspective. Objectively. Not from, like, would I sleep with this guy if—”

“That’s not what Wooyoung was doing, either,” San cuts in.

He can feel Wooyoung’s scowl on him, hear the unspoken request for him to let it go. And he knows he should, knows it’s stupid, but with every word Minhyuk adds, the pebble grows a size, making San feel like he’s going to choke unless he speaks.

“But he could, right?” Minhyuk rolls his eyes. “So that makes his opinion more worthwhile than yours, Sannie. Sorry to make you feel excluded.”

“It’s not about that!”

“San.” Wooyoung puts a hand on his thigh, the bruised one.

“Then why are you so fired up about this?” Minhyuk asks.

“I just think it’s stupid. We all have eyes, right? It’s not—it’s not like you have to pass some sort of a test to rate a guy’s appearance. Or a girl’s.”

“Aish!” Minhyuk crosses his arms, eyes narrowing as he studies San’s face. “Where is this coming from? I know Wooyoungie likes both. I don’t have any problems with that.”

“Good—” San nods “—because maybe I do—ah!”

The sounds of the slap resounds, pain radiating through San’s bruised thigh and outwards. Wooyoung adds to it, squeezing San’s leg through his sweats—a warning hold that’s reflected in his gaze. San breathes through the spike of pain and furrows his brows.

“It’s okay, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, adopting a teasing tone that somehow falls flat. “You can rate Minhyuk’s sister.”

“Hell no!” Minhyuk protests.

“Maybe we should just stop rating people’s appearance. In general,” Seonghwa says. He’s stood up from his spot on the other side of the locker room, approaching with an expression that’s equal parts stern and troubled. “If your sister likes this guy, Minhyuk-ah, you shouldn’t be—”

“I know, hyung. I thought it was just a harmless—ah, nevermind. Let’s just leave it, Sannie, right?”

Minhyuk walks away with one last parting glance, looking ready to forget about the conversation altogether. San swallows, and swallows again, looking at his feet. The pebble is no longer stuck, but he still feels the phantom imprint. Wooyoung and Seonghwa bickering about the unsolved fried chicken-vs-dakgalbi debate doesn’t help. Leaving the locker room doesn’t help. Shoving food down his throat helps, a little, but San still sees the whole scene replaying on his eyelids when he goes to sleep.

‿

“And you’ve got the club anniversary coming up next week, is that right?”

San nods at the interviewer—Sangcheol-ssi, a middle-aged man in specs, impressively fast at handwriting the answers old-fashioned style—and adds: “Nineteenth anniversary. It should be a good time, a little test run before next year’s.”

He regrets it even faster than the man notes it down, his glasses lifting and San catching a glimpse of his grimace in the reflection. He knows the question that’s coming before the man opens his mouth. “Oh, that’s correct! Twenty years is a big one. But I’m guessing you won’t be with the club this time next year San-ssi. How are your transfer plans shaping up?”

It’s the first question in well over ten minutes that makes Bora glance up from whatever work she’s doing on her phone, sitting in the corner of the office and pretending to be invisible. It’s her usual style: she makes the arrangements, she facilitates the greetings, then she disappears to let San handle the work—pretends to disappear, because whenever she senses a question might be making him uncomfortable or unsure, she gives him the same reassuring smile she’s giving him now, ready to intervene.

“I’d prefer to focus on this season for the time being,” San says, straightening in his seat. “We’re only about a third way through, and it feels like we have finally hit our stride—”

“Indeed, you’re on quite a winning streak,” the interviewer nods. “But things move fast in football—literally. I’m sure you must already have an inkling of where you’d like to be next year.”

“Still playing,” San says, making both Bora and the interviewer raise their eyebrows. “I mean, that’s all I can say with certainty. This time next year, I want to be playing football. But everything else—um, I would really much rather focus on what we’re doing at the moment. With Ulsan. Last season, I think I let myself believe at one point that the cup would be ours and—you know how that turned out.”

“Runner-ups is still a good result.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, it is.” San forces himself to slow down, pressing his palms into his knees. “But we can do better. The squad is really strong this season, we have learned from last year’s mistakes. I think we have a solid chance. We’ve got Wooyoungie—” he hesitates, trying to stop the awkward heat from staining his cheeks, purposely not looking at Bora “—sorry, Wooyoung-ssi, scoring every match. Jongho-ssi has been doing some miracle work down in defense. Mingi-ssi, too, is having a—”

“About Wooyoung-ssi,” the interviewer jumps in, amidst rapidfire scribbling. “You’ve had a pretty big turnaround since the first couple of matches. People are calling you a dynamic duo, I’ve seen the nickname ‘Number 19’ in some posts.”

That’s a new one, San frowns, sending a mental apology to Dahan—their actual 19.

“Was that just a case of having to learn how to play together, or did you really have a hard time getting along?”

Bora grips her phone with force, clearing her throat. “I don’t think that’s—”

“A bit of both,” San admits, still pushing onto his legs for support. His bruised thigh, to keep himself from blabbering. “I think our playing styles are a good match, but we needed a bit of time to figure that out? And we have become really good friends, which—definitely helps, too.”

“I see.” The interviewer readjusts his specs, still writing. “So do you think the closer you are to your teammates, the better you can play together?”

A rather pointless question, San just hums. There’s a frenzied string of thoughts at the back of his mind about how close he and Wooyoung have managed to get, but he just licks his lip. “Yeah. These days, I often give Wooyoung-ssi a ride to work—since, uh, he doesn’t drive. And we meet for coffee sometimes, and often hangout. Just, watching shows and matches together.”

Bora’s eyebrows are still raised. The interviewer happily records San’s admission in his notebook. San’s stomach twists—once, dully—wondering if he’s said too much. The sensation is almost completely overtaken by the satisfaction of it: the silly pride he feels at being able to admit all that, the relief of saying the truth by omission.

“So I think that has definitely improved how well we play together,” he finishes. “And the same thing goes for the whole team. We spend a lot of time together, so it’s important that we get along well. And we do. That’s what makes the team—” special, his “—strong.”

Bora goes back to her mysterious phone work, the interviewer asks a few more generic questions about the upcoming matches, then they all shake hands and San finds himself shuffling out of the agency’s front door. Having hitched a ride with Bora on the way there, San is planning to take a walk home, but she angles her head at the Paris Baguette across the street in a silent question.

“That was good,” she says, once they’ve got a comfy upstairs window booth. Back on the caffeine train, she takes a long sip of her americano. “Though some of the questions were a bit—gossipy, hm?”

San shrugs, taking a bite of his strawberry tart. “A little bit, I guess? But he wasn’t pushy.”

“Is it true what you said?” Bora asks. Superfluously, she seems to realise with a chuckle—he wouldn’t have provided an answer that elaborate if it was a lie. “I didn’t realise you and Wooyoung-ssi were so close.”

Putting his fork down, San swallows. It’s nothing to be defensive about, he knows. He still makes sure to keep his tone level, unwavering. “I told you we are friends.”

“You did,” Bora allows.

“So why is it a surprise?”

“I just didn’t know you spend so much time together.”

“I think you should meet him, noona,” San says. Impulsively, though the idea has been bugging him for a while. It’s not like Bora is his actual family, they have a close but professional relationship, and he and Wooyoung have a close but undetermined relationship. Out of San’s other teammates, only Seonghwa has hung out with Bora informally—and that was only because the three of them all got stuck at the same airport once. “I know you’ve met, obviously, but—I can introduce you properly. At the gala.”

“Sure, buddy,” Bora says. Her nods are slow, a little tentative. She picks up her phone, tapping out a few messages before she narrows her gaze on San again. “There’s actually been—a suggestion. From my friend at GQ. Nothing official, it’s mostly an idea at this stage.”

“Oh?” San tilts his head, mouth closed over a forkful of whipped cream.

“She mentioned the possibility of doing a double shoot. I was trying to convince Seonghwa-ssi’s agent, actually, but you know how that man gets. Everything has to be exactly the way he wants, and right now, he doesn’t want you sharing the spotlight.” She rolls her eyes, flicking at her cuticles. “But Sangcheol-ssi wasn’t wrong. There’s been a lot of—uh, Woosan mentions on socials. I find some of the narratives annoying, personally, but you’ve become very good at playing off each other.”

“What narratives?” San asks, voice growing weaker.

“Oh, just some fans who don’t know when to stop with the comparisons. Nothing serious, Sannie. Just focus on playing the way you have. If the two of you keep up this momentum, Wooyoung-ssi could be a great alternative.”

“For the double shoot?”

“Yeah.” Whatever Bora reads off his face makes her give San a soft smile. “Like I said, it’s just an idea for now. I’m more focused on getting you that Fila ad campaign, and we’ve got the call-ups coming up any day now but… I’ll tell you if there are more concrete plans. And then you can mention it to Wooyoung-ssi, perhaps, since he doesn’t have an agent.”

She says the last bit with a disapproving edge, but San finds himself grinning. The idea, however uncertain and hazy, makes a part of him cheer. It’s the part that’s growing by the day, the possessive, irrational little beast in his chest that doesn’t care for caution or secrecy—it craves acknowledgement. In most circumstances, San thinks he does a fair job, keeping its impulses at bay. Inexperienced, he doesn’t know if time will make him better at it, or if it will chip away at his determination, little by little.

“Sounds good to me,” San says, forking up the last crumbs off his plate. Looking at Bora’s half-finished, slowly diluting americano, he tries to spread a bit of his joy. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat, noona? It’s on me, I can get you one of those—”

“I should be on my way, actually.” She opens her purse as soon as she says it, reapplying her lipstick while looking at her reflection in the window. It matches today’s pantsuit of choice, a near-identical shade of burgundy. “I have another prospective client. Maybe. Wish me luck.”

San’s eyebrow curls up. Bora has been with the same two players—three, him included—for years. “Good luck?”

“Thanks, Sannie.” She sends him a wink before standing up. “I’ll tell you if it pans out. But it’s nothing that would affect you, don’t worry. You’re always my number one.”

“I’m not—”

“Do you want a ride back?”

He doesn’t, they say goodbye, and there are still two hours to go until the afternoon training starts. San checks his phone on the walk home, finding a message from Wooyoung (asking if there’s a new nickname from the interview coming their way), Seonghwa (asking if Thursday still works for their LEGO night), and his dad (confirming that he and San’s mum will be coming to the club’s gala).

San replies to two of them and sends a scowling selfie to one.

‿

“What’s with the glasses?”

Wooyoung holds the passenger door open, duffle resting on his hip, expression unreadable behind his usual mask-cap-sunglasses disguise. His voice, however, spells surprise.

“Just proving a point,” San says, shrugging behind the wheel.

“What point?” The door closes with a loud slam, something San’s come to accept as a Wooyoung signature. Were it anyone else, he’d be spooked, reading it as a warning sign, but presently he doesn’t even flinch. “That you don’t suit them as well as Minhyuk’s sister’s boyfriend does?”

“That you still think I’m a hot nerd.”

Wooyoung guffaws.

He fastens his seatbelt, skips two songs, takes a sneaky picture of San’s profile just as he’s turning the car out of Wooyoung’s street. There must be a lot of those on his phone: blurry snaps from takeout nights, blurrier from nighttime walks, and not-so-blurry ones from when Wooyoung is trying to tease him over his bedhead and San isn’t awake enough to fight it. Photos that would have Bora clutching at her chest, no matter how non-explicit, just due to their sheer number and what that suggests.

San won’t tell Wooyoung to stop taking them. He just wants to see them, like he wants to see the photos Wooyoung has started taking at training and matches.

“Point proven.” San grins when Wooyoung puts the phone down, catching a sight of his own dimple in the rearview.

“Shut up.” Wooyoung’s mask rides up with his smile. He fiddles with it. “I’m just collecting unflattering shots to share at the gala. When everyone’s praising your good looks and—”

“And you’re stewing with jealousy in the corner?”

“Sure. Yeah. Let’s see about that.”

They make a stop on the way to the stadium, at one of the smaller booth-style places that make both ‘acceptable’ coffee and a yuzu-orange tea that San likes. It’s become part of the routine, somehow, somewhere along the way. Not an everyday one, but steady enough that San keeps a rotation of his clothes at Wooyoung’s place.

Wake up and either fight off Wooyoung’s hold with an apology kiss, or bother him enough to score a frustrated one. Jog to the gym. Jog home. Shower, and get his car to pick Wooyoung up when it’s training time, then get their drinks from the same place that’s about five minutes from the stadium and finish them in the parking lot.

San wasn’t lying in the interview. He gives Wooyoung rides and they watch stuff on his cranky overheating laptop. They also make out and have sex but, as long as that doesn’t become a part of the narrative, San tells himself the rest isn’t suspicious. It’s something Yunho and Mingi could also do, easily. Something Seonghwa and Hongjoong—

“What’s with the long face?” Wooyoung asks.

He’s also privy to Seonghwa’s secrets, and they’ve talked about it, and Wooyoung is of the opinion that if Hongjoong isn’t brave enough to initiate and sort things out, whatever his excuse is, Seonghwa is better off setting his sights elsewhere. San holds back a sigh and takes off the glasses, placing them back inside the glove compartment—newly reorganised, lots of space freed up by losing a bunch of old napkins, expired sauce packets, and the cologne he never used anyway.

“I just remembered,” San says, having to exaggerate his pout for once, “how much my last girlfriend hated them.”

“The glasses?”

“Yeah. Tried to make me get contacts. Blue ones.”

Wooyoung, de-masked now that they’re near the stadium, scowls at his coffee cup. “Obviously, she had terrible opinions,” he mutters.

“Obviously.”

San doesn’t know what gives him away first—another grin or the amused tone—but Wooyoung does a double take before almost slapping the tea out of San’s hold. He then grips onto the tender spot, shaking San’s arm back and forth. “You—fuck, San, you just made that up!”

“Maybe?” The grip turns into a pinch and San just smiles. “Worked like a charm.”

“That was cheating. It doesn’t count.”

“You can’t really take it back.”

“Watch me,” Wooyoung says, and proceeds to do nothing at all, a blush crawling up his cheeks that he tries to keep off by sipping on his iced coffee.

There’s no need for it, San thinks, despite how the dusting of pink on Wooyoung’s tan skin always makes his heart leap. There’s no reason for San himself to keep getting stuck in the same loop, running circles around an idea like as long as he doesn’t bump into it, as long as neither of them speaks it out loud, it can’t be real.

But the reality is that Wooyoung gets jealous though he won’t admit it. That he makes space for San in every aspect of his life—his flat, his time, and even his body—and that he does San’s laundry, just so he can sneak out of his bed at an ungodly hour. That—day by day, at an accelerating pace—he seems to be opening up to San.

“How many people have you dated before?” San asks, forcing himself to make the loop break.

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, curious. It’s less of a ‘do you realise what you just asked?’, more of a ‘do you really wanna know?’ challenge, but it morphs, slowly: his eyes widen, mouth opens, stretches as he regards San with uncertainty. As he realises what San just asked. “Do you want the exact number?” he ends up saying, not nearly as cocky as he could make the question sound.

“Is it bigger than ten?” San says. His own nonchalance is nowhere to be found, a dopey smile once again mocking him from the rearview mirror.

“It’s not.”

“Good.” He hums.

“Good?” Wooyoung digs his straw into the leftover ice cubes, jostling them. “What if it was bigger? Would you get offended? Jealous to be losing—”

“That’s a lazy attempt, Young-ah.”

He sucks on air, staring at the bottom of his cup. “So what’s your number?”

“I think I only had one serious relationship,” San says, chuckling to cushion the admission. “And—well, does it even count if we were seventeen?”

“It does if you loved her.” Wooyoung shrugs.

“Then no,” San admits, with an ease that’s surprising even to himself. “I chose football over her so…it probably doesn’t.”

And that has always been the case, ever since. The few relationships San’s managed to have over the years were short-lived, casual, impossible to maintain with his schedule. Football came first, San was too busy, and nobody ever questioned that excuse.

But it hits him now, with startling intensity, that time has never been his biggest problem. He could’ve tried harder, could’ve found workarounds, could’ve made space for another person in his life. There have been sparks and there have been laughs, but there was little heartbreak for San; cutting his exes loose only felt fair, because none of the relationships ever felt like something worth continuing.

He doesn’t say all that, already feeling transparent under Wooyoung’s considering frown. “Have you ever dated a teammate before?” he asks, slowly, watching the frown deepen.

At first, San thinks it will lead to more deflection and he’d let it, curious though he is about the answer. It would say enough: from Wooyoung, who’s blunt and unapologetic and often speaks without thinking, each deflection and thoughtful silence is an answer of its own.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, quietly, then stabs at his ice again.

Once.

Twice.

“Yeah, but only one time. And I was younger than you—I mean, it was while we were at the academy. Wouldn’t even call it dating. I, uh, I was still trying to figure things out, and so was he.” The third time the straw hits the plastic cup, San winces, expecting it to start leaking from the bottom. “It ended kinda ugly. I think you can imagine.”

San can, and he wishes he didn’t have to; more than that, he wishes his imagination was embellishing things for the worse. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Mhm.” Wooyoung puts the cup away, once the straw is bent and lodged inside it. “For the longest time I thought he was the one—I thought he must’ve talked to the press. To start the rumours. Add to them, or whatever.” His lips stretch, mole pulled under his upper teeth. “But then he showed up to last season’s game, our last one against Gyeongnam. I remember because he said it was his girlfriend’s hometown.”

“Ah.”

“He snuck in with some fans after the game. Kept asking for a signature, telling everyone we knew each other and—nobody could be that shameless, right?”

San’s breath hitches when Wooyoung looks at him—like he’s pleading for an answer he won’t believe anyway.

“Right, San-ah?”

Without the cup to play with, he’s now gripping onto his own knee. San puts a hand over his knuckles and squeezes. I’m sorry, he’s trying to say without repeating it out loud, knowing it can’t really change a thing. He maps each knuckle with his thumb until Wooyoung stops bunching his sweats.

“Did you give it to him?” San asks after the pause, his tone low but tight. “The signature?”

Wooyoung nods. He cracks a wan grin. “Yeah, but I pretended I didn’t remember him. Made him go all red and squeaky.”

“Nice,” San says, like he’s praising a smooth ball pass. “Did you misspell his name, too?”

“How’d you—“

“As petty as they come.” All warmth and absurd pride, he squeezes Wooyoung’s hand one more time before letting go.

A familiar car pulls into the parking lot just then, Jongho waving at them when he gets out and starts walking towards the stadium. The same thing, minus the wave, repeats with Seunghee just a minute later. Wooyoung wipes condensation off the car console, straightens up, shoots San a quick but sincere smile.

San catches his hand again before he can open the door, palm up.

“Hey, Wooyoung-ah,” he says, “I’ve never dated a teammate before.”

Wooyoung laughs. “No shit.”

“And I haven’t dated a guy before.”

“Yes, Sannie. I’ve realised that much—”

“So this guy I’m seeing…” San laces their fingers, popping his best dimpled smile. “If I wanted to invite him over—maybe next week, after the gala—how do you think I should go about it?”

Wooyoung blinks, the pink making a triumphant return. “Just ask him.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Ask again.”

San nods and does: “Will you come over?”

He tries to be quite serious about it: to add to the suave front he’s pulling, but also to make the implication clearer. San’s flat, after the gala, with two glorious days off afterwards—a perfect time and place. It’s no laughing matter, San thinks, but the laugh his words kick out of Wooyoung is completely worthwhile.

A giggle.

It’s a new addition to San’s catalogue, a bubbling sound that pairs perfectly with the blush. It spells joy and doom in equal measure, because as soon as San hears it, he knows: he’s benched, game on pause, a part of him lost forever to the task of hearing the sound again.

“Maybe,” Wooyoung says.

“Maybe?”

“First I’ll have to ask—” he smiles and tries to slip his hand away “—this guy I’m seeing.”

San wants to hold on and pull him back. He wants to kiss Wooyoung, right then and there. He can’t, and so he lets go and swats at him with a laugh that’s his own version of the giggle—but the want stays right where it had started, like a splinter wedged too deep that San can’t tweeze out, only push deeper and deeper in the hopes that he’ll forget about it once it becomes a part of him.

‿

That might take a very long time, though.

San is barely keeping himself in check in the middle of training, when he and Wooyoung are sent off to do 1v1s. Coach Eden wants them to drill long passes and feints but, two minutes in, Wooyoung steals the ball and holds it to his chest.

“The Shadow Pass is kinda boring by now,” he says, and though San doesn’t think boring is the right word, it has definitely become something the other teams know to look out for.

“I have an idea,” San admits.

He’s come up with it while analysing their Daegu game—not a groundbreaking new manoeuvre, but something he wants to try nonetheless.

“Go on.”

It’s basically a passing sequence that they randomly slipped into last time but failed to finish: short, tight dribbles from one to the other, back and forth like a pinball, a synchronised charge towards the box that’s meant to make the defenders dizzy and keep them occupied until a perfect gap opens up.

With how fast and smooth Wooyoung gets with his dribbling, the move is made for him. San is willing to practice until he’s a perfect match.

“Alright, good words.” When he explains all of that, minus the last point, Wooyoung smirks and throws the ball at him. “Now show me, babe.”

Case in point, it’s very hard not to kiss him right then. San shakes the urge off by focusing on the ball, kicking it into play.

Just as he’s expected, it’s not immediately smooth, nothing like the ideal version he can picture in his head. Their tempo doesn’t match, they’re not making the passes tight enough. But they go again, and again, and they set up cones to narrow their pass-lanes, then narrow them further. After fifteen minutes—when Eden decides it’s time for a rondo—San thinks the idea is workable.

And if the way Wooyoung smacks his ass before jogging away is any indication, he seems to agree.

San spends the rest of the training half-present, trying to think of a name for the move. Unlike the Shadow Pass, it’s not really meant to be sneaky—others will see it coming, but its success depends on how skilled they can get with it. Tag, San deems too simple. Cat and Mouse doesn’t quite fit, they’re not trying to one-up each other.

Silent Echo, the idea floats to him once training gets called, when he’s sitting on the grass, chugging water and staring into the golden strip of disappearing sunlight just beyond the stadium roof.

Before he can even start to feel proud, water sprays him from the back.

San turns, eyes half-closed on instinct as he expects a water bottle to get squeezed into his face. But it’s not Wooyoung, and it’s not another teammate—the sprinklers have turned on, much earlier than they’re usually meant to, and several other people yelp in surprise. When Minjae, already dripping, stands up to escape, Sumin pushes him back into the oncoming spray.

That’s how the battle starts.

Half the team comes rushing in, attacking those that have already been caught in the mist. San gets jumped from the back by Mingi, rescued by Jongho, and then he’s dragging in Seonghwa, still dry and observing from the touchlines. It’s been a warm day, and San still feels warm from all the running around, so it’s a nice reprieve. More than that, it’s just fun.

They’re all laughing, breaking off into mini-teams and ganging up on each other, and when San sees Wooyoung, he doesn’t think twice: he pulls him by the wrist, right into the path of a particularly strong spray.

“Don’t—don’t you dare—!”

Wooyoung screeches. He makes sure San gets hit, too. He’s laughing, a chaos of a noise that San feels vibrating through his body when Wooyoung drapes himself over him, shuffling them towards another attack; San only pretends to fight it.

“How’s that for revenge?” Wooyoung asks, when San is wiping water from his eyes.

“Weak.”

“Oh, you’re asking for it!”

The jersey’s already stuck to San’s skin when Wooyoung starts trying to lift it off him, his hands raising goosebumps on San’s sides. He slaps them off and retaliates in kind, baring Wooyoung’s stomach. It’s all play-fighting, all within the norms of what the others are doing. Tame, really, when there’s Yunho with a half-naked Mingi wrapped around his waist, and a pile of shirtless men wrestling on the muddy grass.

All just a game until it isn’t—until San is pushing Wooyoung’s wet bangs behind his ear and glancing at his lips and wanting, again.

He can’t do anything on the field, but the team makes their way back all dripping and distracted, and there are several empty offices at their disposal. Wooyoung doesn’t even ask, still laughing when San’s got him pressed against one of the dusty storage shelves, muffling it into San’s shoulder. He makes it worse by kissing the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth first, and then his cheek. His other cheek, when Wooyoung tries to rush him. The mole under his eye, barely visible in the darkness of the room and the early dusk.

“San, we don’t have time for—”

That’s when San shuts him up and finally, finally gives into his own compulsion.

He kisses the laugh out of Wooyoung’s mouth and cages him further against the shelves. Damp hair brushing against San’s own skin, damp hands pulling him closer by the neck—he’s reminded of the first time they kissed, in the Gwangju showers. It’s similar in the urgency, San’s tongue slipping right in and Wooyoung pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. But the reasons are different, and it’s not a lead-up to anything, jerking each other off or another one of San’s big brain revelations.

They kiss because they can.

At least for a while, for a few minutes, and then a few kisses more.

San is the first one out the door, this time. He catches his breath before walking into the locker room, and his presence almost goes unnoticed—half the team already in the showers, half clustered around Seonghwa. Hongjoong’s there, too, and he’s the first one to call San over, his eyes catching on San’s face for a second too long. San clears his throat like that could help. He joins the crowd.

“—Yeosangie can say the last part, and then we all just wave,” Seonghwa is saying, holding onto his phone. He then turns to Hongjoong, tone a little doubtful: “Are you sure you want to film this? I can just do it myself, I know how—”

Hongjoong grabs the phone, lightning fast. “No, I can do it.”

He pulls an odd grimace, right after, but Seonghwa doesn’t get to see it; he’s waving over Wooyoung, just through the door, still flushed but grinning at the commotion. He almost steps on Mingi’s toes when he joins the semi-circle, tucks his hair behind his ears, clears his throat just like San had.

“Hello everyone!” Yunho greets when Hongjoong starts the recording, and then several others recite their parts—talking about the gala and inviting fans to join the online raffle—until Yeosang finishes with a: “See you there!” and a wink he calls too cute when they review the footage.

On the second try, Seonghwa says the shot is blurry.

The third time, San thinks it’s a perfectly fine promo vid: awkward the way it’s always bound to be when there’s a script to follow, made fun the way they’re still dishevelled from the sprinklers. At first, Seonghwa seems to agree, letting the others disperse. But then he looks from the phone right at San, at Wooyoung, at San’s hand.

There’s a hair tie around his wrist.

“Actually, can we do one more take?” Seonghwa asks, eliciting a chorus of sighs and moans.

Hongjoong clicks his tongue. “What’s with the attitude? You all have thirty more seconds to spare. Listen to Seonghwa and get—”

“It’s okay, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa cuts him off. “They got it.”

“The third take was really good, hyung,” San says, hurrying to his locker. “We don’t need more.”

“But San-ah—”

“You can always put a fun filter on it and fix it up a bit. You’re the editing wizard after all.”

His authority within the team is questionable at best, compared to Hongjoong and Seonghwa, but others seem grateful for the permission to scram. His hyungs don’t fight San about it either, though he can feel the weight of several people’s questions boring into his back. One of them—Wooyoung— materialises by San’s side with a towel and a scowl.

“Hyung just wanted to do a take without the…” He flicks his nose at San’s wrist. Scrunches it up.

“I know.”

“So—”

San rolls the elastic off and holds it out. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Wooyoung says, quickly. He hesitates. “No, but—”

“Then let’s go shower.”

San shrugs, watching as Wooyoung takes the band and reties his hair. Messily, absent-mindedly. He stays clutching the towel as smugness creeps over his face, a nice fit for San’s satisfaction, but then a shadow of something else makes San turn before it takes over.

Again, he can feel the heaviness of Wooyoung’s gaze on his back, can almost feel him reaching out and stopping San before he leaves, listing off all the reasons why that was a stupid move. And maybe it was, the same part of San that’s been wanting to kiss Wooyoung silly all day claiming its final victory, something he’ll regret when the hot water washes over him.

But it’s just a hair tie; San refuses to worry about a hair tie.

Chapter Text

own goal

(in football) when a player accidentally scores a goal for the opposing team, usually by putting the ball into their own net.

⚽︎

“Did it always use to be this bad?” San asks, wincing.

“Yes.” Seonghwa doesn’t even look up from the LEGO, unimpressed by the gap in San’s memory. “Yes, it was, San-ah. I guess you didn’t share a wall.”

His words are punctuated by another loud snore from Mingi, laid out on the sofa, one arm hanging off towards the table like he is still pretending to be helping, handing Seonghwa pieces from the floor. San picks one up instead. He smiles at the next text that makes his phone buzz.

yeosangie 💕:

you are

SO MUCH

nicer when u text

other people

(you):

you mean yeosang

yeosangie 💕:

that’s other people!!

every second message

u send him

ends with a heart

(you):

are you jealous? 😊

yeosangie 💕:

NO

I’M ANGRY

(you):

maybe stop reading

other people’s texts

yeosangie 💕:

yeosangie let me! 😊

(you):

what did you threaten him with??

yeosangie 💕:

He didn’t.

(you):

okay

now give him the phone back

for real

The chat goes quiet, just as expected, and San looks up to see Seonghwa holding out his hand with a blank face. “This is why I told you to invite him,” he says, once San has repented by handing over another building block.

“He’s busy,” San says.

“And yet, you’re still texting.”

“No. I’m texting Yeosangie.” San turns the phone around for a quick flash of evidence, making Seonghwa roll his eyes.

The fact that Wooyoung excused himself from LEGO night—to go drinking with Jongho and Yeosang—has been both a disappointment and a relief. The first, because San has come full circle from Koh Samui, wanting Wooyoung around at all times. The second, because it delayed the kind of scrutiny Seonghwa could unintentionally put them through, hanging out in close company now that he knows.

“Next time,” San says, and Mingi snores again as if to back him up.

Without more texts to answer, San actually makes himself useful and the Death Star is about halfway done by the time Mingi rolls onto his side, his back facing them. He’s been tired all day and hyperactive through dinner, so the crash was imminent. Seonghwa rotates a LEGO piece in his hand—up, down, and to the side—and he lowers his voice before he speaks again, quieter than the ambient music playing from his TV screen.

“Some people noticed, San-ah,” he says. “In the video…”

San hums, already aware.

“Is that what you wanted?”

He isn’t sure.

Still of the opinion that a hair tie is simply a hair tie, he has chickened out of reading comments on the club’s socials after seeing the first mention of it; not because the comment was negative—‘what’s that on san’s wrist?? woosan??? 🤨’—but because it let him believe what he wanted to believe.

Bora hasn’t mentioned it. Wooyoung hasn’t mentioned it. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Maybe,” San says, just as quietly.

He doesn’t look up, and Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t move a single LEGO brick, frozen in thought. San’s mind, in contrast, feels eerily quiet.

There’s another topic he’s been wanting to discuss, though, something that immediately makes his cheeks heat when he remembers. He pokes Mingi in the foot, checking how deep his sleep is, and when he just groans and rolls onto his stomach, San hugs his knees to his chest.

No better time than the present.

“I invited him over next week. After the gala,” he says.

“Right.” Seonghwa nods, casual, making it all the more difficult. Because it should be casual. It could’ve been casual for a while, if San hadn’t let it grow into something special in his head.

“We haven’t—I mean, we’ve had sex. But not like—you know.”

Seonghwa chuckles. “You mean you haven’t fucked?”

“Hyung.”

San’s mouth drops, and he can see how much delight Seonghwa gets from that, how he probably had that response locked and loaded. It’s clear he’s doing it to help San out and break the ice. Succeeding, too, because San knows it’s stupid. He’s the one wanting advice, and he knows it’s just sex, and he knows it will be fine.

He just wants it to be more than that.

“Has he mentioned it?” San asks.

“Briefly,” Seonghwa admits, back to the LEGO, multitasking while San struggles to do so much as find the right words.

“What did he say?”

“That you probably needed time.”

Despite all of Seonghwa’s tact, San can see the whole conversation playing in his head: Wooyoung huffing, unsure why San keeps dragging his feet, implying they’re never gonna get there. Frustrated, unsatisfied, impatient. He’s imagined it many times.

Wooyoung gets like that if San is taking too long to text him back when he’s asked a question, or if he’s walking too slowly when Wooyoung has a clear destination in mind. He whines, he plays cold, and sometimes San does it on purpose, just to solve it with something as simple as a smile or a touch to Wooyoung’s chin.

Easy solutions for unserious scuffles.

But with this, Wooyoung has never once rushed San.

He could’ve done it any of the times they got close after the hotel incident. Whenever San couldn’t resist, fucking Wooyoung with his fingers, almost giving in. When he’d stop, remembering they had training in the morning, or when it would be the morning and they had no time to make it count. The times Wooyoung would beg him, and he’d hold San’s wrist in a vice grip, but never complain or tell San he wasn’t doing enough.

So there is San’s advice—he already knows everything he needs to know, and Seonghwa isn’t the person to talk to.

San still nods at him, smiling. “Thanks hyung.”

“What for?” Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t do—”

“You’ll rock his world, Sannie,” Mingi says out of nowhere, voice deep and scratchy from sleep. “Hwaiting!”

He shuffles, turning to lie on his back, eyes still closed. Stumped and mortified, San exchanges a quick look with Seonghwa and sees him losing it, hiding his face behind a sleeve. When he pokes Mingi’s foot again, he snores.

“Should we wake him up?” San asks.

“Nah.”

They throw a blanket over him instead, and save the rest of the LEGO for yet another night. Seonghwa keeps the songs playing in the living room, asking San to help him in the kitchen. There’s not much to do, dishes rinsed and drying, trash all sorted into Seonghwa’s neatly organised bin collection. But San goes, and he gets a mug of tea placed in front of him, Seonghwa sitting on the opposite side of the table.

“I wanted to tell you something, San-ah,” he says. “I wanted you to be the first person I told.”

San immediately feels cold with a rush of dread. The tea must be to ease Seonghwa’s own nerves, he plays with his fingers as he looks at the transparent tablecloth and ignores his own steaming mug. In the old days, San would not be the first person Seonghwa told things. Maybe the second or the third, but there was always Hongjoong. And maybe it’s just Seonghwa mirroring San’s confession in the car, maybe Seonghwa’s about to confess that he and Hongjoong have—

“I got an offer for next season,” Seonghwa says, turning the dread into an ice-cold certainty.

“Oh.” San’s fingers tighten around the mug, to the point where the contact burns, and he barely feels it. “What—what club?”

“Sevilla.”

The tea remains untouched and San just blinks into it. A good club—not the absolute cream of the crop, but there’s good money in the squad, and they’ve been transparent about wanting to reclaim some of their former reputation. Through a new manager, a new coaching team, new players. Seonghwa, apparently.

“Are you considering it?” San asks, taking a sip after all when his voice comes out hoarse.

“Yeah.” Seonghwa mimics. He sets the cup down, running a finger over the handle. “Yeah, I think I want to give it a shot.”

Perversely, all San can think about for a moment is Thailand again—their very first night, the beginnings of his Wooyoung spiral, and Seonghwa speaking into the darkness of the hotel room. It’ll be a good season, he had said. And San thought he’d made his peace with having one more good season together, come what may. Now he’s struck with reality, that peace being nothing more than San ignoring, shutting out, delaying thoughts of what comes, after.

“San-ah?”

“Sorry, hyung.” He blinks back tears, knowing they’re the last thing Seonghwa should see. “That’s really good. When did you find out?”

“Well, they already asked last year.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mention it because I—I considered it, but I didn’t want to leave. Not really. I felt content with what we have, you know? I still don’t want—” Seonghwa’s nail taps the ceramic, and he looks about two seconds away from crying, too. “I love our team. I love you. It’s not an easy decision, but you’ll be gone next year, and the team will change, and that’s how football works, right?”

San just swallows.

“I’ve been with Ulsan for so long,” Seonghwa continues. “It made me the player I am, but sometimes that’s—it’s the only club I know. And I might regret leaving, but I think I realised it would always bother me if I didn’t give it a try.” More shakily, he exhales and gives San a weak smile. “This might be my last chance.”

“I understand, hyung. You deserve it—deserve to take the shot. Really, I’m—” San reaches out, wrapping a hand around Seonghwa’s—like he would always do for him, like his fingers can actually be a source of comfort in all their stiffness. “I get it, and I think you’re right. It’s a great opportunity. You shouldn’t waste it if you feel like trying.”

“Mhm.”

Some players are content not to push, simply play for the joy of it, and others don’t want to get stuck in the same spot. Once more, San wishes he knew what he wanted: taking his own shot, or staying even if the thing he loves might become unrecognisable by next year.

He knows what others want for him, he knows what he should be wanting. But as far back as he can remember, he himself has just wanted one thing.

To play football.

And when he thinks of the last few matches, of his growing confidence, of Ulsan shooting up the rankings, of the team and Wooyoung and the joy he’s been feeling on the field, overshadowing his fears, San feels like the trophies and the acclaim really don’t matter that much. He just wants to play, like now. Now is perfect.

And the world doesn’t work like that.

They get one hug in, a painful squeeze that has Seonghwa dramatically slapping at San’s back. Misty eyes but no actual tears, because San knows that this is, ultimately, a thing to be happy about, and the goodbye is a long way off.

Not permanent.

Then Mingi wakes up with a terribly loud yawn and they break away: Seonghwa making another mug of tea, San excusing himself to the bathroom, the kitchen chat becoming their secret for the time being, but only Seonghwa’s to share.

(you):

if i start ending all my texts with a heart

will you come to the next lego night?

wooyoungie:

ㅋㅋㅋ

no

i can’t do clingy

i’ll just get the ick and leave

(you):

ah ❤️

that would be ❤️

a shame ❤️

wooyoungie:

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

SAN

stoppp it

i know what you’re doing

(you):

nothing? ❤️

wooyoungie:

you’ll keep doing that

until i agree

(you):

agree to what? ❤️

wooyoungie:

lego night??

(you):

maybe? ❤️

wooyoungie:

ㅋㅋㅋ

STOPPP

with the questions

(you):

not the hearts? ❤️

wooyoungie:

I’M BLOCKING U

byeeee

❤️‍🔥

If San takes a long time to wash his hands and face, nobody mentions it.

‿

Each time he glimpses it through the blinding stage lights, the crowd in the auditorium gives San a spike of anxiety.

It’s much smaller than those they get at matches, just over 300 people in the seats. They’re not watching with expectations of a win or stunning play, they’re simply sitting there, listening to Kyuwook-nim’s introductory speech, clapping politely after each scripted joke. But, once the speeches are over, San will have to take his place amongst the crowd. Once the programme finishes, he’ll have to mingle and entertain and be on his best club representative behaviour—which he doesn’t mind doing, not at all, except the vision of it has him preemptively exhausted.

Perhaps he should’ve accounted for that in his planning.

“—so I want to say another big thank you,” Kyuwook-nim says, holding his arms out towards the audience, “because it’s only your generosity and support that’s made the club into what it is today.”

Everyone, including the line of players standing behind him on the stage, claps at that. San lets out an encouraging whoop!, and he can hear Mingi and Wooyoung echoing it from the other end of the line. He doesn’t let himself look. He’s already made that mistake once, just after they’ve climbed onto the stage, and Jongho had to nudge him to stop staring.

San’s family is somewhere in row two, sitting right next to Bora. Wooyoung’s older brother isn’t that far away. There are multiple phones and cameras aimed upwards, recording for the press and for private clout.

“I have never shared this before, but I will be honest with you tonight: seven years ago, I really didn’t think Ulsan KQ would make it this far,” Kyuwook-nim continues. “When we rejected the Hyundai deal, everyone was giving us a year, maybe two. And I had my own doubts, even though I’ve always kept them to myself.” A few people sigh, touched, and he turns around to scan the team and various club officials, bowing to them. He then repeats the same motion towards the audience. “You have proved everyone wrong—and I couldn’t be more proud.”

Once he steps away from the mic, San makes sure to stare at a dark spot in the back of the room, unfocusing his eyes until they stop burning. Hongjoong’s voice brings him back, extending his own thank yous and doing a captain’s version of the same speech. Sincere and touching as it is, San does a good job keeping it together.

Then Hongjoong addresses the team.

“I don’t want to talk about this season—I think it’s too early for reflections,” he says, getting others to nod. “But I do want to say thank you.”

His voice turns fainter, his posture changes, and San can guess what’s coming. He zeroes in on the marigold brooch on Hongjoong’s jacket, the stage lights glinting off it.

“You’ve been—you are an incredible team to play with. You’ve made me realise that teams can be a family. And wherever your steps go from here—” Hongjoong pauses, gaze not lingering on any person in particular until he gets to Seonghwa. “I just want you to know that—uh, I feel grateful to have played with each and every one of you. And extremely honoured to have been your captain over the years.”

A few people start clapping as Hongjoong swallows, but he clears his throat and continues.

“Your hard work knows no limits, and you take up every challenge you are given, and I—I really am so thankful. To know you and—and to have played together.”

He ends it there, eyes glassy, and bows. That’s when San can’t keep himself from sniffling any longer because Hongjoong’s words, though carefully chosen, sound like a goodbye—to one person in particular, but also to something bigger than that.

San wants to laugh it off and call Hongjoong out on his antics, call everyone else ridiculous—it’s only the club’s nineteenth anniversary, not even the twentieth, and they’re not even halfway through the season, their chances of winning squarely undetermined. But Seonghwa’s voice and hands also shake when he replaces Hongjoong by the mic, reminding everyone of the raffle, and saying the winners will be announced after the main programme.

“All good?”

Wooyoung, somehow, turns up next to San as the team starts making their way down the stage, amid a final round of applause. He doesn’t touch San, but he might as well have, the way a current of nervous energy runs down his body. Don’t stare, he tries.

Once, weakly, destined to fail.

Like the rest of the team, Wooyoung is wearing a suit but the satin shirt underneath the jacket is unbuttoned, low, a silver necklace practically begging San to lose his mind. He’s got his hair down, bangs curled, eyes lined, and a sinful pinkish gloss on his lips.

All that for the gala, San tells himself, but he can’t really make himself believe it. He picked his outfit to be gala-appropriate, but it was a process severely influenced by wondering what a specific person would think. High-waisted pants and a tight shirt—Jongho told him he looked like a waiter when San arrived. But Wooyoung did a double take, so he’s clearly picked well.

“I am, yeah,” San finally makes himself speak, with delay.

Wooyoung giggles, curbing San’s embarrassment before it can even start. He gets ahead, a bounce in his step that makes San want to place a hand on his waist as he descends the stage steps. He clenches his fingers as they both head towards the same row, Wooyoung bowing to San’s parents before he shuffles further left, taking a seat next to his brother.

San’s mum squeezes his hand when he sits down, making it unfurl. His dad praises the speeches. Then he turns to Bora, continuing whatever conversation they’ve been having.

“That could be really difficult.”

“It could be,” Bora allows, unflinching. For the occasion, she’s swapped her pantsuits for a long ivory dress. “But I’m happy to take the risk.”

“I know you are, Bora-ssi.”

“Are you talking about Eunji?” San cuts in when Bora’s lips thin. Upon his father’s hum, he adds: “I’ve seen her play, appa. She is good. Seriously good.”

As promised, Bora let San know about her new client before the deal got finalised: Yoon Eunji, a seventeen-year old playing for an amateur club in Busan. All-female and clearly just a hobby for most involved, but San has seen videos that Bora’s taken of their matches, and Eunji’s talent is unmistakable.

“I’m not disproving that,” San’s dad says, carefully. “I just hope you aren’t… Setting her up for disappointment.”

“Oh, she’s very aware of how the industry works, Jongcheol-ssi,” Bora says, jaw tightening.

Before she can say any more, the stage lights dim and the MC steals everyone’s attention, announcing the first act. Gradually, San lets himself melt into his seat.

The programme only lasts about an hour, a mix of singing, dancing, and traditional music, all performed by Ulsan locals. Unlike last year, it’s a polished showcase, rehearsed and smooth-running. San doesn’t enjoy it quite as much as he had the talent-show approach: with Hongjoong and Mingi performing their own raps about the club, Jongho covering a Baekhyun song, and several members preparing—funny and less funny—skits about the team’s daily routines.

The closest they get to the same humour tonight is when Minjae and Sumin steal the mic to announce the KQ Club Awards: a segment that starts semi-serious, handing out medals for the best defender, the best goal scored, the rookie of the year. For the first time, San breaks his streak of getting the best striker, rushing up on the podium to receive a medal for the most assists. Then things devolve.

“Next up… the hype man of the year!”

Mingi wins that one, and San loses the ‘the super snacker’ award to Seonghwa. When Wooyoung wins ‘the biggest flirt’, San tries not to feel any specific way about it—just focus on the fact that the team cheers, the crowd claps, and Wooyoung laughs. They stand on opposite ends of the winners line, but after San earns another cheap medal—’all women want him, all men want to be him’, the characters barely fitting the surface—Wooyoung somehow drifts to his side.

“Relax, honey, it’s just for fun,” he says, but he doesn’t make eye contact. “I saw your mum laughing—don’t be so uptight!”

San wants to laugh, too, and point out that he is not the one plastering his hip to Wooyoung’s. At first he doesn’t because he’s endeared. Then he doesn’t because Sumin moves on to the next award—for the ‘cutest couple’—and something in San twinges.

Clearly a joke, the two matching medals wind up around Buddy-ssi and Oliv-hyung’s necks, the doctor and the PT laughing as they join the players. San smiles with the others but his heart isn’t in it; it’s not disappointment he feels, nor relief, and he doesn’t think it’s envy—there’s nothing for him to be envious of.

But still, something about it ruffles San’s feathers, making him tune out his surroundings. He only snaps back when Wooyoung tugs on one of his medals.

“What—”

“It’s over,” he says, pointing his chin to the steps on the side of the stage. “Enough spotlight for the day, hm?”

He moves, still holding onto the lanyard, pulling slightly. And then he lets go, making San falter—rushing ahead with a high cackle, he doesn’t even look back to see it happen.

San offloads both medals once he sits, and he completely checks out for the raffle portion of the night, thirty minutes of Seonghwa announcing winners and handing over prizes. He tries his best to compartmentalise, make himself look forward to the dinner. The smaller room, the five courses. But that gets him nervous about the expected socialising, and even more nervous about what comes afterwards.

Wooyoung is already looking at him when San’s eyes drift sideways, and he mouths ‘stop it’ while adjusting the collar of his shirt, making the necklace glint against his skin.

San holds back a sigh; it will be a long night.

‿

At dinner, San’s family gets seated at a table with Yunho’s.

Their parents get along well, Yunho and San spend a considerable portion of the meal discussing Inter’s current squad, and the dim light in the venue makes the room feel almost intimate.

He also has a perfect view of the table Wooyoung is sharing with his hyung and Yeosang’s family. A front row seat to everything he should be ignoring for the time being: the bob of Wooyoung’s throat as he holds eye contact, him latching onto Yeosang when he says something funny and pressing their cheeks together, him having an impassioned chat with Yeosang’s sister that has his laughter overpowering the jazzy music playing from the room’s speakers.

The rest of his family couldn’t make it, Kyungmin sick with bronchitis, and San is a little glad; he’d have to introduce himself, properly, and try to charm them, as much as he could, and he has enough nerves as is.

“But we’re off tomorrow, Sannie,” Yunho says, when San refuses a soju shot.

“I know. I would just—rather not,” San says, trying not to flush.

“Are you driving?” Yunho’s father asks, and continues when San nods: “Just get a taxi! You boys work so hard every day, it’s okay to relax every once in a while.”

“Thank you, abeonim. I know, but I’m a poor drinker.”

“What’s one shot—“

“It’s okay, San-ah,” his father says. “I’ll just stick to water, too.”

That’s what Wooyoung is having, abstaining save for a single flute of champagne. Not that San is keeping tabs. He’s just… aware.

He’s not the only one.

wooyoungie:

not drinking?

(you):

how do you know?

wooyoungie:

your face

is a normal colour

(you):

you shouldn’t stare at my face

when you’ve got other company

wooyoungie:

uhm

i’m sure u can’t relate

(you):

clearly i’m not staring

i’m texting

wooyoungie:

yah

that’s not rude at all!

(you):

you’re right

San puts his phone back inside his pocket, looking up in time to see Wooyoung send him a pointed glare. He tries to refocus on the conversation Yunho’s mum is having with his own, something about libraries. Catches Yunho smirking behind his glass, which takes all the triumph out of not having his face red from alcohol.

Slowly, as the guests finish their food and start mingling, San’s least favourite part of the night begins.

Bora gets him and introduces him to a slew of people, some familiar, some not at all. It’s a mixture of club sponsors and their relatives, some journalists, and random people who San perceives as acquaintances twice-removed from some staff or club official. It’s all harmless for the most part. Run-of-the-mill questions and quickfire introductions, San is used to it and he gets through each interaction with a polite smile.

“You clean up very well, San-ssi,” one guest catches him off guard: Sungho-ssi, San repeats the name in his head, the CEO of some startup developing a fitness app.

“Thank you,” San says, intonation rising like a question.

“Not that you don’t look good, otherwise,” the man says, unperturbed. “You suit the sweaty jersey just as well.”

A little helplessly, San looks to Bora. Busy talking to another agent, the next person in his line of sight is Wooyoung. Watching, he raises an eyebrow and turns around, just before Sungho-ssi claps San on the shoulder and launches into an elevator pitch of his app, and how San could be the perfect face once they start advertising it.

San thanks him, politely, and he gets through two more interactions before he rushes off to the restroom to restore some of his social battery. He half-expects to be interrupted on the way there, or accosted just out of the door, but no—he returns to the same buzz he had left behind, Wooyoung nowhere in sight, Bora grabbing his arm to tug him towards another sponsor.

“Just a few more people, buddy,” she whispers under her breath, hiding it behind a smile. “Then you can pretend you’ve got a terrible headache. I’ll cover for you.”

“Thanks, noona.”

San smiles, letting himself be led. He almost stumbles when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wooyoung chatting to a girl San’s already talked to. Some kind of a lifestyle influencer, she is standing dangerously close. Batting her lashes. Making Wooyoung nod, all charm and smile lines, and a challenging smirk when he spots San looking.

“San-ah?” Bora unlinks their arms, San’s elbow around hers growing too tight.

“Sorry, I got a bit dizzy,” San lies. “From, uh—the champagne.”

Bora doesn’t seem to buy it but she also doesn’t press. “Right.”

The next person he talks to wishes San a happy scouting season. The wife of the one after that gets exceptionally handsy, making Bora intervene and shuffle them towards another journalist. San reassures him that Ulsan KQ has their eyes set on winning the tournament, and all the while, he’s looking behind the man’s shoulder.

At Wooyoung, who has lost his suit jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up and forearms on display. He’s showing off his tattoo, another guest San doesn’t recognise tracing it with her finger; San still doesn’t know if the ink means anything.

“Sannie, should we call it a day?” Bora asks him, tilting her head.

The crowd has thinned out, many of the families gone. San’s own parents bid him goodbye a while ago, returning to the hotel San has booked for them. He checks his wristwatch and sees it’s almost midnight.

“I wanted to…”

“Hm?”

“I wanted you to talk to Wooyoung.”

Bora’s brief confusion morphs into something resembling pity. “Next time, buddy,” she says. “He seems busy.”

He does, but San can’t exactly tell her that it’s all pretend. That Wooyoung is only flirting with the guests to rile him up, that he’s flapping the collar of his shirt to make San snap. That he’s turning the gala into a perverted kind of a game that San is willingly participating in. Enjoying.

“Next time,” he says, and he goes to see her off.

It’s surprisingly warm out, reminding San that they’re not that far off from the seasonal summer break. Which reminds him of the call-ups, but he doesn’t want to think about work. The whole evening has been about football, but San prefers playing it to talking about it, and he’s ready to have a break from both. He claps the roof of Bora’s cab before it drives off, waving.

He’s barely back inside when Hyunwoo steps into his way. “Sannie-hyung! Are you coming with us?”

“Coming where?”

“We’re going clubbing.”

“We?”

“Seonghwa-hyung, Wooyoungie-hyung, Minjae and…”

Visibly tipsy, he starts counting off other players on his finger, and several teammates gather around them to try and get San to tag along. Wooyoung turns up last, terribly smug. His lips shimmer like he’s just reapplied the gloss from earlier, the veins on his forearms pop when he crosses his arms.

“You’re going clubbing?” San asks.

“Should be fun.” Wooyoung shrugs.

“But we—”

“You should join, Sannie.”

San thinks. Waits. Recognises the well worn pattern: hook, line and sinker.

If San says yes, he knows exactly what the next hour of his life will entail. He’s not the best dancer, having some semblance of a rhythm in his moves but too much unpractised awkwardness to actually enjoy the club. It will be loud, it will be hot, and Wooyoung will make him suffer. Because he is a good dancer, and how better to show that off than by dancing with teammates and strangers, taking the game a step further and watching San stew in his own sweat.

But if he says no, San loses.

“I think you should go home,” he says.

“Oh, come on!” Wooyoung grins. “Don’t be a spoilsport, San-ah! It’s early. We don’t have training tomorrow anyway, and—”

“I’ll drop you off,” San says, and he does his best to ignore Wooyoung for the time being, saying goodbye to the others, waving at different teammates spread across the room.

When he starts heading out the door, he briefly thinks he might’ve misfired and now he’ll have to drive himself home, alone, in shame. He would rather go to the club than imagine it from the confines of his house, wondering where exactly he’d screwed things up. But soon, he hears Wooyoung’s laughter trailing after him, syncopated steps and a shoulder bumping into his.

“I was starting to think,” Wooyoung mutters around his grin, “that you’d never break.”

“Don’t lie, Young-ah.” San rolls his eyes, even though his own smile betrays him. “You’re not good at it.”

‿

The drive to his flat is the single tensest car ride of San’s life.

Wooyoung doesn’t turn the music on, and San doesn’t even think about it until they’re halfway there, so used to Wooyoung doing it automatically. He talks for a while—about a bunch of inconsequential stuff that San tries to pay attention to: the hotel his brother is staying at, the weird seasoning in one of their dinner courses, an app he’s now using to track his water intake.

“You’re not listening,” Wooyoung says, when they’re stuck at a red light, and San almost confirms that without thinking.

Then he confirms it after thinking. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes, actually.”

He puts a hand on Wooyoung’s thigh before he can say more and it works like a charm. No more complaints, but also no more chatting, the silence making the air itself feel like it’s hissing, making San count down each traffic light and every turn. It’s the kind of disarray that he felt in the Gwangju showers, the mixture of excitement and nerves he felt the first time he picked Wooyoung up for a ‘driving lesson.’

Inevitable, because San is finally letting himself lean into all the fantasies he’s put on hold. Stupid, because he could’ve done so, weeks ago.

“And now what?” Wooyoung asks, the moment San parks the car and the silence gets impossibly heavier.

“Now we—”

“Didn’t really think this through, Sannie, did you?” he says, and he’s right.

San’s carefulness extended to recognising that getting a taxi together would be suspicious. He doesn’t live in one of the luxury high-rises with an underground carpark, nor a fancy apartment complex with private parking and a security guard. All that money, a part of him whines, and he’s never thought to rent himself a better place.

San likes his flat, though, and Wooyoung is clearly teasing.

“I knew I could count on you,” San says, shrugging, “to think of an excuse.”

He gets out without waiting for Wooyoung’s reaction, taking one deep breath before he circles the car and holds the door open for him. Making it so much worse, and San really doesn’t care. Wooyoung looks up at him with surprise, hand already on the indoor handle. His lips open like he wants to tease further. But he doesn’t, face folding with a flustered grin, nodding to himself as he follows San’s lead and steps out of the car.

His building does have a management desk, but San knows there’s a foldout bed behind the counter and an unspoken expectation of not disturbing after ten. Bora wouldn’t be happy if she knew, and San has never bothered to share. He is happy for the fact, rushing Wooyoung through the lobby with a hand on the small of his back, both hands on his waist by the time they reach the elevator.

“San-ah,” Wooyoung says.

“Hm?”

Looking like he wants to continue, he doesn’t. He puts one palm on top of San’s, wrinkling his own suit jacket. The elevator dings just in time.

“Which floor?”

San doesn’t answer, still holding on, bothered by the mere fact he has to let go of Wooyoung’s waist long enough to press the floor number. Nine, he brings himself to do it, and Wooyoung’s sides tremble with a muted laugh.

“Did you choose that? On purpose?” he asks.

“What?”

San is glad he didn’t get swayed into drinking, even a single shot would’ve been dangerous. His brain already feels compromised, his cheeks must already be red.

“Number nine,” Wooyoung says, just as they arrive and the robotic voice in the elevator repeats the number for emphasis. “Because you were—”

“No!” San’s fingers spasm, making Wooyoung laugh harder. “No, I didn’t even realise—”

“So it was fate all along,” Wooyoung says, letting San guide him out into the corridor, lowering his voice just the slightest bit. “And I ruined it for you.”

San’s stomach churns at that and his throat works, ready to protest. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come, though, that there’s no hurt on Wooyoung’s face and zero ill intent. It’s just another joke, making it through Wooyoung’s selective filter, his way of dealing with whatever nerves he might be feeling, an encouraging sign if San was to look for one.

And still, his voice comes out too serious when he answers: “You didn’t ruin anything.”

He lets go of Wooyoung once they’re at his door, punching in the six-digit code and watching Wooyoung grin at the sound of the happy jingle that the door welcomes them with. The lights inside turn on automatically—one of the tech indulgences of the flat’s previous owners, the other being an electric oven that San never uses and a really nice sound system—and San wishes they didn’t.

It’s too mundane. The lights are too bright. Wooyoung toes of his shoes and steps inside his flat like he’s visiting for a viewing, throwing quick glances around the place and almost berating San for his slowness with a raised brow. He doesn’t need an invitation to fold himself onto San’s sofa, knees knocking together and throat bared, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Comfy,” he says, patting the sofa and closing his eyes. “Do you have a spare blanket?”

“Young-ah.”

“What?” He opens one, innocent. “It’s fine if you don’t, I guess. I’m so tired already, I can just sleep—oy! Choi San! Don’t—”

His yelp rises into giggles, an absolute torrent of them that San feels to the very bottom of his heart. It’s easy when he’s got Wooyoung in his arms, lifting him up from the sofa in an awkward carry that becomes less awkward once Wooyoung stops play-fighting and San can readjust.

“Put me down!” Wooyoung tries.

“Sure,” San says, pretending to do just that, but Wooyoung’s arms tighten around his neck.

“No, don’t—!”

“Thought so.”

Maybe waiting wasn’t that stupid after all, San revises, once he finds the seam of Wooyoung’s lips and lets himself in. His gloss tastes like strawberries and his mouth is hot and sloppy right from the start. It’s easy, even when San is holding two people afloat. Because Wooyoung is the person he’s kissed the most, and he’s the person San wants the most. With all the romantic cliches, carrying Wooyoung to his bedroom included.

They kiss on the way there, slowly, and they kiss through the door, Wooyoung’s foot accidentally hitting the frame and the kiss breaking in favour of more laughter. San doesn’t get a chance to feel bad about it. Wooyoung nuzzles his neck and presses a messy constellation of kisses from there up to San’s ear.

“Put me down?” he asks this time. “Please?”

San does, and he’s immediately rewarded—Wooyoung finding his footing only to kiss him even deeper, even messier. San’s hand finds his nape and Wooyoung’s presses against his jaw, the rings digging into his skin. San can’t taste the champagne on Wooyoung’s tongue but, after a few minutes of that, just kissing, he feels drunk on it. Like if he wanted to lift Wooyoung up, now, he’d be setting them both up for a nasty injury.

“You’re wearing too much,” Wooyoung says when they next break apart.

“So help me,” San says, but he is the one helping Wooyoung shrug off the suit jacket, fingers toying with the few buttons of the satin shirt that are still doing their job.

“Be careful,” Wooyoung says, “it’s designer.”

He’s clearly kidding, but San listens, demonstratively popping a button off his own shirt. It flies somewhere towards the bed, rolling across the hardwood floor, and Wooyoung cackles but the sound dies out quickly—with more of San’s chest bared, with him already working on his belt buckle. Wooyoung slaps his hands away. Like he wants to have it both ways, undressing San while also wanting to enjoy the show, pulling at San’s trousers but only getting them down to his thighs.

“Are you sure you don’t need help with that?” San asks, giving Wooyoung’s shirt one soft tug.

“Positive,” Wooyoung says, but once the shirt is off, he’s happy to let San deal with the rest, and happier yet to make him work for it. He turns so that his back presses against San’s front, takes decisive steps towards the bed while San unzips his fly. Pushes his head back on San’s shoulder to distract him, a complete low blow, with his throat right there and unmarked and two days off for San to use to his advantage.

Later, he tells himself.

They have time, today and tomorrow, and he resists Wooyoung’s cheap shot with only a single kiss pressed against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Trousers gone, his knees knock against the back of Wooyoung’s legs, hands back to holding his waist. San walks until the bed is right there—fresh sheets that San’s pulled out for the occasion, completely irrelevant in their current predicament.

Wooyoung’s knees hit the mattress and San holds. Waits. Doesn’t push Wooyoung forward, just splays his hands over his chest and lets them rise and fall with Wooyoung’s breath, squeezing gently.

“San-ah,” Wooyoung says, considerably more gruff than before, “how do you want me?”

“Really badly.”

He snorts. “That’s not what I mean, dummy.”

“I know,” San says, and he leaves it at that. If he were to continue, he’d say something sappy—like ‘however you’d let me have you’ or ‘any way you choose’—but he doesn’t see the point in it. It’s implicit: in the way his dick is already half-hard and he’s just letting it rest against Wooyoung’s ass, waiting, only nudging forward when he feels Wooyoung pressing back. In the balance of his restraint and his desire, his muscles tense with it, his voice silly with it.

“Okay,” Wooyoung says, and then repeats it again. “Okay.”

He turns and sits on the edge of the bed, almost making San tumble forward without the support. But he resists, and Wooyoung makes quick work of pulling San’s boxers out of the way, kissing his hipbone and inhaling, casting an almost grateful glance up when San’s hand finds the crown of his head.

Encouraged, he continues his path downwards—hands gripping San’s waist for a change as he kisses down San’s cock, just a fleeting brush of his lips, already red, most of the lipgloss gone or smeared over the edges. San licks it off his own mouth, instinctively. He bites into his bottom lip when Wooyoung drags his tongue up. Envelops San in the heat of his mouth for exactly long enough to have his hand threading through his hair, and then slides off, straightening up.

“Hey—no—”

“Do you want a blowjob, San-ah?” Wooyoung asks, tilting his head. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

“Honestly?” Chuckling at the crassness, San chooses to be honest. “Both.”

“Now, when did you get so greedy?” Wooyoung moves back on the bed, stripping out of his own briefs. All confidence and ease, like they’ve done this before. And they have, but never with the same expected outcome, never with Wooyoung blushing as the confidence flickers with his next words: “You can convince me later but now—I want you to fuck me.”

The words make San’s throat feel dry, despite the fact that he knows, despite the onset of Wooyoung’s shyness, and despite how cute it is. “You do?”

“Oh my god! Are you not—”

“Can you ask for it?”

“I’m literally asking for it,” Wooyoung laughs, but instead of letting the frustration pester, he just pulls San down.

On the mattress, on top of himself. Wooyoung brings their mouths together again, their chests touch, their cocks brush. San feels almost silly for wanting more but he does, he wants it so bad his skin is already burning with it.

But, they have time.

So he cages Wooyoung against his pillow as he kisses down his throat, all the ridges and the veins, the bump of his Adam’s apple and the tiny razor cut under his jawline. He kisses Wooyoung’s nipples and his ribs, the tattoo that stretches across them, and then his stomach. He intertwines their fingers so that Wooyoung can’t pelt him with his impatience, left at San’s mercy. Willing to be, for the most part.

San nudges his nose into the skin just above Wooyoung’s belly button, ignoring the stiffness to the right, and he breathes him in. It's San’s favourite smell, second to the perfume, just Wooyoung.

“San-ah, please,” Wooyoung says, tugging his head up by the hair, forcing San to look him in the eyes and trying to rouse pity. “Can you at least—get your fingers inside? I’m struggling here.”

“You’re fine,” San says, playfully, but he’s weak for that gaze and for anything Wooyoung asks.

Even when it gets him conned.

The moment his back is turned, getting the lube and the condoms, Wooyoung pounces on his chance. On San, quite literally: he finds himself on his back, a tiny disbelieving breath falling out of him when Wooyoung straddles him and pushes him down by the chest, smug as can be. Once he gets his bearings, San could flip them at any moment. But Wooyoung knows that, and so he acts fast.

He steals the lube. He uncaps it. He lets it drip down his hand, cool splatters making San’s stomach contract, and then his hand disappears and his eyes scrunch up.

“I wanted to do it,” San says, pouting.

“Sorry, I don’t trust you,” Wooyoung says on an exhale and then he swallows it back with a hiss, almost panicked. “To not—to not get distracted.”

Wanting to smile, San pouts harder. “I can’t even see anything.”

“My face not enough for you?”

“I love your face.”

He only processes his own words when he sees Wooyoung reacting to them: his smile wobbling, palm coming to cup San’s cheek, pressing a kiss to his sulky mouth. “One finger, yeah?” he asks, brushing his nose against San’s. “Since you’re such a sweet talker.”

That isn’t why San said what he did, but he wouldn’t take the words back anyway. He eagerly rises up to the deal, smearing his index finger with lube and brushing it down the cleft of Wooyoung’s ass, to where his own hand stills, waiting. He circles the rim, prods weakly at the spot where Wooyoung’s finger rests. Half-expects Wooyoung to bite his shoulder in frustration, complain about getting a cramp or rescind his offer. But he doesn’t, and when San finally pushes in, Wooyoung’s stuttered breath falls directly into San’s mouth.

Wooyoung is tight, and he doesn’t go easy on himself. Once San’s finger dips in fully, to the knuckle, he feels every twitch and every counter-push, Wooyoung setting up a pace that he wordlessly dares him to match. He grinds against San with the motion, seems to dip further with each thrust. As soon as the pressure starts to ebb, Wooyoung adds another finger, sinking back on it.

San really wishes he could see.

He wants to see how Wooyoung takes them—the both of them—how easily he adjusts to the intrusion and flutters in time with his little whines. But his face is right there, flushed and starting to shimmer with a sheen of sweat. San’s free hand brushes the hair out of his eyes, bringing their foreheads together.

“You ready, baby?” he asks.

“Born ready,” Wooyoung says, and then he cringes, and he pulls his fingers out with a loud squelching sound. Too fast, he straightens up to gaze at San, addressing his laughter with a raised eyebrow: “You just want to leave that in there or?”

“Sure,” San jokes, but follows suit with a gentle pat to Wooyoung’s ass. “Okay, let me—”

“I wanna ride you,” Wooyoung speaks over him, pushing on his chest again.

“Oh.”

San’s brain turns into mush and his mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, dumbly. He’s gone for a moment, lost to the world in his onslaught of images: Wooyoung on top of him, Wooyoung riding him, Wooyoung stretching above him with his perky nipples and his golden skin and—

“So that you don’t chicken out,” Wooyoung brings him back, smirking.

“Do I look like I want to—” San pauses, clears his throat, and speaks again “—like I want to chicken out?”

“You look like you can’t tell left from right.”

“I can tell you’re saying all that just because you’re nervous.”

“Who’s nervous?” Wooyoung asks, with a very nervous-sounding chuckle.

As if to redeem himself, he fists the base of San’s cock. Two slow strokes and he looks at the box of condoms, his intent clear. San doesn’t have it in himself to bicker any more. Doesn’t want to. He gets one and tears the packaging open, helps Wooyoung roll it down his length. Then he caresses Wooyoung’s side as he waits and lets himself stare, openly and unapologetically: at the way Wooyoung’s thighs flex, the pink of his neglected cock, his forearm tattoo, up close and personal.

San brushes a finger over the black arrow but doesn’t make it further than that—Wooyoung lines himself up, teases San’s cock over his entrance exactly once, and then just presses down. It’s an overwhelming pressure, a delicious heat, nothing quite like what San’s felt before. Both of them hold their breath until Wooyoung bottoms out, and then they both break at the same time: San, grinding upwards without realising; Wooyoung, his moan pitching higher mid-way.

“San-ah!”

Just like with the fingers, Wooyoung quickly finds a punishing rhythm. He pulls up and lets himself drop, doing all the work, like he really doesn’t think San is up for the part. He’s probably right; for the first couple of moments, San can just feel. Not think, he struggles to form a single coherent thought.

At last, he thrusts up, meeting Wooyoung halfway. He clenches around San and folds, bringing their faces close. “Worth the wait?” he asks.

“No.”

“No?”

Wooyoung stops, and San desperately chases after him, grinding upwards. “Shouldn’t have—waited,” he says. “You feel so perfect.”

“Yeah?” Mollified, Wooyoung returns to his previous pace. Speeds it up. His cock bounces against his tummy and San reaches for it, but Wooyoung slaps his hand away. “No, no! I—aha—” his ass meets San’s balls again, voice strained “—you feel good, too.”

“Just good?” San baits.

“Pretty good.”

“Damn.”

Hips bucking up, Wooyoung laughs in the face of his increased enthusiasm—but not for long. He soon falls into more whines, sweat beading at the top of his forehead and making his hair stick to it. He’s too far to kiss but at the same time he’s everywhere, and a stupid thought flashes through San’s mind that Wooyoung isn’t just the person he has kissed the most.

In a way, unlike others, he’s the person San knows the most.

Not the person he knows the best, there are still many parts of Wooyoung that feel out of reach. But San wants to keep reaching for them, gathering them, learning bit by bit. The most, because the want feels all-consuming. The most, because he’s already seen parts of San that nobody else has.

“Were you jealous, San-ah?” Wooyoung asks—whispers—against San’s cheek after a short silence. “At the gala?”

There’s no point to the question, and none to lying. “Yes.”

“You’re just admitting it?”

San would shrug, if any of this felt casual in the slightest. He was jealous, like always, like he’s accepted himself to be. But he was also happy to see Wooyoung charming his way through the room of people, to see them laughing at his jokes and wanting his attention. He’s so easy to like, he deserves it; San had failed to see it, way back when, fixated on his silly pride.

But he also felt a different kind of pride at the gala tonight, perhaps unduly: to know that he’s been the cause of so much of Wooyoung’s recent laughter, to have been given a second chance, to be the one sharing a secret with him. Taking him home.

“You knew already,” San says.

“I did.” He can feel Wooyoung’s lips stretch into a smile, they tickle him by the ear and then surprise him with a kiss. “I was jealous, too.” He hides in San’s shoulder and San bucks up again, now left to do all the work. Wooyoung just talks him through it: “But you know that, right? That I get jealous when you ditch me for your agent?”

“I don’t—”

“When you talk to your fans and they all just ogle you. When your Instagram is full of people saying they want to date you. When you kiss Yeosangie on the cheek and smile—” he pokes San in the cheek, where the dimple must be visible “—like this at random baristas and reporters and—”

He doesn’t get the time to finish, San’s arms sneaking under his legs and turning them over. It makes his cock slip out, which makes Wooyoung whine, but San misses the feel of him too much to take advantage. He drives back in, one deep stroke, and Wooyoung’s arms lock around his back, his fingers dig into the skin.

“You don’t have to be,” San says.

“What—”

“Jealous.” He snaps his hips again, grateful for the angle and its newfound stability. It makes San’s moves more purposeful, more calculated. He can see how each well-aimed thrust robs Wooyoung of his breath.

“You know that’s not—” Wooyoung stops to swallow “—that’s not how it works.”

Biting into his lower lip, he looks like he’s on the verge of splitting it and drawing blood. San leans down to stop him, brushing his tongue over the indent of teeth.

“I know,” San says, making Wooyoung spasm. “I know, but they’re not—not you.”

“You only want me?” Wooyoung asks.

“Yeah.”

“Say it, then.”

“Just you.” San leans up to look at him but the sight is almost too crushing to take: Wooyoung’s hair splayed out, mouth open in a silent plea, eyes glassy. His legs tremble, hooked over San’s shoulders, and he kisses Wooyoung’s knee, then the shin he once bruised, then the ankle. “I just want you.”

With a cut-off moan, Wooyoung’s back arches and he comes. Untouched. Without a warning. He paints his own belly with the white streaks, mumbling something intelligible, pulling San impossibly deeper. Belatedly, he repeats San’s name like he is telling him not to stop: San-ah, Sannie, baby, please.

San listens, though he’s a bit more gentle now, aware of Wooyoung’s oversensitivity. He clamps down on San’s cock with each stroke, his nails might leave marks. It doesn’t take much. San raises himself up to his knees, grips the meat of Wooyoung’s thighs, cants his hips down once, twice.

He comes with a choked cry, the orgasm ripping through him with enough strength to make San feel like he’s trying to breathe underwater. Except it’s euphoric. His entire body tingles with it, his arms shake in a way that should be humiliating but he can’t perceive it, Wooyoung looks at him like he only sees San and—in that moment, it must be the truth.

“You did so well, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, and the single bit of praise is enough to kickstart San’s brain again.

Just like his shaking arms, maybe it should be pathetic; but Wooyoung says it earnestly, he isn’t patronising. He leans up for the kiss he must see coming and San melts into him, intent on distracting him, kissing him while he slips his cock out to soften the sudden emptiness.

Valiant as the plan is, it doesn’t work.

“Don’t do that,” Wooyoung says, arms latching onto his shoulders again.

“Do what?” San laughs.

Wooyoung’s mouth moves but his voice doesn’t come. He looks sideways, and San softly grabs his chin, forcing him to look back.

“Do what?”

“Leave,” Wooyoung says, almost inaudibly. He clears his throat. Looks down at where San’s fingers rest, tilting his head up, and smirks. “We’re not stopping at this.”

“We’re not?” San just smiles.

“Took you weeks. Months.” Demonstratively, Wooyoung grabs him by the ass and squeezes. “Who knows when I’ll get you to fuck me next.”

“Anytime you want.”

“Anytime?” Wooyoung laughs and pulls him forward, like he’s saying now. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Choi San.”

San nods. The condom is starting to feel uncomfortable, he can feel his own sweat drying on his back. He’s not against a second round, if Wooyoung can only make it through an interlude. “I only make promises that I mean.”

Wooyoung considers him, mischief spreading all over his features. “Before a game, then. Will you fuck me?”

San’s face falls. “Anytime that won’t compromise—”

“Aish!” Wooyoung cackles, right into his frown. “See? You’re already breaking the promise.”

“You’re making me break it,” San says, equal parts fondness and exasperation.

“I just asked a question.”

“And you knew it was a stupid one.”

Wooyoung puckers up his lips like he’s daring San to be mad about it. San isn’t, so he just watches. Waits for Wooyoung to stop and then pecks his mouth. His throat. His clavicle. San stays there a while, laving kisses over the bone, and he almost thinks he’s won. Wooyoung lets him get away with it, just petting his hair, just laying there.

“In the showers,” Wooyoung says, a little too loud and overexcited, like the thought has just hit him and he immediately had to share the ingenuity. “Will you fuck me in the showers? Next time we win?”

San doesn’t even bother looking up, grinning into Wooyoung’s collarbone. “Sure, baby,” he says. “I’ll fuck you in the club bathroom if that’s what you want.”

‿

Having grown completely used to his pre-dawn gym sessions, San wakes up first the next morning, not needing an alarm. All he does, though, is crack one eye open, look at the back of Wooyoung’s head, and tighten his arms around his waist.

He sleeps some more.

The second time he wakes up, he’s being stared at. San is equally as slow then, opening his eyes and reacting to the instinctive sensation of being watched. Just a crack, to confirm, determined to pretend for a little longer and either fall back asleep or get Wooyoung to implement more drastic measures.

But, he must smile and give himself away.

“We should shower,” Wooyoung says, voice deeper with disuse the way it gets first thing in the morning.

San hums and doesn’t move a muscle. “We should sleep.”

He intends to carry on like that, closing his eyes again and relishing the rarity of this: not just a morning where he can completely forgo his routines and block out the outside world, but having Wooyoung in his bed for once. Having him in the flat San’s cleaned for the visit, plushies and embarrassing clutter stashed away, curtain rod fixed after months of ignoring it.

For the foreseeable future, or at least for as long as he doesn’t let Wooyoung go.

A sudden premonition at the thought, he moves just in time to catch Wooyoung’s hands—before they reach their target, before they can tickle his skin and make San jump.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, holding them down in fists against Wooyoung’s own chest.

“Think about what?”

His voice fails to sound innocent whatsoever, and San doesn’t say more; but he lets his guard down too easily. Although Wooyoung’s hands might be out of action, his feet aren’t. He tickles San’s ankle, his calf, and breaks out into laughter at San’s poor attempt to stop him while keeping the hands where they are.

It takes a minute or two, some biting, and a couple of loud shrieks that probably spook the neighbours, but San comes out victorious: he holds Woooyoung to his chest, arms folded over his, legs tangled into stillness. That’s his reward, he supposes.

That, and a moment of silence to close his eyes again, even though San knows it won’t last.

“We should have breakfast,” Wooyoung says, probably angling his face down on purpose, just to be a little shit and try to tickle San’s arm with his breath.

“We should sleep,” San says.

“Did I tire you out so badly?”

Not bothering with a reply, San just stares at the two silver rings in Wooyoung’s ear. He wishes he had a third hand to grab Wooyoung’s chin and stop him from blowing air at his wrist. He could also just flip him over and lay on top, a weighted blanket that Wooyoung could fight but not topple. But that wouldn’t be comfortable. It wouldn’t be fair.

“Or you just don’t have anything in the fridge?” Wooyoung continues, now craning his neck so that he can tease San directly to his face. “Is that it? You don’t want me to see that you have nothing but protein drinks and pre-cooked eggs in there?”

The opposite is the truth—San has made sure to stock up on groceries two days ago, the fridge’s first time seeing the likes of lettuce and fresh tomatoes, a full bottle of fish sauce that San’s never going to use up on his own, or the kind of plain white yogurt San would never buy but Wooyoung likes.

He doesn’t give in.

“Maybe there’s nothing in there,” Wooyoung muses. “Maybe you just survive off of takeout and whiskey.”

“What—”

“I saw that collection in your living room, San-ah. Can’t believe you’ve been pretending to be a lightweight all this time. That must be worth—what, ten million won? At least? Just that bottle of Macallan Cherry—”

“I just like collecting them,” San says. “The bottles are pretty.”

“They’re for drinking.”

“You can drink them. When you come over.”

“Aigoo!”

Wooyoung’s sigh is big and rumbling but, somehow, his attempts to break out of San’s hold fizzle out alongside it. His body relaxes, he puts his head back on the pillow. He starts to breathe in the same pattern of inhales and exhales as San, also matching his silence.

San doesn’t know how long they stay like that. He doesn’t think he falls asleep again. Risking another tickling attack but not expecting it, he rolls onto his back and loosens his arms, letting Wooyoung settle on his shoulder. Intertwining their fingers, San lifts his right hand, holding the forearm tattoo up to the dim morning light that squeezes in through the blinds.

“What does it mean?” he asks, quietly.

“Hm?”

“The tattoo?”

Taking a moment to clear his throat, Wooyoung looks in the same direction as he answers. “It’s, uh—a reminder. Of sorts.”

“A reminder?”

“Of how far I’ve come,” he continues with a grimace. “Yeah, that sounds so fucking cheesy but—it’s just so that I remember. Not to put limits on myself. A reminder that I can always find a way.”

San traces the tattoo with his eyes first, then follows it up with his index finger. The outline of the flames, the tip of the arrow, the uneven squares of the net. Something tells him this isn’t the explanation Wooyoung gave the girl at the gala last night. Something else tells him Wooyoung is about to dismiss it and change the topic, so San doesn’t let him.

“I love that a lot,” he says, still brushing his fingertip over the tender skin, watching the touch raise goosebumps on Wooyoung’s arm. “It’s very… you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

Wooyoung laughs at him but seems to accept the meagre explanation. He twists his head to look at San, suddenly curious. “Have you ever thought about getting one?”

“What? A tattoo?” At his hum, San shakes his head. “No, I—I don’t think there’s anything I’d want to have on my skin like that. For the rest of my life.”

“You could get something club-related,” Wooyoung says, casually. “You know, like a tribute? Since you love it so much.”

His words, however innocent and well-intentioned, feel like the flaming arrow has flown from Wooyoung’s skin and lodged itself into San’s chest. He frowns at the ceiling. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s tighter, without him realising.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because this—clubs—they don’t last forever.” Licking his lips, he tries to explain himself better: “I’m not saying the club is going to collapse just—I’m not going to be here forever. In this team, like this. It can’t—it’s not how—”

His voice reaches its limits, San’s thoughts bump against the invisible barrier in his mind. His throat works and he blinks at the ceiling, then at the window, then at Wooyoung’s face.

Where he expects to be rebuffed out of sympathy, Wooyoung just nods. “Yeah, it’s not how it works,” he says, and then continues before San can react: “But it could be a reminder for you, too. Like a memory of the good times? A reminder of—all the good things that happened. The ones you associate with the team.”

San hums. He understands the sentiment, perfectly. He can’t quite accept it.

“I’m not saying you need to get a tattoo, Sannie, I just—”

“Do you think it’s stupid?” San interrupts. “To be so attached? To a team?”

“No.”

Despite the speed of his reply, Wooyoung’s expression turns more complicated. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, studies San’s own face with careful consideration like he’s trying to measure how much honesty San can take.

None, San thinks, but he needs it all.

“I don’t even know when it started,” San says, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It feels painful. His saliva tastes like the worst kind of alcohol, the kind that stings his throat and his brain. “By the time I was in high school, I just felt like it was a given. Because I loved playing football and I was good at it. So I wanted to play in K1, and then the national team, and then get scouted and be one of those players—like Park Jisung, you know?”

He pauses for a moment, just to wait for Wooyoung’s hum.

“I wanted to be a player that kids would look up to, someone who’d get them to give football a try and fall in love with it. Someone that Korea could cheer for—that Choi San, he’s from Namhae but he’s made it. He really beat the odds, just like his father wanted—”

Wooyoung opens his mouth but no sound comes out. San can guess what he’s trying to ask anyway.

“Wait, no—I don't mean it that way!” he says. “Appa didn’t force me into this, it’s always been my own dream. And he has—I started playing because of him, yeah, but he’s always made it clear I could be anything I wanted. And this is what I wanted. It’s still—” His nostrils flare and San pushes on. “Sometimes, he gets a bit detached, and I wonder if he regrets it. But I’m just grateful he helped me figure it out so early. That I could have him as a role model.”

“I know that,” Wooyoung says. “I’m sure he knows that, too.”

“I hope so.”

“But you—”

“But I don’t know when it changed. At some point, it did, and I started thinking of it less as my own dream and more like it’s an expectation?” San says, asks. He hates how the word sounds and how his voice grows fainter with it. “Because I am good. And I love football. And I love the challenge of it, and the rush of a big win, and the opportunities—”

“You don’t owe your future to anyone, San-ah.”

“I know.”

“Not to your dad, not to your agent. But not to Ulsan KQ, either.”

“I know.”

“You only owe it to yourself,” Wooyoung says, and, obviously helpless for some levity, he pulls at San’s cheek with his free hand, tugging his lips into a lopsided smile. “To be happy, yeah?”

San knows that. He also knows that he could be happy—if he left the team and played elsewhere, he would ultimately find a way to be happy. As long as he could keep playing, as long as his body let him and he kept finding new ways to push himself. Because, most of the time, football is the thing that makes him happiest.

Not all the time, though.

He feels his cheek dimple, the longer he looks at Wooyoung. He evens out his smile. “Well, right now,” he cheeses, “I do feel really happy.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. He tugs his other hand free to puff up both of San’s cheeks, kissing him. Softly, softly, and then one deeper press before he breaks away. Like a kettle that’s about to blow up, his lips twitch with unspoken words and then open to a flood of them.

“I don’t think it’s stupid to—ah, be attached. It’s not stupid. But it’s also—“ He sits up, twisting to the side, brushing his hair away to point at the tattoo on his nape. “I got this when I joined Seoul Jungnang.” I’m never alone and I will never be, San knows the letters perfectly well, convinced he could even replicate the calligraphy. “Because I missed my friends and I missed my family. I felt—alone, but I told myself I didn’t have to be. Because the world is full of good people and I’m not a bad person, either, so I would always find them. My people.”

San almost reaches out but stops himself, sensing that Wooyoung isn’t done. True enough, he shifts again, letting the bedsheet fall off so that he can point at his ribs. “I got this one when I joined Suwon.”

Sin prosa sin pausa, it’s embarrassing how early in their acquaintance San looked up the meaning.

“And I hate it, honestly.” Wooyoung’s entire face scrunches up with distaste. “First, because it’s fucking misspelled,” he says, heaving a big sigh. “But also because the whole point was to remind myself to go slow, yeah? And I didn’t. I fucked up my ankle while I was playing for Suwon, just because I wanted to prove something. And then I did the same thing in Gimpo, like, not even learning from it.”

He pulls at the skin, a bit too tight for San’s liking. He lets himself reach out this time, brushing his thumb over the tattoo and hoping the touch is grounding.

“What happened in Suwon?” San asks.

Carefully, he’s still a bit scared despite knowing that Wooyoung is going to share. That is what he’s doing with this whole talk—laying out the meaning of his tattoos like each is a new vulnerability, exposed to mirror San’s own admissions. He has his suspicions about Suwon, and even more about Gimpo. Ones based on Wooyoung’s own hints and actions, and ones based on his own paranoia; at least San hopes it’s just that.

Wooyoung fists his hands in the sheet before he speaks. “It kinda started in Seoul, really. I got on the management’s bad side because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. You’ve heard all of that. And the team was great, honestly, but—the expectations were just unrealistic. They started messing with our contracts, midway through the season. Said the losses were the players’ responsibility so we’d have to pay up for each. And when they couldn’t really do that, legally, they found other ways.”

“They bullied the players?”

“Not directly, no.” Wooyoung shakes his head. “But a lot of my teammates got terrible things spread about them. Threats of getting blacklisted. I knew I was going to Suwon by the time I spoke up, but that was so fucking naive of me. To think that would be it.”

“Why?”

“Because even terrible people have friends.”

Wooyoung could leave it at that—the words and his wince tell San just enough to fill in the blanks. But he doesn’t. He pokes at his ribs again.

“So I got this, and a third-degree ankle sprain that I didn’t let heal properly—” he ignores San’s little gasp “—and someone more than happy to look for rumours to spread. To find a reason.”

All because of football, San thinks, and all he wants is to hold Wooyoung again. Like that could help anything, erase whatever regrets he’s carrying and make sure he got treated the way he deserved. Kindly. Not even San had treated him kindly, when faced with his own insecurities. He watches Wooyoung’s eyes well up and feels the sting in his own, watches Wooyoung rub the tears away and softly thumbs at the tattoo.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, not budging.

He says the same words in his head as he unfurls one of Wooyoung’s fists and then kisses the forearm tattoo, again when he brushes his lips over the ink on Wooyoung’s ribs. It’s the opposite of how he’s always kissed it before—not heated, not trying to speak of his desire—and San knows that bruises can’t be kissed better but he still feels obliged to try.

Until Wooyoung makes a cut-off sound that’s half a laugh, then again once they squeeze into San’s shower. He kisses Wooyoung’s nape tattoo, too, when he leans forward to rinse shampoo out of his hair. And again, when he opens the wardrobe for Wooyoung to choose whatever he wants to wear, then rushes into the kitchen to prove his fridge is not the disaster Wooyoung’s alluded to.

He’s lining up a bunch of breakfast-adjacent ingredients when Wooyoung walks in, and San almost drops the tub of blueberries to the floor.

“What?” Wooyoung asks, cackling at San’s stunned form. “Is there something on my face?”

Knowing there isn’t, he turns around, just to drive the point further home: that he’s wearing one of San’s old jerseys, a CHOI with a large, conspicuous number 9 printed over Wooyoung’s back. It’s big on him, almost reaching the top of his thighs. He flails his arms in the sleeves like he’s got another joke about San’s shoulders at the tip of his tongue, and maybe he has, but he never verbalises it.

He just comes closer while San still stares.

“San-ah?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing, San shakes his head, but also everything.

Because Wooyoung is wearing his jersey and the stupid, possessive part of San could weep. Because Wooyoung is wearing his number nine, casually and happily, like he’s drawing a final line under all the trouble it has caused them in the past. Because Wooyoung, despite everything, still loves football so damn much, and he laughs with abandon at San’s stupefied form, and he crashes into San to peck his cheek.

“For the record,” he says, “the kids got it wrong.”

“Hm?”

“We’re clearly the cutest couple.”

And San realises it, then: that he’s not just benched, but he’s out of the game for good.

‿

“Oh yeah, they were doing really well—up until they messed up the fifth inning,” San says, nodding at the screen of his laptop.

His father nods back, blurry since San’s parents were still working in the garden when he called, and then they spent ten minutes showing off different vegetable patches and the new flowerbed by the main gate. It must be warm out, they’re enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine, and San is well familiar with how bad the signal gets outside. When his dad’s form freezes, he thinks it’s just that—another lag—but then he notices the trees still swaying.

“You watched the game?” he asks, and San hopes the bad connection also means his parents won’t see him flush.

“Yeah, I watched it with Wooyoungie.”

There’s nothing inherently special about admitting that, but San’s mind conjures up the full picture: Wooyoung in his jersey, doing a terrible job of accepting the Lotte loss, eventually getting the disappointment cuddled out of him. It makes San think of the whole two days they spent in his flat, of Wooyoung insisting on cooking all the meals to return San’s fridge to its natural state, San only being let out for the briefest gym session when he started bouncing off the walls, the state of San’s bed—

“Right, he’s a Lotte fan,” San’s dad says, saving his mind from further flying to places it shouldn’t be. Not with his parents watching, pixelated likeness or not. “Must’ve been a disappointing game for him.”

San smirks. “He almost cried.”

“Just like you the other week,” San’s mum says, poking his father in the ribs. “I swear, San-ah. I just got home and I saw him in the living room, looking all dejected. And I thought something terrible must’ve happened but no, his team just lost a game.”

“It was such a stupid way to lose!”

His dad goes on to describe the Lions-vs-Dinos game—which San’s heard about already from Wooyoung—and his mum indulges him for exactly a minute before she declares the end of baseball talk. She catches San up on her book club happenings, talks about Haneul’s work, then says it’s time to go inside after all.

They don’t cut the call, just settle in the living room while San’s dad swerves the conversation towards football.

“Any news about the call-ups?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

San plays with the drawstrings of his hoodie. He takes it off, suddenly too warm, as his dad hums and concedes that there’s probably another week or two before San should start getting concerned. They talk about the game in two days—Gangwon, playing the club at Ulsan Munsu again—and San’s parents apologise for having to miss it, promising they’ll be at the Jeonbuk game in two weeks. They share an odd look at one point, making San suspect that they’re not skipping the Sunday match for a community dinner, but his parents don’t lie about these things. They have no reason to.

Comforted by that, and ready to end the call, San almost chokes at his mum’s next words.

“San-ah,” she starts, with a smile that’s both amused and careful. “Are you seeing someone, honey?”

San sees his own eyes widen in the video thumbnail. He doesn’t know if the face he pulls is more shocked, confused, or incriminating. Has he given something away? Was he still so high on cloud nine from the past days, to the point his parents could tell through a call? Did he—

The truth hits him when he looks at the thumbnail a second time, and he immediately wants to dissolve from his embarrassment; there’s a hickey on his neck.

Several, actually, but the only visible is the mark by his collarbone, San has purposefully covered it up with the hoodie before starting the call. He forgot, though, and he got lured into a false sense of security, thinking his parents’ terrible garden wifi made him into little more than an animated blob.

“I—” He mulls his tongue over in his mouth, feeling like it’s grown hair and the hair is making it impossible to swallow. “I, um.”

In the past, when he was seeing someone and the topic came up with his family, San would always just dismiss it by saying it wasn’t serious—yet. Not by saying it was casual, he didn’t want his parents thinking he was just seeing someone for sex, but by implying it was too early to tell if anything would come of it, by repeating the same formula as always. Football came first, and if a relationship somehow managed to grow around it, that’s when San would share.

He finds that he can’t use any of his usual responses, this time around.

“Yeah,” San admits, trying not to look at his parents. He plays with the collar of his shirt like he can erase the memory from their minds, smooth it over. “Yes, for uh, a couple of months. It’s been—going well so far.”

Another look shared, San has probably just opened himself up to a hundred questions. He knows he can’t answer them. Neither is he completely ready, nor can he put Wooyoung on the spot without talking about it. But it’s the same impulse that has been permeating his days, the need to share something, some part of the truth, some evidence of the fact that he’s really happy.

That he’s in love.

“See?” San’s mother preens. “I swear I could tell!”

“Who is she?” San’s father asks, obviously curious and excited about this in his own right.

And just like that, San is brought back to Earth.

He pushes his thumb into the hickey like the dull pain can tell him what to do.

The part that he’s already decided is that he will come out to his parents at some point. San knows his mum will be amazing about it, always open-minded and supportive. His dad has always made it clear throughout his time at the Namhae Sports Association that sports are for everyone, and that there should be no place there for discrimination. He’s also talked to San about it, how clubs can get so toxic about something irrelevant to the game, how unfair it is and how much work there’s still to be done.

He’ll be worried once he knows, about what this means for San’s future, and San is currently too happy to let himself think about it.

At some point, not now.

“San-ah?” his mother says, considerably more cautious now after his long pause. “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“I want you to meet.” San deliberates over each word, wanting to say enough but not too much. “I want to introduce you. Properly. So—we’ll talk about it, okay? And maybe we can have… dinner? At some point?”

“Sure, honey.” Both of them nod. “Just let us know.”

Once the call is done, San can only imagine the chat his parents must be having. Even though they’ve never been the nagging kind, accepting that he put his career first, he could still see it: a hint of relief and genuine joy, like they’re glad San is finally letting himself care about something else. Someone else.

He hopes they’ll be equally as glad when they learn who the someone is.

San doesn’t think he could take it if they weren’t.

‿

The game against Gangwon marks their seventh win in a row.

It’s a good match for San—he once again manages to embody the playmaker without having to think about it. Despite his week not being restful, per se, he’s quick on his feet from the start, quick-thinking with his passes, matching Wooyoung’s own quick tempo when they line up in front of Gangwon’s box and fall into the sequence they’ve practiced.

San’s final dribble lines up with Wooyoung’s shot perfectly: they score, they smile, they do an extended version of the handshake that now includes an ass smack.

At the press meeting, after, they get sat next to each other and San initially thinks it’s a recipe for disaster—thighs brushing, stares incoming. But the worst thing that happens is them falling into a fit of laughter—one that lasts several minutes—a journalist calls Yeosang’s performance that of a ‘Doberman with outstanding gross motor skills’. Wooyoung changes his phone contact name to that, on the spot. San has to hide his face, conveniently in Wooyoung’s shoulder, when Yeosang flushes redder than the Coke can he’s holding.

With the win, Ulsan KQ secures its spot at the top of the league chart, only one point behind Jeonbuk. Bora calls to confirm there have been two scouts spotted in the stands. The team is happy and the fans are happy, San having to sign several magazines, cards, and even an umbrella after the game.

The only one not happy, though San can see just how hard he is trying to put on the mask, is their captain.

‿

Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe it’s a well-timed move: the next evening after training, San is halfway through replaying their game on the big screen of the analytics room when someone makes the image pale, opening the door.

“Hey, hyung.”

“San-ah?” Hongjoong stands in the doorway, awkwardly. He’s got his training bag, his hair is mussed up, and he doesn’t move forwards nor backwards. “I didn’t know you were here.”

San shrugs and pauses the game.

He doesn’t come to rewatch their games as often as he used to, but he’s still here at least once a week. Often enough to know that Hongjoong should know—they’ve run into each other while the captain was working with the under-21s, exchanging quick greetings in the corridors or on the field.

“Join me?” San asks, shuffling on the upholstered chair that’s suddenly grown a bit uncomfortable.

He starts the recording again before Hongjoong can refuse or accept, turning back to the screen to give him space. Slowly, the image sharpens and the door closes. Hongjoong puts his bag down and sits in the chair next to San’s, silently watching as his own likeness loses the ball in front of them, then flails as he tries to recapture it.

The Gangwon game was very nice to San and, in the same capacity, it was a terrible ninety minutes for Hongjoong. Barely holding the ball, misfiring his passes, growing impatient with himself and collecting another yellow.

Unwittingly, this time, San could sense it but he watches it replay just a couple of minutes into Hongjoong’s arrival: him tripping the Gangwon defender and his surprise upon realising, like yesterday’s Hongjoong was mentally so distant from the stadium that he had lost control over his body. Similar to their first couple of games, when he and Seonghwa started to struggle to hold the midfield together.

But they’ve been getting better.

On the field, because San thinks they’re attuned to each other in a way that they can’t switch off even if they try. And off the field, just a little, because San has seen them talking in the locker room again, and he’s seen Hongjoong taking Seonghwa aside to discuss things at trainings, and—

San gulps, putting two and two together.

On the screen, Yeosang lines the ball up for his infamous Doberman attack but San suddenly can’t find it funny. He doesn’t stop the game, just looks at Hongjoong. “Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“Hyung, you know, right?”

“Know what?” Hongjoong asks.

“That Seonghwa-hyung is going to leave.”

Hongjoong keeps looking ahead. From the shadows and the lights, San can practically see it: the team’s celebration of the goal, the crowd, the reset. It feels like it takes a whole minute for Hongjoong to do the same, to nod and slump further into his chair.

“Yeah, San-ah,” he says. “I know.”

“And how do you feel about it?”

Somehow, Hongjoong doesn’t seem to expect that question. He turns and his mouth opens, but no answer comes out. He shrugs, a bit like a child that’s been cornered but doesn’t know what else to do. “I’m happy for him,” he says at last.

“Are you?”

“Of course.” He nods to himself. “Seonghwa deserves it. Deserves—even better. Whatever he wants, he—”

“Did you do it on purpose, hyung?” San asks, a bit pointlessly. Figure out your issues or leave them off the field, that’s what Hongjoong told him, that time back in Koh Samui. The majority of the time, San considers him older and wiser—but not now. Not at all. “Did you push him away so that he would leave?”

“I didn’t—” Hongjoong’s voice cracks a little, in time with the recording’s whistle “—didn’t push him away.”

“You basically stopped talking to him.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“You know he’s—” In love with you, San doesn’t say the rest. Though he’s getting fired up, watching Hongjoong fight back tears and act all nonchalant about it, San’s still conscious it’s not his secret to tell. “He misses you. So much, hyung, he misses his best friend.”

That makes the dam break and Hongjoong pulls a sleeve over his knuckles, then uses it to dab at his eyes. His next inhale is wet and stuttery but he still shakes his head. “You don’t get it, San-ah.”

“Get what?”

“He said he didn’t want to leave. Me.” The crowd roars and Hongjoong’s lips pale, pressed together. San finally stops the video. “When we last talked about it, he said he’d rather stay here. Because I was here and—that is—I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Hyung—”

“It’s been his dream since he was a kid,” Hongjoong speaks quickly, words blending together. “He’s worked so hard for it. And he’s always been good, but the difference—in the two years I was away, he improved so much. And it’s been so nice to see him grow more confident. To see others noticing, finally. Because he deserves that. All of the praise, all of the opportunities, and I can’t—I can’t be the thing that holds him back.”

The silence that fills the room after Hongjoong’s last words feels deafening. Like when the last penalty shot misses, the determining one, and the crowd needs a moment to accept the reality. And San can’t accept the reality.

“You need to tell him the truth,” he says.

“What? I—”

“He’s his own person, hyung.” Stern as he wishes to be, San’s voice still comes out soft, more pleading than commanding. “ He can make his own decisions.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“You don’t understand, San-ah.” Hongjoong matches the tone perfectly. “I don’t want him to miss his chance and then regret it for the rest of his life.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t regret it.”

“But I’m not—”

“Maybe he cares about you more than he cares about football,” San says, finding that—somewhere along the way—he has clenched his hands into fists and they’ve now grown painful. He lets go. “And that’s not a bad thing, hyung. Don’t you—don’t you feel the same?”

Even without saying a thing, Hongjoong’s face speaks volumes. He rubs at his eyes again and brushes his hands through his hair, making it stick into all directions. San stops expecting an answer by the time he nods, incrementally. He jolts when San touches his knee, but relaxes into it after some seconds, squeezing San’s hand.

“Please talk to him, hyung,” San says.

He’s not begging Hongjoong to do it out of selfishness, expecting the overdue talk to sway Seonghwa’s decision. He might leave, he might not. The team is going to splinter nonetheless, there’s no other way for it to go. But San can’t stand the thought of Seonghwa deciding without being told the truth.

When Hongjoong nods again, San restarts the video—where the captain is caught fumbling, missing an obvious cross—like it’s both a punishment and an absolution.

‿

“This one’s my favourite, actually.”

Wooyoung turns the screen around so that San can see better, enlarging the photo so that it’s the only thing on his display: a blurry shot taken on the team bus, one of San’s eyes closed and the other open, caught midway through whatever he was explaining to Mingi at the time. It’s not a flattering photo at all—San looks possessed.

He doesn’t react to the jibe, just raises his eyebrows down at Wooyoung who’s resting on his chest. “I thought you were supposed to be good at taking photos.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wooyoung says, and he goes back to flipping through the gallery, soon so focused that his forehead creases.

It’s what he’s been doing for the better part of the last thirty minutes, occupying San’s bed. Not what San originally thought they’d be doing, when Wooyoung invited himself over in the name of unwinding before the Jeonbuk game, but he’s not complaining. It’s only five, anyways, and San would be an idiot to complain about having Wooyoung in his arms, showing off random photos on his phone.

So far, three themes seem to dominate his camera roll—Kyungmin posed with the randomest of objects, selfies, and cityscapes. The team is also starting to catch up, as far as San can tell. Wooyoung doesn’t have many photos of the guys from before April, but, after that, every other photo is a teammate throwing up the peace sign or caught in a snapshot, unawares.

And, of course, he has a lot of San on there.

A lot of the bad, sneaky shots. Some of him and another teammate or two. Some that he doesn’t really let San see, quick to thumb through. The next one he shows is of San from the waist up, wearing a neon-green bib, his face outlined by the sun. He’s not smiling in it, concentrated on whatever he’s watching outside the frame.

“Oh.” San takes the phone from Wooyoung before he can swipe it away. “Is that from—the last day of camp?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I think it’s from the second week,” Wooyoung admits, looking away. “You just. Looked really good that day.”

“Young-ah.”

At a loss, San puts the phone on his nightstand and pulls Wooyoung’s face up for a kiss. Without any ulterior motives, really, he just doesn’t know how to say everything he wants to say. There’s the confession, fresh and delicate, and then there’s also the memory of what Bora mentioned, the possibility of a dual shoot. She still has no confirmation, so San has to keep mum. He finds that difficult to do when he’s excited about something, but kissing is a good distraction.

And when Wooyoung takes that up a notch, crawling closer and taking off his shirt, what else can San do but help?

He doesn’t hear anything.

Not any knocking, no shouts of his name, and San’s phone has been on silent since the morning training session. All his attention is on Wooyoung and his mouth, his hands on Wooyoung’s waist. One moment, he’s struggling not to laugh when Wooyoung nuzzles against his neck freckles, the next he’s frozen, the laughter shocked out of him.

“—sleeping? What—jesus, sorry! Oh my god.”

In the doorway, Bora looks just as caught out as San feels. Embarrassed, San can see her stumble back. Then a second wave of surprise seems to roll over her when Wooyoung looks over his shoulder—she does a double take, her face pales, she apologises again and closes the door they didn’t bother closing in the first place.

It clicks, San holds his breath, and everything goes quiet.

Wooyoung recovers first.

“Shit, shit shit!” he mutters, pushing himself upright. His body has gone completely rigid, all tense muscles and panic. “Dammit, San, this is bad. This is—fuck. Did you know she was coming over?”

“No!”

“Didn’t you lock the door?”

“I did.”

“So she’s had access all this time—and you didn’t think of it?”

San should’ve, but he really didn’t. Bora’s known the passcode for years and she’s only let herself in twice. That time after the social media scuffle, and once when San had an injured shoulder.

“I forgot.”

“How the hell could you—”

Wooyoung’s words die halfway, and he’s already off the bed by the time San catches up, putting his shirt on. Completely red in the face, spiraling, San tries to catch his hand but Wooyoung shakes it off.

“It’s okay, Young-ah,” he says. “It’s not bad. It’s not. Just—wait here? Please?”

“San.”

“It’s okay.” San grabs his shoulders, stilling him, and this time Wooyoung doesn’t budge away. “Please, please, just let me talk to her. Please, just—wait.”

Wooyoung exhales and his shoulders shake with it. He looks ready to fight, and then the fire fizzles out of his gaze like someone has snapped their fingers and made it vanish. He nods, just the tiniest bit. San bumps his forehead before he rushes out of the room.

Bora is still in the hallway, swearing under her breath as she struggles to put one of her shoes on. Just like Wooyoung, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, but she goes still once San catches up to her.

“Wait, noona. Let’s—let’s talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” She shakes her head, bent over her shoe. San can’t see her face behind the curtain of her hair. “I shouldn’t have—sorry, Sannie. I didn’t know you—”

“It’s okay.”

“I tried to knock, I swear. But I didn’t realise—”

“It’s fine.”

“—you weren’t alone.” She finally buckles the strap over her ankle, straightening up. Her eyes flash towards the bedroom door—slightly ajar—and her face runs through five different emotions before it settles on something resembling clarity. “I'm really sorry. For uh, for interrupting. I'll text you, okay?”

“Wait—”

“You didn't do anything wrong.” She holds a hand up. “But I need to… I need to think about this.”

“There's nothing to think about.”

“There is a lot to think about,” she says, leaning her shoulder against the door like the weight of all those thoughts can’t be handled without support. “But don’t worry, buddy. I'll—I’ll come up with a plan and we can talk about this tomorrow.”

“We don't need a plan, noona.”

“San-ah.” Bora stops on a sigh, and San can’t tell if it’s resigned or frustrated. Twisting around, she lets her entire back rest against the door, squeezing her phone in her hands. Her shoulders slump. “I guess I should’ve known.”

“Huh?”

“I should've seen it, with the way you talk about him,” she says, and she doesn’t let San ask for clarification. “Even others see it. A lot of people who—I’ve seen a lot of people talking about it. About the two of you.”

“People will always speculate about something,” San says, taking a step forward. “You know that, noona. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” she shoots back. Again, she looks in the direction of the bedroom, like the image from inside won’t let her be, like she is still processing it. “I came here because I just got the news, Sannie. About call-ups.”

“Oh?” San’s heart, already pumping like he’s running the 1500m trial of his life, speeds impossibly further.

“You’ve made the list,” Bora says. “Both of you have.”

“That's—”

San grins, dumbly. Despite the circumstances, he can’t ignore the immediate sparks of joy. It’s what he’s been hoping for, the best kind of news: him and Wooyoung on the same team again, playing for even bigger crowds, spending all of June together. He wishes Bora could look a little more excited about it.

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah.” She puts her hand on the doorhandle but still doesn’t make a move to leave. Eyes flitting over San’s face, she lowers her voice to ask: “How long has this been going on, San-ah?”

“A while.”

“So it’s serious?”

San nods, squaring his jaw. “For me it is.”

“But for him—”

“I think it is for him, too.” His own voice grows quiet—not because he doesn’t want Wooyoung to hear, simply because he doesn’t feel good about having this conversation there in the hallway, alone, still rumpled and a little lost at the rapid sequence of events. “I wanted to tell you, I swear, but not without Wooyoung.” He pauses, looking behind his shoulder. Winces at the memory of Wooyoung’s panicked face, and suddenly feels terrible for leaving him in the bedroom alone. “But now you know and that’s good—yeah? You can—”

“Sannie.”

“—talk to him. You can—”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” she says. She finally seems to remember the door’s lock, pushing it up before she pulls on the handle. “Not right now.”

“But noona—”

“Just be careful, alright?” Her heels clack as she steps outside, giving San a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And keep your phone on, please.”

The door closes. The hallway goes quiet. San stares at the same spot, where Bora’s face had been just a moment ago, trying to sort his thoughts. In the onslaught, he turns towards the bedroom, taking slow, measured steps. Wooyoung must’ve heard all of that—which isn’t bad, but San doesn’t know what kind of a reaction to expect.

There’s no Wooyoung in the bedroom.

San’s eyes widen, but then he sees his cap and sunglasses are still on the desk, and his borrowed slides are still kicked off by the bed. The light is on in the bathroom and San can hear the fan.

“Young-ah?”

He knocks and waits. Five seconds, four, three—he knocks again. When Wooyoung’s face appears, it’s wet but not from tears. His skin looks blotchy.

“Hey, are you—”

“Is she gone?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Wooyoung nods, looking down at where he’s wringing his hands, not glancing back at San until he cups his cheek. He flinches at the touch; just a bit—he then leans into it—but enough to set off San’s alarm bells.

“It’s okay,” he says, doing his best to sound reassuring. “She’s not upset, Young-ah, just surprised. We did nothing wrong—well, I should’ve kept an eye on my phone, but it’s not like she lets herself in every day. She just came by because she—”

“I heard,” Wooyoung says, holding his phone up. “Hyung just let me know.”

Like Bora, he doesn’t embody the happiness San would’ve expected to see at the news. Pursing his lips, not meeting San’s eyes. He brings his other hand to Wooyoung’s nape, running his thumb over the top of his spine.

“It’ll be fine. I promise. She just needs a moment to process—what she saw.”

Wooyoung swallows but doesn’t say anything.

“More importantly, call-ups.” San makes his touch even more grounding, raises his voice to sound even more excited. “You’ve made the national team!”

“Yeah.”

“And we'll be playing together. Travelling together. The first two friendlies are in Manchester, right?” Voicing the question triggers an immediate flood of ideas, San's mind getting ahead of itself and his mouth following: “Maybe we could make it to London for a day or two? Get a hotel. Make it a date.”

It would be easier there, not getting recognised. They could go out for dinner in London without worrying about how to make it look like a friendly hangout. They could speak openly without looking behind their shoulders. They could hold hands.

“But Manchester is nice, too…” San backtracks, growing uncertain with Wooyoung’s lack of a reaction. “There’s a big football museum there, Seunghee-hyung mentioned he—”

“London sounds nice, San-ah,” Wooyoung says. His tone is flat, almost a little wistful, but he pecks San on the lips and squeezes him in a tight hug, repeating the words over his shoulder. “It sounds really nice.”

San hums.

“But right now I think I need to—” Wooyoung doesn't finish, stepping away. He shows off the phone again, like that's enough of an answer. Apparently San doesn't get it, so he sighs. “I told hyung I'd call him, so. I'm gonna go.”

“You can call him from—”

“I need a bit of time,” Wooyoung cuts him off, already stepping around San and grabbing his things from the desk. He doesn't put on the slides, feet thumping on the hardwood floor as he hurries out of the room. “Not because—I just need to be alone for a bit.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He's so close to leaving San in the hallway, stupefied, but he must look dejected enough that Wooyoung takes pity on him and kisses his cheek once more before he actually walks away. It should count for something—and it does—but when the door closes, San still just stands there, blinking.

Within the span of a minute, he feels like he’s climbed the tallest mountain and then took a freedive off the side—no parachute, no nothing. Though he tries not to, though he finds the will to move at some point, for the rest of the evening San can’t shake off the feeling that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

‿

After a night of atrocious sleep, San wakes up to his phone popping off with messages at 5.30, half an hour before his alarm. Hoping it’s Wooyoung—who hasn’t messaged since he left—San almost throws the blanket over his head when he sees it’s Bora.

Then he feels guilty, rereads the messages properly, and agrees to meet her at nine.

The team’s had an intense four days preparing for the Jeonbuk match, so the session on Friday is a lighter one. Just two hours in the afternoon and then they’re meant to take the bus to Jeonju, right from the stadium. Instead of courting more sleep, San makes himself go to the gym, and then he messages Wooyoung again, once it’s a more acceptable hour.

(you)

wooyoung-ah, did you make it home?

(you)

what did your hyung say?

(you)

good morning!

when can i pick you up?

He scrolls up, skimming the last few days of their chat: memes, football reels, arranging meetup times. Instead of taking the team bus, San had offered to drive them the next morning, to keep the nerves at bay a little longer. Wooyoung had agreed; he would usually message by now, even just to send a blurry selfie, but San’s last unanswered text also goes unread.

He meets Bora with her favourite coffee and the same kind of foreboding he’s been fighting off since the previous afternoon.

“I won’t keep you long, buddy. I know today’s not the best day.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry.”

There’s another cup of exactly the same coffee on her desk already, her hoop earrings aren’t a perfect match, and she greets San with a tight smile. Right off the bat, she launches into a litany of questions—since when, does the team know, does his family—and warnings that San has been expecting.

He doesn’t mind. Not really.

He’s not naive—if this blew up and put his career on the line, she would also be affected. Still, he’s not treating the talk like a business meeting until Bora brings up her plan, and then San clenches his jaw.

“I won’t be doing that.”

“I get it, Sannie, it’s not ideal,” she says. Since the moment San sat down, both of her coffees have gone untouched. “But it would be just for the public. Keep the eyes off you two, but you wouldn’t have to stop seeing—”

“No.” San shakes his head, then repeats himself: “No, noona, I’m not doing that.”

His phone pings just then and San puts his politeness on hold, checking it immediately.

wooyoungie:

morninggg

no need

hojongie said he’d pick me up!

Frowning, San tries not to be bothered by it, to put the phone away and focus on Bora; he doesn’t make it to step one, bringing up Jongho’s number.

(you)

hi jongho-ya!

are you picking wooyoung up today?

jjongbear:

not that i know of?

(you)

ok

thanks!

Jongho sends more texts but San doesn’t read them. His legs feel leaden but he can’t sit still. With the foreboding now growing into proper anxiety, he jumps up and rattles off the first excuse he can think of.

“Sorry, noona, it’s Hongjoong-hyung. I promised we’d go over some strategy before training, so…”

Going by Bora’s expression, the earlier talk isn’t done. She doesn’t try to stop him, though, just reminds him she’ll be at the game tomorrow and they can meet afterwards. San nods without really thinking about it, and then he’s off.

‿

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” The intercom crackles into silence and San waits, wiping his clammy palms on his sweats. “Can I come up, please?”

“San-ah.” More silence, more of the peculiar buzzing that sounds like there’s an electric field covering the speaker, spreading to the door to keep San out. He’s never really noticed it before; the only thing protecting the door is the lock. “Wait in the car, okay? I’ll be down in five.”

It actually takes Wooyoung ten minutes, and San could swear it’s at least twenty. He tries to be calm and collected. Tries not to catastrophise. But he keeps drumming his fingers on his knees, face pulled into a persistent frown that doesn’t vanish even once Wooyoung finally hops into the car.

“I said I’d go with Jongho.”

He says that instead of a greeting, and instead of throwing his duffle bag into the backseat like other times, he keeps it on his legs like a shield. It looks full, too full, probably packed for the overnight trip. He’s got his mask on, and his sunglasses, and he doesn’t remove either, even after he fastens his seat belt.

“Are you mad at me?” San asks.

“No.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

The mask puffs up with Wooyoung’s exhale and he doesn’t look away from the street. It’s sunny today, warm, but he’s wearing one of his largest hoodies, swimming in the folds. San touches his thigh, feels it tense, and watches Wooyoung’s breath shudder under the mask again.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says, and he seems to lower his eyes to where San’s palm rests. Then he grabs it and moves it away. “I’m sorry, San-ah. I’m still not—ah. A lot happened yesterday.”

“Are you—”

“Can you drive, please?” he asks. “Can we get coffee?”

San starts the car and it’s quiet again, no music playing. He hates how awkward it is but ignores it for the time being, trying to compose his thoughts. So much to say, he feels like he needs to be careful. Because he can read Wooyoung well enough to guess that he’s scared, and San needs to convince him not to be when he has all the right to be.

Wooyoung, of course, deals with the silence on his own terms.

He asks if San slept well. He complains about his spring allergies. He keeps squeezing the bag on his knees and then playing with his mask strap, talking about nothing at all. When San stops the car, he basically sprints out to buy them both drinks, and then he finally takes the mask off but also gives up on all conversation.

They’re in the Munsu parking lot by the time San speaks.

“I talked to Bora this morning,” he says.

“Yeah?” Trying so hard to be nonchalant, Wooyoung’s lips purse tightly around his straw. “How did it go?”

“It went well,” San says, meaning it. “We’re fine, Wooyoung-ah. This isn’t how I wanted her to find out, but it doesn’t change anything. She’d find out one day, anyway, and she’s on our side.”

“Your side.”

“Our side.” He twists in his seat, wanting so badly to reach out but knowing it’s not a good idea. Having his hand fought off again would only derail him, make San pout when he needs to be concise and straightforward. “I know what I said, that Bora’s like my older sister. But she’s my agent, right? She can only do the things that I agree to do.”

“In theory,” Wooyoung mutters.

“No, I’m not—I can make my own decisions here, Wooyoung. We both can.”

“What decisions?”

“Well, she said it’d be wise to talk more about our friendship when we get the chance and I agree with that.” San shrugs. “That we should be more careful about sleeping over and, yeah, she’s got a point. But she also mentioned dating rumours—”

“Dating rumours?”

“She’s got a friend working in entertainment and—I don’t even know, Young-ah.” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter because I said no. Because it’s not her place to decide what we—”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Wooyoung says, inflectionless, completely stealing San’s thunder.

“What?”

“The dating rumours,” he clarifies, like it’s the words themselves that San hasn’t understood and not why he said them. “It would be good timing. With the call-ups. And scouting season. You know people get nosey when things are—”

“I don’t—”

“—going well. It’s—”

“—want that.”

“—just rumours, after all.”

They speak over each other, San a little taken aback, Wooyoung’s voice growing steadier by the second.

“It’s what my old agent tried to do,” he says, one corner of his mouth turning down. “Though, to be fair, he wasn’t very good at his job. And he could’ve asked before doing it, I suppose. But it makes sense as a strategy if she has the means. Could be…” He swallows, flicking the straw with his fingers. “Good.”

San doesn’t think there’s ever been an idea he hated more.

The Kim Eunsol affair, something turns on in the back of his mind, more puzzle pieces slotting into place. Last year’s tabloid rumour that had Wooyoung linked to the actress, never confirmed but seemingly validated when she later got a divorce. He pushes his palms into his thighs with almost bruising strength, just to find some steadiness.

“I don’t want dating rumours, Wooyoung,” he says, sharply. “There’s no need. We’re football players—we play football. Who cares what we do in private?”

Wooyoung laughs, a horribly dull sound, so painful it’s like a cut to San’s heart. “Right,” he says. “Because that’s how it works.”

“Don’t—”

“And what do you think will happen, San-ah, when people do catch on? There’s only so careful we can be. And you already aren’t. Just think—the whole fucking team probably knows by now.”

From the reflection in his dark sunglasses, San can see that his own face has become more rigid, harsher. He can’t see Wooyoung’s eyes, which makes it easy for the anger to grow, but he fights back against it. Because Wooyoung is just lashing out, he wants to hurt, he is inviting San up for the battle to make himself feel in control.

Push, pull.

“You know the team doesn’t care,” San says. “If I want to be with you, and you want—”

“But it won’t stop at the team, that’s the thing. Look…” Wooyoung gives up on holding his coffee cup, slamming it on the dashboard haphazardly. It almost slides down and he catches it with a groan, pushing it further back. “Right now, you’re not thinking straight. And I get it, San, I do, because I feel the same. Every time you do something, every time you look at me—it makes me want to throw all caution to the wind.”

San blinks, his eyes starting to burn. “Then—”

“But I’ve done this before, remember? And you might think that you know, that you can turn it around, but you actually have no idea how fucking ugly it gets.”

Wooyoung lifts his hands like he wants to rub at his own eyes, then remembers the glasses. He sniffles, the sound restrained, shaking his head. San tries to say something but he’s paralysed, neither tongue nor brain working; Wooyoung is right, he doesn’t know.

“No more golden boy, you’ll be the player who fucks his teammates,” Wooyoung says, with another bitter chuckle. “Want to focus on football? Well, that’s too bad! All people really wanna know is whether you stick it up someone’s ass or take it.”

“Young-ah.”

“What if you get dropped by your agent, San? If half your teammates—the same people you used to cuddle with and meet for dinner—suddenly don’t want to have anything to do with you? Just because of a rumour, too, because there doesn’t need to be proof!”

San risks it—he puts his hand back on Wooyoung’s thigh. Closer to the knee, a feather-light touch, his best attempt at comfort when he knows the words won’t do. Wooyoung doesn’t shake him off. He doesn’t react to the touch. Maybe he doesn’t even realise, fired up and drawing in a deep breath.

“And—I actually got really lucky, right? Because I’m still playing.” His question isn’t a question, his lucky sounds like a joke. “Because the press got bored when I wouldn’t show up with a man. Because Ulsan signed me, against all odds. And because I wasn’t Korea’s football sweetheart, I was just a K2 player. But—this?”

“Young-ah.”

“Us two? Together?”

It’s then that Wooyoung takes notice of his hand and he puts his own on top. San could swear he squeezes—once, gently—but then he’s moving it away again, straightening up again. Laughing, again.

“This could ruin your future.”

Jung Wooyoung’s number one most heartbreaking kind of laughter; San’s jaw clenches at the sound.

“Then maybe it’s not the future I want.”

“Oh, please. We’ve known each other for, what? Half a year?” Wooyoung shakes his head, the veins on his throat bulging. “This is not something you can take back when you get bored. When you've had enough—please, San. Think with your head for once.”

It feels like a slap—not only because of how dismissive he makes it sound, but because San immediately thinks of how they came to be. You’re not playing with your head, and Wooyoung was right. Since the very beginning, San hasn’t been. Every single time he’s tried to, every time he’s put his feelings aside, he’s only wrecked more damage. On the field, with the team, even with his father.

He refuses to do it now.

“I’m not stupid, Wooyoung,” he says, rough and low. “I know what I want.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung’s eyebrows raise above the sunglasses. “Weren’t you the one who spent weeks hating me? Just because you wanted to fuck me—but you didn’t realise?”

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“But it’s true.”

Another verbal slap, San’s hands curl into fists. There’s something else at the tip of his tongue, something he’s been wanting to say a while, something that should taste sweet but it’s only sour when San pushes it down his throat.

“I never hated you,” he says instead, weakly.

“Fine, you didn’t hate me,” Wooyoung allows. “But if it was only me who got called-up, Sannie, how would you feel?”

“I—”

“Would you be jealous again? Would you resent me for it? Maybe that’s all it would take for us.” He unbuckles his seat belt and lets it snap into place. “So is it worth it, really?”

He’s lashing out, San repeats to himself. He’s scared.

But there’s only so much San can take before his own hurt steps in, heart feeling like it’s been trampled in full daylight. Wooyoung can’t even give him the courtesy of taking the stupid sunglasses off and looking San in the eye. He’s halfway out of the car already, jumping out fast like he’s escaping a burning vehicle.

Still, he catches the door before it can close. Lingers. His fingers turn pale with his grip.

“San, I’m—”

“Don’t.”

San’s throat works to say more but he comes up empty. He’s not sure where this leaves them, he doesn’t know how to ask. When Wooyoung nods and closes the door, he wants to cry but he doesn’t. He just sits there and stares into space. Sits there replaying the whole conversation, feeling worse with each round. Sits there until he can’t anymore—because Wooyoung is right.

He has a team that relies on him, a training session to attend, perhaps the most important match of the season in less than twenty-four hours.

San’s heart might be broken, it might still be breaking, but the world doesn’t care.

‿

It’s a 1-1 draw at halftime, and San returns from their break thinking that they can win.

There’s a big Ulsan crowd greeting the team, chanting about warning signs. Hongjoong seems back to his usual form, and Seonghwa is playing the best he’s played all season. San is keeping it—all of it, all his emotions except the need to win—off the field.

He’s doing fine.

“San-ah, you ready?” Yunho bumps his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m—”

Maddox grins. “Let’s show them, golden boy!”

San doesn’t give away how the words make his stomach turn; all things considered, he’s doing better than fine.

He drove to Jeonju alone in the morning, after two nights of fitful sleep, with only his stupid thoughts for company. His good luck charms stayed in Ulsan, forgotten, and his parents are up in the stands. Bora is. The fans are loud and the pressure is almost palpable, everyone aware of how big of a deal the game is.

A win could extend Ulsan’s streak and set them up on a direct path for the rest of the year. A loss could tank the team’s motivation and result in failure. And a draw, San thinks, is unlikely.

Nobody, not one player on either team, is playing for a draw—and that includes Wooyoung.

Though this is the first time since they met that San doesn’t want to look at him, he is still doing his job as the playmaker, keeping Wooyoung in his line of sight at all times: to pass the ball to him or receive it, to try and set him up with a scoring chance, to wave him back when an attack is doomed to fail.

San does that early into the second half but Wooyoung doesn’t listen. He can’t shoot straight at the box, surrounded by Jeonbuk players, but he still tries. Misses. San holds his breath while the game is paused, jogging up to him.

“You have to calm it,” he says.

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it, Wooyoung.” San catches his wrist before he can jog away, then drops it like the touch is scalding. “You’ll burn yourself out.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

He says it like San should worry about himself, first and foremost, and he’s right. But there are dark circles under his eyes and San has seen him smile maybe once, the whole day, so despite everything he can’t help but worry.

The whistle goes off, reminding him there’s no time for it.

Yeosang almost turns in his next cross but the ball skids off the goalpost. Seonghwa, who scored their first goal, finds himself close to the box again and Wooyoung engages him in a back-and-forth passing formation that reminds San of their Silent Echo. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

About twenty minutes of the game left, Wooyoung manages to steal the ball away from a Jeonbuk winger, and he makes a break for it. Fast and faster, like his feet don’t even touch the ground. San can see the goal he’s after—a tight shot into the left corner of the net, smooth and unstoppable.

But the ball never makes it there.

Instead, Wooyoung collapses to the ground.

Maybe he shouts out, maybe not. San doesn’t know. He’s sprinting up as quickly as he can, dropping to his knees. There isn’t any blood or protruding bones, which is a good sign, but everything else spells trouble: Wooyoung’s grimace, his hands around his ankle, and the fact that he’s crying.

“Hey, Wooyoung, look at me. What’s wrong? What—”

“San-ah,” he pushes out, licking the tears off his upper lip. “San-ah, I screwed up.”

That’s as much as he gets to say before Buddy gets there and San gets pushed away. He opens his doctor’s kit, checks Wooyoung’s ankle, sprays something on it. Asks a question that has Wooyoung shaking his head, and then he’s being carried off the field.

San can just stand there.

Uselessly, he can just watch as Wooyoung gets escorted towards the technical area, as Buddy and Eden exchange a quick word, as Hyunwoo gets subbed into the game and Wooyoung disappears completely, taken into the stadium. San can just watch, breath shallow and ears ringing for no good reason, until Seonghwa is shaking his shoulder and San realises he needs to do the impossible—he needs to continue playing.

Somehow, he does.

For a few minutes, he keeps trying.

But in reality, he’s not much but a body on the field, slow and uncoordinated. He cannot focus, he cannot think, and he sure as hell can’t contribute anything.

He ends the game on the bench—the first time he’s been called off, uninjured, in over five years—and San doesn’t even watch, can’t even bring his eyes away from his knees to see his team lose the game.

Chapter Text

obstruction

(in football) unfairly preventing a moving opponent from reaching the ball or making a play.

⚽︎

The first couple of hours after the Jeonbuk match turn out to be a complete blur.

From the moment they get off the field, San is going through the motions, only propelled forward by those around him and some residual sense of responsibility: to repent for how he’d ended the game; to not make it about himself and make others worry; to be there for Wooyoung, even though he can’t.

He and Buddy-ssi are nowhere to be found by the time Eden is done explaining to San—needlessly—why he’d been subbed out. Still not anywhere San looks by the time he’s done sitting in the press room—lifelessly—needing to have questions repeated to him to provide the most basic of answers.

He says the loss is a disappointment; in reality, San just feels numb. He says he will review the match thoroughly to avoid repeating the same mistakes in the future; in truth, his skin is already crawling at the very thought of re-watching the footage. He can’t even bring himself to open his mouth when the reporters ask what’s wrong with Wooyoung; San wants to know, too.

Question after unnecessary question, it is the only thing on his mind.

“What happened in the last ten minutes, San-ssi?” someone asks, point blank. “I understand that you were shaken by Wooyoung-ssi’s injury, but you seemed to just—give up.”

San doesn’t know what to say. Agreeing would be honest, but he’s not in the right mindset to be explaining himself. “I—”

“With all due respect, you’ve answered your own question,” Hongjoong interrupts. “It’s normal to be shaken by a teammate’s injury. We’re like family. Sometimes you can’t simply—put your concern on hold.”

Grateful, San just swallows. He messes with the mic stand until he almost tips it over.

“San-ah.”

Mingi, sitting next to him, tries to ground him with a soft tone and a friendly touch to the knee. He doesn’t say more, no empty words on how San is worrying for nothing because Wooyoung will be fine, no reminding San that he needs to snap out of it. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

“It’s looking like an ankle sprain,” Ollounder answers in San’s stead, but that’s no real answer. It just makes the journalists launch into theories disguised as questions: what does this mean for the last two matches before the break, whether this could keep Wooyoung from participating in the friendlies, who would replace him on Ulsan KQ’s lineup if the injury turns out to be serious.

And throughout, all San can do is listen and stare at his clenched fists, feeling like each new question is an exercise in self-control.

He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the locker room. He heads towards the showers, only realising he’s already washed and changed when he notices his towel is wet. He thumbs out responses to his parents’ and Bora’s texts without really perceiving the words he writes. Empty apologies and excuses, relying on his father to think that San needs space because he’s fucked up an important match, relying on Bora not to address the unspoken part.

The part that really haunts him.

(you):

young-ah are you okay??

are you with buddy-ssi?

(you):

please when you see this

just let me know what’s going on

please

(you):

yeosang said you left with your family

i know you’re probably resting

but please message when you can

He gets no answers from Wooyoung, refuses the others’ invitation to dinner, insists on hanging around the Jeonju stadium like a ghost until he finally catches Oliv talking to Eden—and that’s when the last of San’s composure cracks, like Oliv takes a hammer to it when he tells San the truth.

“It’s not looking good,” he says, quietly, meeting San’s eyes with a mournful grimace. “Buddy-ssi thought it might, uh—might be a full rupture. But they’ve taken him to the hospital to get more tests done.”

He probably says more after that, probably tries to be reassuring, but San’s mind is stuck on a single word. It spins in his mind, becoming bigger and scarier with each rotation. Another third-degree sprain, a complete tear of the ligament. Serious enough in its own right, potentially career-ending with Wooyoung’s history of ankle injuries.

A rupture, San’s mind is screaming while Eden pats him on the back and tells San to go eat something.

A rupture, he’s repeating to himself while the others try to convince him to leave his car where it is and simply take the team bus back to Ulsan.

“A rupture,” he says out loud, face stuck to the window of his car’s passenger seat, not entirely sure how he got there.

Seonghwa is driving him home—Seonghwa, who hates driving unless he absolutely has to do it—and San can feel him looking in his direction, can picture Seonghwa’s concerned face and hear his hesitation. But he doesn’t unstick his cheek from the glass and Seonghwa doesn’t comment on the way he keeps reaching for his phone, re-reading his own messages like that will magically yield a reply.

“You can stay over at mine,” Seonghwa offers, once they’re close to Ulsan. “You shouldn’t be alone, San-ah.”

“It’s okay, hyung. Just drive us to yours and then—I can make it back the rest of the way, don’t worry.”

Seonghwa worries, though, and San hates it. He’s already caused him enough stress and road anxiety, all he wants now is to be left alone. Is it a good idea? Perhaps not. But nothing could distract San from the chorus in his mind—rupture, rupture, rupture—and he’s already failing at pretending he’s fine. He doesn’t have any spare energy to keep trying.

His apartment greets him with too-bright lights and the mess he’s left his bed in: undone, rumpled, with Shiber between the pillows. His stupid good luck charm, San frowns at the plushie like he’s to blame for the disastrous game. He still hugs the dog to his chest once he’s changed and convincing himself that he can sleep.

He can’t.

Just like the previous night, but now his heartbreak is layered—the pain of the parking lot conversation still very real, but also overridden by the more immediate fear that Wooyoung is in pain and San can’t do anything about it.

The buzz of his phone makes San sit up, just as he’s finally forced himself into that hazy half-asleep half-awake state where the vibration against his bedside feels like a whole earthquake. So does the message.

wooyoungie:

heyyy

i’m fine

don’t worry!

It’s almost two in the morning and San rubs the sleep out of his eyes at once.

(you):

wooyoung-ah

you’re not sleeping

The read symbol shows up immediately, but the three typing dots don’t. A few minutes pass and San turns his screen off, too tempted to spam or—worse—open his socials and see people talking about the match.

wooyoungie:

neither are you

(you):

can you blame me?

wooyoungie:

idk but i can shame u

it’s not healthy

u shouldn’t do it to yourself!

(you):

wooyoung

don’t

wooyoungie:

sorry

(you):

are you with your family?

are you back in ulsan??

wooyoungie:

go to sleep please

i’ll know more tomorrow

or today ig

i’ll text you later

(you):

please do

wooyoungie:

gn san-ah

Somewhere at the back of his mind, San knows it’s just an excuse: if Wooyoung had his tests done, he already knows the brunt of it. The whole short chat is riddled with warning signs, from the pauses and the casual tone to how it actually doesn’t tell San anything.

But, exhausted, he tries to chalk it up to Wooyoung’s own exhaustion. He’s so tired his body aches with it, and he can’t take a day off, so San accepts it and falls asleep soon after—with the phone still on his pillow.

≍

The following morning, there are no new messages waiting for him when San wakes up.

He only goes to the gym because he feels like he needs to tire himself out to prevent another sleepless night. Bora calls him around noon and San just hums to everything—her pep talk, her well-meaning advice, her attempts to comfort him about Wooyoung. Training is awful, not only because San can’t focus and everyone around him seems to be walking on eggshells, but because all he can see is the negative space—no number nine in sight.

It’s sunny in Ulsan, blue skies that don’t seem to fit anyone’s mood. They run through different formations, complete drills that San gets through on muscle memory. They lost against Jeonbuk, he keeps remembering at periodic intervals, but it’s not like the blow it would’ve been under different circumstances.

The loss feels trivial without Wooyoung there to share the disappointment with.

After showering, San finds his phone in very much the same state he’s left it in: reply-less. He goes to Yeosang, then, but he can only shrug and say that Wooyoung’s gone back to Ilsan with his family. Eden addresses the practical side of the issue, that Hyunwoo will be stepping in for him for the time being, so that the team doesn’t have to change their usual formation for the last two matches.

Him admitting that he’s not expecting Wooyoung back for those makes San's stomach feel wobbly. Then Buddy shows up as the team gets dismissed and just looking at his face makes San feel like he’s going to empty his stomach’s contents right in front of everyone.

“It’s a tear—” he confirms, and San’s mouth opens with a cut-off exhale “—but only partial.”

“Partial?” San asks. “So he’s not—”

“It’s not as bad as it looked, yeah,” Buddy says; he doesn’t allow for much relief. “But it’s still not good. With the partial tear, he could be fine within a couple of weeks, just taking it slow and doing physio. But Wooyoung’s had several sprains so the ligament is already weakened. If it doesn’t heal properly, it could become chronic.”

He delivers more details, medical terms that fly over San’s head and a prognosis that makes him want to throw up again. Four to six weeks is nothing, compared to San’s earlier catastrophising, the fear that Wooyoung might not ever play again. But training for the national friendlies starts in less than three weeks, and San is already heartbroken: both at the prospect of Wooyoung missing it, and at the thought of Wooyoung pushing through, refusing to go slow.

(you):

hey wooyoung-ah

i get that you probably don’t want to talk about it

but i know that you must feel terrible

so please let me know

if there’s anything i can do

Wooyoung doesn’t message back.

Not that evening, not the one after, and almost a full week passes without San noticing, while he simultaneously feels like he’s stuck in limbo. His sleep is restless. His teammates try to cheer him up and he feels guilty each time he can’t manage a proper smile. His parents try to arrange a call, three nights in a row, and San uses a new excuse each time because he can’t face them: the training running over, hanging out with the team, bad internet connection.

And still, he keeps texting Wooyoung.

At first, he just feels frustrated about it, knowing that Wooyoung is shutting him out because he doesn’t want San to see just how much he’s hurting. A protective mechanism that makes San want to scream but he can’t not understand it: because when Seonghwa asks him if he wants to come over for dinner, San says no, and he says no when Jongho invites him for a drive, and he says that he’s okay to everyone else who asks.

(you):

i hope you’re sleeping well

and eating

Then, he starts to feel a bit embarrassed about it.

The last time they talked, really talked, Wooyoung basically told him that he was jumping into things too fast, doing too much. The messages feel like evidence of the fact, daily and overbearing.

But San can’t stop.

Wooyoung’s absence is not something he can ignore, even as he tries to go through his days with a semblance of normalcy. He is back to having protein shakes for breakfast instead of actual food, takes his plushies out of hiding and locks a half-finished Macallan bottle inside his cabinet. While he’s lacing his boots up in the locker room, there is nobody making fun of San for his concentrated face or egging him on to be faster. Shiber is the only thing he can hug in bed.

The messages, in a way, feel like the only way San can convince himself the absence is temporary. The only way he can make Wooyoung feel like he’s not absent.

(you):

training got cut short today

because of rain

but then this happened

[image]

By Friday morning, San starts feeling a little angry about it.

It begins when Yunho mentions Wooyoung during warmups, bringing up a League game that they apparently played the previous night. He does it innocently, a passing remark he drops expecting San to know about it, and San doesn’t correct the assumption.

He’s still thinking about it while he showers, though, taking his sweet time under the hot spray. Taking too long, because when he gets out, he’s just missed the team video-calling Wooyoung from the locker room. Nobody has thought to wait for him, because, as Minhyuk points out at whatever face San pulls: “You can call him anytime, Sannie.”

Another inconspicuous comment, it makes San want to cry.

They don’t really know what Wooyoung means to him, except some might know more than San has ever dared ask, and others do know but they have no idea that the two of them have fought, that Wooyoung isn’t responding to his messages or calls, that he’s making San wonder if he got it all wrong.

Wonder if Wooyoung even trusts him at all.

“Sang-ah, can you stay a few more minutes?” San asks, clearing his throat and playing with the strap on his bag. “Just to talk about… tomorrow.”

Their second to last game before the break—and the last one at home—is against Jeju, and while Hyunwoo is a promising forward, San and Yeosang will have to pull strong for their offence. He knows this, Eden’s made it a point for them to practice different attack combinations. There’s not much they can do at this point, really, but Yeosang nods.

Walking out of the stadium, San maintains a wide distance as the team disperses, chatting football until it’s just him and Yeosang hovering by the entrance. Then he drops his voice lower. “How is he?” he asks.

Yeosang’s eyebrows furrow. “Wooyoungie?”

“Mhm.”

San could assume that Wooyoung is fine, playing League of Legends while letting his ankle rest, video-calling the others with a thousand-watt grin. He could comfort himself that Wooyoung doesn’t care that much about the friendlies, just happy to hear a more favourable diagnosis than the one he must’ve expected. But Wooyoung loves to hide behind a smile; if anyone can tell, it’s Yeosang.

“You know,” he says, sullen. “He’s hanging in there.”

“How long is he planning to stay in Ilsan?

“He didn’t tell you?” The frown on Yeosang’s forehead deepens at that, turning more confused.

“He’s not talking to me.”

The words fall out of San unbidden, with a bit of an edge. He wasn’t planning to admit it but the knowledge that he’s the only one Wooyoung is avoiding, the only one left out, is starting to chew him up from the inside.

“What do you mean, San-ah? He’s not—”

“We had a fight. Kind of. Before the match.”

San’s steps slow until they stop. Jongho honks at them and San waves, attempting a smile, but it doesn’t feel right. He looks at the parking lot ahead of them, the very scene of the crime, and has to lower his eyes to his feet. None of it feels right and so he spills, still standing in the same spot: how they got caught by Bora, how it freaked Wooyoung out, how he told San they weren’t worth it.

“He said that?” Yeosang asks, matching San’s quietness. At his nod, he just sighs. “Oh, Wooyoung-ah…”

There’s a leaf attached to the laces of San’s right sneaker. He leans down to brush it off and hovers a moment, unsure of what to do. Letting it all out felt good but it hasn’t really helped, like when he’s in pain and he shakes his feet to distract from it but the pain is still there when he stops. When he straightens, Yeosang gives him a strained look.

“He didn’t mean it, San-ah,” he says. “Trust me. He didn’t.”

“Then why is he ignoring me?”

“Because he’s stupid.”

Even then, San’s first instinct is to protest; which makes him feel embarrassed, which makes him feel hurt, which makes him feel frustrated. An endless cycle that doesn’t break even once he gets home and crawls into bed, trying to read a book instead of his usual webtoons. He wants to avoid psyching himself out before the match, reading doom-laden predictions, and to stop himself from messaging Wooyoung.

He can make it one day. Or two. Maybe giving Wooyoung space is all he needs to do.

But, just a few minutes before midnight, San caves anyway.

(you):

okay look

if you want me to stop texting you

you need to say it

or i’ll just keep doing it

The read tick is instant but no reply appears.

For once, San is glad to go to sleep like that.

≍

On Saturday morning, San gives himself one simple task: to embody the person he used to be, about a year ago.

Before his Arsenal offer, before the season took a turn, before he knew Wooyoung as anything else but a talented K2 striker. He walks into his morning meeting pretending that he’s been called up for the national friendlies for the first time, and tries to muster up the same excitement. When Bora hands him a protein bar to cheer him up, when Seonghwa and Jongho arrive with their agents, when they go over the terms and contracts and all the bureaucracy, he tries to pretend that Ulsan KQ was never meant to be sending four players up to Seoul.

San doesn’t consider himself a terrible actor. Back at the academy, when he and his teammates used to do diving competitions for fun, he was one of the best. He’d never do it in a real match, feigning an injury has no place in sports, but he could pull it off for fun.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t, right now—none of it is entertaining.

“Hyung, we still have a few hours before the match. You should rest.”

“I’m fine, Jongho-ya.”

“You don’t look—”

“I’ll see you at the stadium!”

He doesn’t go to the Big Crown right away; instead, he makes a stop at a shopping mall nearby, because driving himself around without a destination brings to mind the wrong kind of associations, ones that San from a year ago wouldn’t have. The mall feels like safe territory, San has only ever been there alone. Between the supermarket, the bookstore, and the arcade, San doesn’t actually buy anything—he just walks around with his headphones on, a mask over his face.

Still, he gets recognised.

“Aren’t you playing in, like—” the fan that’s approached him looks at his phone, clutching a random signed receipt in his other hand “—two hours?”

“Yeah, I’m just heading over.” San bows to project his departure. “Thank you for the—”

“Is Wooyoung-ssi playing today?”

He’s grateful for the mask, feeling his pout form. “No,” he forces out. “No, he’s sitting this game out.”

“Oh, man! So it’s serious?” the guy asks. “That’s such a bummer! You guys have been killing it—I mean, before the last game. But we’ll still turn it around, right? We won’t let them get the cup this year!”

“We’ll do our best.”

The San from a year ago would be far more sincere about the promise. He wouldn’t miss Wooyoung when driving past their usual coffee-slash-tea stop, wouldn’t miss his music in the car, wouldn’t be pulling on the number ten once he’s at the stadium.

Even before the match starts, San knows he’s failed his self-assigned task.

≍

“Right shoulder, right—hey!”

San’s shout comes too late, Hyunwoo misses the pass and Jeju reclaims the ball. A repeating pattern, San could blame it on the boy’s nerves but he knows better. It’s his own fault for not communicating properly, for having grown lazy and relying on Wooyoung to somehow get what he’s planning without San having to verbalise it.

It makes for sloppy football; it repeats several times more.

He finally manages to lead a proper attack with the forwards—ten minutes before the end of the game, with zero goals for either team to celebrate. Unlike the Silent Echo, it’s only successful because San remembers to shout out each move. A cross to Yeosang, intercepting the ball while Hyunwoo gets ahead, left pass, right pass, and an encouraging yell of: “Top box!”

Yeosang hits it—a smooth ball that nearly brushes the top goal post but falls into the net. Their saving grace, San feels like he can hear the whole team heave a collective sigh of relief. He holds his own in. High-fives Yeosang before returning to the midfield, and tries to spend the remaining time not thinking of joyful screeches and handshakes.

They win, maintaining the second spot in the league chart.

“We still have a game to go,” San says to the press, “but it’s a good sign before going into the break. Hopefully we can keep the momentum going in July.”

He’s glad about the win, but mostly relieved about not letting the team down. He can’t say that he really enjoyed playing. Like the first games of the season, his mind wasn’t on the field, his heart stretched in too many directions, and the win feels strange.

Empty.

Knowing he’s pushing everyone’s concern to a breaking point and wanting to avoid confrontations, San goes to dinner with the team. He tags along to noraebang, after, despite longing to go home, and lasts exactly five songs and one can of sparkling water. Something about the disappointing victory scares him—the thought of escalating his issues even further, of tying his love for football to a single person and then losing it in a single badly-placed step.

Perhaps this is what people always meant, San thinks, when they said that to love is to make yourself vulnerable.

And still.

(you):

[video]

jongho’s high notes are really something else

mingi rapped a bts medley in your honour

everyone missed you

hopefully you can come along next time!

It will get better with time, San tells his reflection in the mirror while he's brushing his teeth. It’s not optimal, but he’ll have to recalibrate. Like he’s done during that one particular training camp when he felt like the worst player on the team. Like he’s done after his grandparents stopped coming to his matches. Like he—

wooyoungie:

why

Wooyoung’s first message in a week, and San almost swallows all the minty foam and drops his toothbrush. He spits, rinses, hovers his fingers over the keyboard. There are too many things he wants to say—ask—but all of them feel precarious.

(you):

why what?

wooyoungie:

why are you being so nice to me

why do you want to talk to me

so badly

(you):

wooyoung

are you kidding me??

The typing dots appear and disappear, again and again. San waits, leaning against the sink, and then they vanish for good. He sighs. He’s just crawling into bed, Shiber under his arm, when the phone buzzes again.

wooyoungie:

i just don’t understand??

i was really mean to you

last time we talked

no actually

i’ve been mean to you

ALL WEEK

but here you are

like it’s nothing

i don’t get it san

(you):

do you want me to stop?

wooyoungie:

no

but

that’s not the point

Looking at Shiber like the toy can word the response for him, San hesitates long enough for the screen to turn black. He sees himself in it, sees his frown, and wonders just how honest he should be. He wiggles in place until he’s got his back against the headboard, seeking its support too.

(you):

look wooyoung-ah

what you said in the car?

it hurt

it still does, i can’t say that it doesn’t

but i know that

whatever you’re going through with your ankle

must be very difficult

and that you must be hurting too

wooyoungie:

san-ah

stop it

(you):

okay

wooyoungie:

no

I JUST

i don’t even know

how to respond to that

(you):

right

then let me finish

wooyoungie:

okay

(you):

i can’t stop caring about you

just because of what you said

and i’m sorry but

i can’t stop worrying about you either

so the messages are the only thing i can do

and maybe it’s selfish

but that’s your answer

that’s why

By the time he’s done typing the last message, San’s heart feels like it’s about to jump out of his throat, dive inside his phone and travel the distance, and present itself to Wooyoung in all its pathetic glory.

Not like Wooyoung doesn’t already know, though. He must know, and perhaps that’s exactly why he’s been keeping his silence. Watching San’s heart thump and bleed from a distance, he might’ve thought it a safer response than handling it as it had been offered. Might’ve been happy to see it beating, thinking his touch could do more damage.

So is it worth it, really?

Stupid and necessarily hurtful, San catches himself hoping for it.

wooyoungie:

no san-ah

The first message comes after a short delay, then the rest follow in rapid succession, San’s phone buzzing incessantly in his palm.

wooyoungie:

i should be saying sorry

I AM really sorry

for not responding

for making you worry

i didn’t want that

i really

that’s exactly why i didn’t

respond

(you):

but that’s just silly

like, ridiculous

wooyoungie:

i know

I KNOW

i’m sorry

ughhhh

you’re right tho

i’m not exactly feeling great right now

and i know how you get

(you):

how i get?

wooyoungie:

distracted

(you):

wooyoung-ah

please be serious??

wooyoungie:

i’m sorry

i thought it was

the right thing to do

(you):

it wasn’t

wooyoungie:

yeah

i shouldn’t have done it

but i also can’t take it back

so

(you):

can you stop avoiding me?

wooyoungie:

san

(you):

just give me an answer

yes or no?

wooyoungie:

yes

(you):

so let’s start there

wooyoungie:

you’re impossible

This time, when the screen turns dark, San sees himself smiling. It’s not a full grin, not one that would bring his dimples out, but it speaks of a bigger shift—of San feeling like he doesn’t really need to depend on inanimate objects to get him through this conversation.

(you):

well you’re annoying

wooyoungie:

yeah i know

(you):

and infuriating

wooyoungie:

also heard that one before

(you):

do you want to talk about it?

wooyoungie:

it?

(you):

your ankle

He steels himself for a lull, a breather; Wooyoung responds quickly.

wooyoungie:

i think

not today

is that okay?

(you):

yeah

but don’t disappear on me again

wooyoungie:

i won’t

promise

(you):

okay

wooyoungie:

okay

Shiber is squeezed all the way up to San’s chin. He slowly lets his arm loosen, sliding down to rest fully on his pillow. His eyelids feel heavy, like the conversation has stripped him of all energy. Not in a bad way, though. There is more he wants to say, of course there is, but San knows this is as far as they can get tonight.

For the first time in a week, he doesn’t feel a terrible mix of dread and urgency. For the first time since their parking lot conversation, he dares to hope he’ll get more than three hours of solid sleep.

wooyoungie:

san-ah

thank you

for being impossible

For the first time since Wooyoung started ignoring him, San lets himself leave his message without a reply. As mean as he can be, he keeps his smile between Shiber and himself.

≍

“Now, don’t look too excited.”

San surveys the tiny room with a neutral expression: a foldout bed, a desk piled with books and stationery, boxes waiting to be unpacked in the corner. It’s not that he minds, the guest room is perfectly serviceable. San has also slept over before.

“Of course I’m excited, noona. You’ll get to feed and clothe me for two weeks!” He looks at Haneul, making sure to turn his grin up to full-dimple intensity. “No, really. Thanks for having me, it’s really kind—”

“Yeah, yeah, Sannie. I’m sorry about those—” she motions towards the boxes “—but my lease runs out in, like, three months. So there’s no point sorting them now.”

“You said that last time.”

“Well, this place was convenient. But now there’s no point in staying, so...”

San doesn’t remind her that it’s been over a year since she graduated. He places his bags in the corner, next to the boxes, and brushes his palms off, declaring that he needs lunch before he attempts unpacking a single thing.

“My treat, obviously,” he adds, and Haneul clicks her tongue but doesn’t protest.

While San wouldn’t mind paying for a hotel—or even renting a place for three weeks, he’s got more than enough money to spare on practicalities—he was glad to accept his sister’s offer to host him; Seonghwa and Jongho had already agreed to room together, before the Wooyoung thing happened, and San doesn’t want to think about what could’ve been. Haneul’s place is close to the stadium where they’ll be training for the next couple of weeks, the two of them are due for a proper catch-up, and San’s sister is probably the only person in his life who doesn’t care about football in the slightest.

Still, she brings it up once they settle into a booth at Outback, after San makes sure she doesn’t order the cheapest item on the menu.

“You guys are having a good season,” she says, casually, the moment their waiter disappears.

San hums. “You’ve been keeping up with the results?”

“It’s not that hard.” Haneul shrugs. “You read one football post and suddenly it’s all over your algorithm.”

“I see.”

“And—” she continues, pausing for significance “—appa’s been mentioning it each time we call. He said you’ve changed your role. Position. Whatever you call it—that you’re not just shooting goals all the time.”

“That sounds about right,” San chuckles, trying to focus on the way Haneul grasps for the correct terms instead of the way his stomach flips.

He won’t be playing as number ten for the friendlies. The national team has signed another playmaker, San’s been called up as a forward, and he still doesn’t quite know how he feels about it. In less than twenty-four hours, he’ll have a new jersey with his name and a number nine. Somehow, it feels like his effort from the past few months has been reviewed and found lacking. Even worse, it feels like a replacement—worse than the negative space Wooyoung’s injury had left in Ulsan KQ.

There’s nothing San can do about it.

“...said you’ve adapted really well, though! They tried to get me to tag along, to make it a trip home and then go to one of your matches. And I wanted to, Sannie, but work has been terrible the last couple of weeks.”

“Don’t worry about it, noona. I know you don’t care about football.”

“Yeah, but I care about you,” she shoots back, and just then the waiter reappears to bring their drinks.

San wonders which game she’s referring to. He definitely wouldn't want her seeing the Jeonbuk game—for multiple reasons—not the Jeju game he barely remembers, and definitely not their last game, either.

A draw against Gwangju, San can only hope that, like Haneul, the scouts have skipped it—he didn’t play as badly as in their first face-off, but he also didn’t play up to his own standards, and the fans weren’t too happy about how anticlimactic the match was, going into their midseason break.

But what’s done is done.

With less than two weeks to go before the first one, San has to focus on the friendlies. The training, the new team, himself.

“So, what do you want from the UK?” he asks to change the subject.

Haneul rolls her eyes, and she can’t come up with anything until San starts listing off all the things he’s promised to buy for their parents—different kinds of tea, stereotypical souvenirs to distribute among cousins and neighbours, knitwear from a specific brand—and then she tells him to get her bourbon biscuits. They talk about her work when their steaks arrive, and about San’s plans for his Seoul stay whenever he’s not training.

That is how he’ll spend the majority of his time, but—tempted as he is to spend the rest hidden away in Haneul’s spare room—he knows that wouldn’t be good. The weather is nice and there’s a lot of nature in Seoul. He’s made plans with the others to go to Lotte World. He’s brought books, and he’ll have a chance to brush up on his English while they’re in Manchester.

His phone buzzes and San waits until Haneul is done telling an anecdote about her gym class, then looks down to check.

wooyoungie:

oh there’s also this place

[link]

but i always just

went there for coffee

not sure they do ur kind of drinks

🤔

(you):

my kind of drinks?

wooyoungie:

whiskey obv

(you):

🙂

wooyoungie:

oh don’t pout

ㅋㅋㅋ

San isn’t pouting—he smiles as he flips the phone towards Haneul, showing off the coffee shop and asking: “Do you know this place?”

“Never been,” she says.

“A friend recommended it.” Too quickly, San amends the statement: “Uh, Jung Wooyoung—he’s our new forward. He used to live in Seoul.”

“Your rival,” Haneul nods with enthusiasm that makes San’s eyes widen.

“He isn’t—we’re not—I—”

“Relax, San-ah,” she says, almost chastising but clearly amused. “I’m just teasing. I figured you’re friends.”

“How do you even—”

“Like I said, you read one post and suddenly the algorithm thinks you want match analyses.” She emphasises how little she cares—at least on the surface, her smirk betraying her—by focusing her attention on the plate, stabbing every last crumb with her fork. “And appa’s mentioned him, too. Wasn’t he meant to come to Seoul—”

“Yeah.” San puts the phone back in his pocket. “Yeah, he was.”

Wooyoung was meant to be doing a lot of things—San had once imagined these days going very differently.

Not just the friendlies, but there was that Lotte Giants game in Ulsan last week that San had bought tickets for ages ago. They were meant to be a surprise, the closest thing to a real date that he could arrange; San ended up giving them away to Minjae and Sumin without an explanation. His interview also dropped around the same time, the one with Sangcheol-ssi where San had opened up about his and Wooyoung’s friendship. He read it alone, a whole paragraph describing a routine that no longer existed; Wooyoung must’ve read it, too, but he hasn’t brought it up.

Neither has Bora, seeming to realise without being told that she’s got nothing to worry about in terms of their relationship getting exposed. San is easy to read, after all, and she has known him for a good while: there is sadness over Wooyoung’s injury, and then there’s the other kind.

The hurt he’s been trying to put aside but can’t, not really.

They’ve reached a kind of equilibrium after Wooyoung’s apology, a kind that doesn’t excite but lets San get through his days without feeling like one of his limbs is missing. Wooyoung doesn’t ignore him anymore, and he texts every day. Not a lot, and not much of it is substantial: animal reels, pictures of Kyungmin, praise of his mum’s cooking. Nothing about his ankle or plans for the rest of the season, not a word about where the two of them stand—but San isn’t going to push.

He will reply to Wooyoung’s messages, and he’ll have his phone everywhere he goes, but San is going to give him space.

Because, perhaps, he needs it too.

“In theory,” Haneul starts, once San’s paid the bill and they’re on their way out, “if I wanted to come to that game at the end of the month, the one you’re playing here—are there still tickets?”

“You realise this is a football game, noona?” San asks. Endeared, he hugs her shoulders from the back.

“Oh, shut up.”

San promises he’ll get her a ticket in the same section as their parents.

≍

“Oh fuck!” someone shouts, just a few steps away from San. “Jesus, this is just dire.”

Several other voices pipe up to agree with the sentiment, but they’re muted by the sound of streaming water.

Streaming cold water, almost the temperature of a regular ice bath. San’s back is covered in goosebumps from the freezing spray, face twisted in an uncomfortable grimace. He glances at the person cursing to his right—Siwoo, one of the wingers—and hums in commiseration.

“I can’t believe this is the best they could do,” Siwoo continues, spurred on by everyone’s moans and groans. “My high school team had better facilities than this. Like, you can’t convince me the KFA couldn’t rent out something decent.”

The situation is pretty dire, there’s no denying it.

For the two weeks they’ll spend training in Seoul, the national football association got a fourth-division stadium on loan: one with no hot water, a locker room the size of Ulsan’s smallest office, and terribly patchy artificial turf. It’s not where the actual national team trains—and not where the Seoul friendly will be played, audiences spared the decrepit stands and substandard infrastructure—but someone must’ve decided it would be good enough for them.

A 25-member squad: players assembled from across K1 clubs, one particularly talented goalkeeper from K2, and several established players taking a break from international leagues to represent Korea. It’s a stronger squad than last season, at least from what San has seen in the training sessions so far. There are seven forwards, him included, and the fact lingers at the back of his mind each time they pour out onto the field. All of them want to play, but not all of them will be able to.

Once again, he has to prove that he is good enough to earn the privilege; after months of playing as a midfielder, the adjustment hasn’t been as smooth as San had hoped.

Though the coaches don’t seem to have an issue and, five days in, Seonghwa keeps saying he’s just being too hard on himself, something about it feels off. Like the field is a little tilted, like San is unwittingly sliding down the incline that doesn’t exist. Doing the thing he’s done for years—the thing he’s known for—but just a bit to the left, just a bit different from what should feel right.

He doesn’t want to talk to Wooyoung about it, and there’s no Wooyoung to warm him up when San finally turns off the shower. He finds a silver lining, though—Wooyoung would’ve hated the stadium.

“...surprised they’re actually paying for the hotel,” Siwoo is still complaining, once San has changed and he’s stashing the damp towel into his bag. “Not even Gimpo was this stingy—and that’s really saying something.”

He freezes, looking up at the taller man. “You’ve played for Gimpo?”

“Three years.” Siwoo rolls his eyes like the admission pains him. “Thank god we won the league last year. One more season there and I would’ve gone insane. Japan is much better about funding, really, and even the fan culture there is…”

He keeps talking, comparing, singing praises to the club he’s currently playing for, but San is stuck on the previous fact: that the man knows Wooyoung, and that Siwoo has played with him, on the very same team that hurt Wooyoung so badly that he still hasn’t told San the full extent of it.

Before San can say anything—not that he knows what—Siwoo gets dragged away into a conversation with other players. San watches his retreating form, wondering how quickly one's impression of a person can change, and how much of his sudden disdain is justifiable. He snaps out of it, catches Seonghwa by the door, confirms that he’ll be joining him and Jongho for dinner.

There’s a message on San’s phone when he checks, Wooyoung complaining about Kyungmin’s maths homework. San can’t exactly help, so he tells himself he’ll reply later; take just a little bit of time, find just a little bit of space. When he reaches into his bag’s pocket to retrieve his car keys, his knuckles brush against Wooyoung’s hair tie, and he feels like that’s only fitting.

Even if he wanted, San couldn’t actually make the space stretch any further than the span of a single secret elastic band.

≍

They get dinner at a samgyeopsal place that’s halfway between Haneul’s and the hotel that the other two are staying at. It makes San feel conflicted—it’s cosy and food is fine, but it’s nowhere near as good as the restaurant near his flat. The one that Wooyoung likes.

“Wait, wait! I have to take pictures!” Seonghwa says when their dishes of meat arrive, and then he makes San and Jongho pose for a snap that he immediately uploads to his Stories.

Just a couple of days ago, Bora had called San to—ostensibly—remind him of the sponsorship event he’ll be attending next week. She also gave him a not-so-subtle nudge to upload more content on his socials. They’ve been quiet for a while now, San has to admit. Seeing as he doesn’t want a repeat of the social media manager suggestion, he mimics Seonghwa and posts some pictures of the food.

“Done showing off?” Jongho asks when they put the phones away—unimpressed like he wasn’t the one arranging everything to improve the composition, nudging San to get his thumb out of the lens’ corner. “Can we eat now?”

“No.”

San takes a few more close-ups of Jongho, just to be annoying. The second time he’s setting his phone aside, he sees a notification flash across the screen: wooyoun9 liked your story. His heart jumps, so he stuffs his mouth full of pork belly and hides his face.

Most of the evening is spent chatting about training and the team: Jongho voicing his frustration with how the other defenders treat him like a baby (though San knows he secretly loves it), and Seonghwa countering that with how it feels like a vacation, not having to mother the players (though San knows he already misses it).

For his own part, San just gushes over Kyungho—the team’s resident playmaker, otherwise signed with Feyenoord—and all his advice. San has studied his style of play, way back when he got the number ten sprung upon him. It’s nice to be able to talk to the man, to get his perspective, tips, and—yes—even praise.

San doesn’t admit to the last bit, but his cheeks warm at the memory of Kyungho’s kind words. “Not that I’ll get to use his advice anytime soon,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You’ll get to use it soon enough,” Seonghwa says. “What’s a month in football, San-ah?”

Nothing, really. It’s been over three weeks since the Jeonbuk game and San could swear it feels like it’s only been a day, but also like it’s been a decade. He hums.

“How do you find it, though?” Jongho asks, picking up the piece of meat that Seonghwa’s just dropped on his plate. “To be back to your roots?”

Mountains don’t have roots.

San looks down, playing with his chopsticks. He notices Seonghwa beside him, giving him a searching look as if he’s trying to decide whether he should divert Jongho’s attention to a different topic. Before he can, San channels his honesty.

“It’s nice. A lot of it feels second nature,” he says, shrugging. “And I do love the adrenaline rush of just—pushing the ball forward, you know? And the satisfaction of getting past everyone.”

“But?” Jongho raises an eyebrow.

“But it’s strange,” San says, blowing out a breath that tousles the hair over his forehead. “I know I spent so long fumbling it—and I’ve still got a long way to go as a midfielder, of course. I’m not always playing like I’d—”

“But?” Jongho repeats.

“But I miss it,” San says. “I know. You can make fun of me. It’s just a month, and it’s silly to—”

“Nobody is making fun of you, San-ah,” Seonghwa interjects, and he shares some of his freshly-grilled meat with San before deciding that it is time to change the topic, asking Jongho if he’s seen some new trending drama.

They’re just finishing their drinks, wondering if they should organise a proper get-together for the entire squad next week, when Seonghwa’s phone starts ringing. He looks at the caller ID, looks at San, then brings the phone to his ear.

“Hi Wooyoung-ah.”

San holds the water in his mouth.

“No, sorry, but I’m really not good at maths. I told you to ask Hongjoong—he said what?” Seonghwa’s face jumps with a badly disguised smirk. “Oh, I’ll talk to him tomorrow, don’t worry. He shouldn’t be calling you that.”

Jongho shoots San a conspiratorial look. San finally swallows.

“Yes, I’m with—okay. Okay, just a sec.”

Seonghwa pulls the phone down, taps the screen, and suddenly Wooyoung’s voice is pouring out of the speakers. He talks a mile a minute about how his hair is going to turn grey from dealing with elementary school homework, how they’ve picked the wrong spot in Seoul for samgyeopsal, how they definitely need to consult him next time if they don’t want rubbery meat. He starts talking at Jongho, first, saying he needs to eat a lot. Then he pauses, breath audibly stuttering.

“Hey hyung,” he says, quieter now. “Can I quickly talk to Sannie?”

Both Jongho and Seonghwa turn to San this time, and he knows what his face must look like: startled, eyebrows near his hairline and lips parted. Slowly, he nods. He handles Seonghwa’s phone like one rough touch could snap it in half.

“San-ah?”

Wooyoung’s voice comes out muted, the speaker turned off again. San shoots Seonghwa a grateful look and holds the phone up to his ear. “Hi?” he says.

He hasn’t replied to Wooyoung’s maths questions either, so he wonders if he should steel himself for a scolding. They haven’t talked outside of messages since Wooyoung’s fall in Jeonju, but it would be just like him to break the pattern over something as trivial as Kyungmin’s homework. San wouldn’t be against it, really. Just hearing Wooyoung’s voice in his ear—tinny and distorted—brings him a sense of comfort he can’t find anywhere else.

“How’s the food?” he asks, much quieter and slower than a few seconds ago. “Be honest, nobody else will know.”

“It’s fine,” San says.

“But it’s no Nollandwaeji, hm? And you have to grill everything yourself—but I guess that’s the charm if you’re dining in, right? Actually, I’ve been craving—” Wooyoung stops, like he wasn’t planning to say any of that. He clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m just rambling.”

“It’s okay.” San drops his voice, turning in his seat just enough that he can pretend he’s not being watched. The other two are trying not to make it obvious, but they know now—at least in broad strokes—why Wooyoung wanting to talk to him is a big deal. Softly, San offers: “We can go when you’re back in Ulsan.”

“I—”

“With the others, too. I’m sure they’d love it.”

He doesn’t get more than a hum, long and hesitant. Then Wooyoung speeds up again: “I know this is random, San-ah. And feel free to just tell me no, but—can I call you when you get back? It’s nothing bad, I swear, I just—”

“Yes, of course.” San’s grip on Seonghwa’s phone has tightened, and he loosens it as soon as he realises. “Sure, Young-ah. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll give you back to hyung, now.”

Wooyoung chuckles at that; the sound is so very familiar and yet, after weeks without hearing it, San has to take a moment and then force himself to give the phone away to its rightful owner. Seonghwa wraps the call up quickly, Jongho shouts a goodnight while leaning over his shoulder, and they give San a while before checking that everything’s okay.

His nod must be convincing—or perhaps it’s his smile—because they drop it without prodding.

“So, Hongjoong-hyung is coming tomorrow,” Jongho says, half-statement and half-question, not treating Seonghwa with the same kind of consideration. Perhaps because he doesn’t know as much as San, who still wouldn’t dare tease Seonghwa about it. “Is he coming for work or—”

“Yes,” Seonghwa says.

“But you’re meeting up?”

“Yes.” He tries to leave it at that, sipping on his lemonade and looking towards the counter like it’s the perfect time to get the bill sorted. He lets out a tiny sigh before speaking again. “It’s not a big deal, okay? We’re just going to get coffee. And maybe something to eat. It’s not—please don’t make it into a big deal, Jongho-ya. I just want things to be…normal again.”

San gives his ankle a soft nudge, nodding.

He wants it for Seonghwa, for Hongjoong, and, selfishly, he really wants it for himself, too. But normal is a vague word and so—while they pay, leave, and hug their goodbyes—San just hopes the call will happen, and that it won’t leave him useless for the rest of training.

≍

In many ways, San sees Haneul as the more rebellious child of the two of them; she was the one skipping cram school, sneaking alcohol from their father’s locked cabinet, and going to secret sleepovers under the guise of volunteering with her dance troupe, while all San did was play football and videogames.

Unlike him, though, she has kept to the stringent 10pm bedtime routine their parents had tried to instill in them.

Which means that her place is already quiet when San lets himself in, and the quietness fills every nook and cranny, growing a presence of its own as San moves from hall to kitchen, from kitchen to bathroom, and from bathroom into his small guest room.

He doesn’t mind it, really. It’s like being swaddled in soft cotton, the world outside reduced to the soft rumble of a car engine or the faint hum of music when one of Haneul’s neighbours opens their window. Once he sits on the bed, though, the quiet becomes overwhelming. Because there—changed, washed, expectant—San can fill it with his thoughts.

(you):

i’m home!

There are several follow-up messages he contemplates: a more genuine ‘we can call if you’re not too tired’ or a more teasing ‘don’t tell me you fell asleep on me’. He doesn’t get the time to decide, much less type, before his phone lights up with an incoming call.

“I was starting to think you just went straight to bed,” Wooyoung opens, obviously having decided in advance. His tone doesn’t match the words, too clipped to pass for his usual teasing.

Nervous, like San is—which is good to know, but also bound to happen when you don’t talk to someone for almost a month.

“Were you really?” San asks, shuffling up on the foldout bed until he’s sitting under the window. Shiber, set on his pillow, seems to judge him for the response. Wooyoung just chuckles, making San think he shouldn’t rely on his stuffed toy’s judgement.

“No,” Wooyoung says. “No, I knew you’d message. You’d probably call me yourself if it wasn’t so late, but you didn’t want to, just in case I was already—sorry, San-ah. I’ll shut up now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly.” Wooyoung hums. With how close San is clutching the phone to his ear, it feels like the sound travels through him, offsetting some of his nerves. “I want to hear your voice, too. Come on, tell me about your day.”

It’s too casual a request, and an obvious ploy on Wooyoung’s part to buy himself more time for whatever it is he really wants to talk about. The ankle, perhaps, and so San indulges him. He tells him about Haneul’s neighbourhood and the laundromat cat that he feeds Churu every morning, tells him about dinner and Jongho’s attempts to split a lime in half. He’s careful talking about the team and the training, not wanting to press on a sore spot—but he answers every question Wooyoung has, about the terrible stadium and the friendly coaches and the plans for their first match against Tunisia.

“So, how does it feel?” Wooyoung asks at one point, his quietest question by far.

“Hm?”

“Being the number nine,” he says, “again.”

San swipes Shiber off the pillow at that, hugging the toy to his chest and exhaling harshly. A part of him wants to repeat the same thing he’s told Seonghwa and Jongho earlier—that it’s nice but strange, that a lot can change in the span of six months. But a different part of him wins.

“It feels wrong,” San says, and he winces at the sound that comes through the phone—a ragged exhale just like his own. “Sorry, I know that’s not—I just—it should’ve been you.” With the worst part out of San’s mouth, it’s easy to spill the rest: “I can’t help but think about it—every time I see the jersey. And I know it’s not about me, Wooyoung-ah, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I just really wish—” he pauses in the last stretch, pushes through because it’s the truth “—that you could be here.”

He means it in the simplest, least-selfish terms: that Wooyoung deserves to be in Seoul, getting chummy with the team, training to wow everyone who doesn’t already know just what a great player Jung Wooyoung is.

And he means it in the most selfish way, too: because San knows they might need space, that they’ve left things unresolved at the Ulsan Munsu parking lot, but that doesn’t mean he can love Wooyoung any less.

“You know I’d probably be a seven,” Wooyoung says after a stretch of silence.

San blinks into the dark. “Huh?”

“If I was on the team—they probably would’ve given you the nine, like last year. And I’d be stealing Yeosangie’s jersey.”

“Not if we both—”

“Anyway, San-ah, I’m glad it’s you,” Wooyoung speaks over him, a little rushed. He slows down. “If anyone else on the team gets to wear the nine—I’m glad it’s you.”

That steals the wind out of San’s sails—not that there’d been much more of it than a gentle draft. He smooths his palm down Shiber’s head, working his throat without knowing what to say. Wooyoung seems to take it as a sign.

“Okay, there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” he says, voice pitching higher. “About, uh. My ankle.”

San feels every molecule in his body halt, and the quietness that surrounds him this time is far from peaceful. It’s tense, no more cars rumbling by on the street below, Wooyoung’s breaths barely audible like he’s holding them back. San tries to break the silence twice, and succeeds on the third try. “Yeah?”

“How much do you know?” Wooyoung asks.

“Just what I heard from Buddy-ssi,” San admits. “And Yeosangie. That it’s a partial tear. That you’re doing physio to—”

“I’m sorry for not telling you myself,” Wooyoung interjects again, “but I didn’t want to distract you, like I said, and then I just felt like it’s been… everything in my life suddenly revolves around it, you know? The ankle.” He sighs, the sound heavy with disgruntlement. “And I have to talk to my doctor about it, and my PT, and eomma keeps giving me the same pitying look every day, and it’s exhausting. Because it’s all anyone wants to talk about, like talking about it will actually fix anything. And I’m—”

“Young-ah.”

“—so sick of saying the same thing. Like yeah, I know I need to be positive! Patient, or whatever, I know how this goes. But it’s so tiring to be fucking stuck and then pretend that everything’s gonna be fine in a week or two when I just—I shouldn’t be doing Kyungminnie’s homework, right? You know I love him to death, but I was supposed to be there. Too busy for division and percentages and—why does he even need to learn that? He’s nine!” Another pause, another sigh. “So. I’m sorry but I—didn’t want to do that. With you.”

Wooyoung’s words are fast, painful, and sharp with his frustration—hitting San’s heart again and again like he’s doing target practice without realising.

“Then don’t,” San says, softly.

“I—”

“Don’t pretend. Say what’s on your mind.”

“There’s a lot. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Wooyoung says with the smallest snicker. He hums right after. “Well, it’s—it’s healing.”

San doesn’t respond, just holds the phone tighter. His palm has gone sweaty at some point but he ignores the unpleasant stickiness and keeps clutching it like it’s the only way to keep Wooyoung on the line. Waits. Breathes.

“Honestly, it feels like there’s nothing wrong most of the time?” Wooyoung says, asking nobody. “I can walk fine, I can run. It stopped hurting after a few days, so then I just felt bad for lazing around. But then sometimes I feel it. Not pain, just this kind of—shakiness, like I know I can't put my full weight on it.”

His lip starting to sting, San releases it from his teeth. He can guess what that means. He lets Wooyoung spell it out.

“So, I’m actually going to see my mum’s friend—the doctor I told you about seeing before.”

“The one in Sydney?”

“Mhm. Sunhee-nim was really helpful last time, and I think I need a second opinion. Just to make sure there’s—just to hear what she thinks.” San can’t see it, but he can picture it clearly—a casual shrug, completely at odds with how faint Wooyoung’s voice has grown. “Maybe I just really need to be patient and do all the boring exercises. A hundred calf raises a day or whatever. But maybe—you know.” There’s a crack in Wooyoung’s voice then, like the shrug has turned into a shudder. “There’s also surgery.”

Like a punch to the gut, San holds Shiber tighter to his belly, trying to soften the dull ache. He knew, of course he knew, that this could be on the cards. With Buddy-ssi’s warning about chronic sprains, and with Wooyoung’s complete avoidance of the topic, San has researched it: looked at the options and the healing estimates and never managed to read for more than two minutes at a time.

He imagines Wooyoung, alone in his childhood bedroom, speaking the possibility out loud for the first time. His eyes stray to the window, blinds half-rolled down, like he could actually see anything but the surrounding buildings, see all the way to Ilsan and Wooyoung’s parents’ house and—

“When are you leaving?” San asks, suddenly a bit frantic.

Ilsan isn’t that far away. San could drive there and back before the next day’s training—hell, he could miss a day’s training for this. He’d miss several, if need be, though he can’t really justify an impromptu flight to Australia when he’s meant to be leaving for the UK in a few days. Maybe a short roundtrip, the coaches are pretty understanding and they—

“San-ah, don’t.” Wooyoung cuts his thoughts short.

“I just—”

“We’re flying tomorrow morning. Me and Dongyoung-hyung.”

“Fom Incheon?”

“San-ah,” Wooyoung repeats, a little firmer. “This is exactly what I meant—when I said I didn’t want to distract you.”

“It’s not distracting me, Wooyoung-ah. Don’t you—” get it? Don’t you understand? San takes a deep breath through his nose and rewords his frustration, a little softer. “I just want to be there for you.”

“You already are," Wooyoung says. “And I appreciate it. So much. But you have a job, San, and you can’t really help with this.”

“I—”

“Not right now.”

He’s not wrong: San can’t fix his ankle, can’t lie that everything will be fine, can’t act like a supportive boyfriend in public. He’s not even sure if Wooyoung still considers him that, with the way they’ve left things, and this isn’t the time to be having that conversation.

“Then promise me,” San yields.

“Another promise?” Wooyoung laughs. The phone can’t do the sound justice but San can tell it’s genuine. “Go on.”

“You’ll talk to me whenever you need to.”

“That’s not—you ever heard about this thing called time zones?”

“Wooyoung.”

“Also you’ll have—”

“I said what I said,” San says, smiling, making sure it translates into his voice. “Promise or I’m camping at the airport.”

“Fine,” Wooyoung says with a sigh, faking it, making sure San doesn’t have it too easy. “But you have to promise me something, too.”

“Hm?”

“That you’ll do your best in the friendlies.” He must sense San opening his mouth because he hurries to continue: “Wait, no—I don’t mean you have to score fifty goals. Or play perfect football. Just—enjoy it, okay? I can’t, so you have to do it for me. Can you promise that, Sannie?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Wooyoung repeats, like he wasn’t expecting such easy agreement.

“It’s a deal,” San says. “I’m shaking on it.”

“With whom?” Wooyoung cackles, the sound almost too loud for the hour, even through the phone. He doesn’t seem to realise, doesn’t curse or lower his volume. “The air?”

“Shiber.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m doing it.”

San really does—squeezing Shiber between his knees so that he can use one hand to hold the phone and the other to high-five the plushie’s paw, then gently slap it, then shake. He leaves out the ass smack, and hopes Wooyoung does the same in his mental visualisation of the scene. He also tries his hardest not to think of when and where the handshake was born, the promises of playing a perfect season together.

They’ve already got a good start on it; they’ll finish it the same way, San has to believe that, even if he doesn’t much care for the second part of that night’s promise.

They chat for a bit longer, until Wooyoung yawns and San rushes him to go to sleep, the early morning flight at the forefront of his mind. He’s already on his back by then, Shiber hugged to his chest, eyes closed.

“Goodnight, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, and San can almost pretend he’s there for a second, breathing into the crook of his neck. “I’ll text you.”

“Please do.”

“Don’t camp at the airport.”

“Sleep well,” San says, and though he’s not expecting it—too much second-hand worry about sprains and surgeries—he falls asleep almost the moment the call ends.

≍

For the rest of their Seoul training days, San manages to find a routine.

He, Seonghwa, and Jaewon—one of the right-backs—go to the same gym in the morning, and then to Madeul Stadium directly from there. Once they’re done with training, in the afternoons, he joins other players for food, goes hiking, or hides away in a coffee shop to read.

Out of all the little mountains he manages to scale in Seoul, San makes a ranking that puts Inwangsan in first place. Perhaps because he reaches the top just in time for sunset, watching the city reflect its pink-golden hue, and there’s barely anyone around—just San and his thoughts.

A scary prospect but something he knows he needs, San enjoys it for once.

The way Seoul stretches out before him, so big and yet so distant, brings him peace; puts some distance between him and all his complicated feelings, too, making them easier to untangle.

He takes pictures at Inwangsan’s peak, uploads them to his Stories later, and does the same with whatever drink he ends up getting at the coffee shop. Instead of perusing different spots and ranking them, with this, San just sticks to a cosy place that’s a walkable distance from Haneul’s and doesn’t see a lot of patrons.

At first he just reads; then he buys a small journal and tries writing about his days. The training. Wooyoung. Ulsan KQ and whatever awaits San when they’re back from the break. It’s not instinctive, very much the opposite, but he does a paragraph at a time and it’s a bit like the Inwangsan view—calming.

In the evenings, he calls Wooyoung.

He usually asks San about whatever photos he’s posted—criticises the composition of his nature shots, or teases him about getting adventurous with his drinks of choice—and shares his own from Sydney. Wooyoung’s Instagram account hasn’t been updated since the Jeonbuk game, and he sends no selfies. San is still grateful for it, the little window into his world.

The day before they’re meant to fly out, San and a bunch of players go to Lotte World. They split into smaller groups, not as tight-knit since they don’t really know each other, but it’s good fun. A nice distraction.

Hongjoong—ostensibly still in Seoul to work and visit family—tags along. He's waiting down by the Atlantis entrance when San gets off the ride and freezes, his phone ringing. He must pale around a minute into the call because both Hongjoong and Seonghwa are there as soon as the line goes quiet, looking at him with their distinct frowns of concern.

“It was Wooyoungie,” San says, needlessly. His voice sounds quiet and dull to his own ears, drowned out by the general noise of the theme park. “He said he’ll—uh, he will need the surgery.”

The Broström procedure, a repair and tightening of the ligament, at least five months until full recovery. Optimistically. Wooyoung already has a date for it, in less than a week’s time, and San can’t go on any more attractions after the call.

He goes mute for a while.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa keep him company, they take him to one of the quieter park areas outside and let him sit on a bench in silence until he tells them everything. Seonghwa hugs him, Hongjoong holds his knee, and they insist on leaving with him and making sure he eats something. Moving mostly on autopilot, San once again finds himself in the passenger seat of his own car, then squeezed into a corner seat in some noodle place, drinking down spoonfuls of the mild broth at a pace that has the table next to theirs occupied by three different families before San is halfway though the bowl. He doesn't finish.

“Do you want to come over to the hotel, San-ah?” Seonghwa asks at one point. “We could watch something.”

“Or we can go to the cinema,” Hongjoong offers. “There's that new Hyun Bin movie that just came out.”

“That was two months ago, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa corrects, clearly amused despite himself. “There are no showings of it anymore, I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh. Then we could—”

“Thank you, but I'll just go home. Um. To noona’s.”

All San wants to watch is the rest of Ace of Diamond, the twenty-or-so episodes they still haven't finished. Not by himself but at Wooyoung's place, with takeout or his improvised ramen creations, talking about Ulsan KQ’s next match and Coach Eden's collection of expensive watches and nothing else of real value.

That’s mostly what they talk about, anyway, when they call again just before midnight. Wooyoung gives the surgery two lines at most, and then he switches to an anecdote about the abysmal selection in Sydney’s convenience stores. He doesn’t cry, maybe because he’s in denial, or because he’d already known this would be the outcome and made peace with it outside of their conversations. San doesn’t cry because his tears are the last thing Wooyoung needs.

“Tomorrow,” Wooyoung starts after a longer stretch of silence. He huffs. “Today. When you’re at the airport, you should go to the restroom that’s next to Shake Shack, in the check-in area. I think there’s a photo booth close to it? I don’t know what counter—”

“Why?” San asks, bemused.

“You’ll see,” Wooyoung says. “If you don’t see anything, just forget I said this. And don’t pout.”

“I’m not.”

“Good. Because—”

San steels himself for a teasing insult, something along the lines of how the pouting doesn’t suit him, how it’s going to wrinkle his face. He thinks they should talk about it, that the deflections are not the best course to take. But the promise Wooyoung made was that he’d talk when he needed to, and San has to trust him.

Instead of an insult, Wooyoung makes his exit.

“Have a safe flight, San-ah. And don’t forget about the restroom,” he warns. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

The call ends before San can reply, stumped. He won’t see Wooyoung for another two weeks at least. Possibly longer, because he doesn’t know how quickly Wooyoung can get back to Korea after his surgery. He’ll be bedbound for a while, then he’ll need crutches and a lot of rest. He’ll need other people’s help and San’s heart already aches for him, cracks when he imagines Wooyoung’s usual energy getting stifled.

“Yeah,” he says into the silence of the guest room anyway.

It has to be done, they both know. And sooner or later, San knows he’ll be there to deal with the consequences.

≍

The next morning, Hongjoong sees the team off—sees Seonghwa off—at the airport. This makes San feel both guilty about his own inadequacy—until he remembers Wooyoung forbade him from doing it—and curious about just how well Hongjoong’s apology must’ve gone.

Many of the players are already clustered near their check-in counter when San joins the line, watching his hyungs exchange a brief and slightly awkward hug.

Seonghwa’s shoulders look stiff but then they loosen, just in time for Hongjoong to drop his arms. They take two steps back each, looking at their feet, and Hongjoong opens his mouth like he wants to say something. He nods at his shoes. He shouts goodbye to the rest of the team and then walks away like it’s completely normal behaviour to come to an airport at five in the morning, no real reason or destination, just to turn around right away.

Jongho, catching San’s questioning look, just shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”

Fair, San thinks, but he doesn’t get to ask Seonghwa because he’s a few spots behind and the line finally starts moving. Once his bag is on the conveyor belt, boarding pass in hand, he doesn’t ask because there’s a restroom he needs to find first.

He laughs when he sees it; after a good five minutes spent looking and contemplating if Wooyoung was just playing a joke on him.

But no, there are two stickers on the side of the paper towel dispenser, ones that definitely shouldn’t be there and likely won’t be for much longer. San suspects the cleaners haven’t noticed or they must be fans: one sticker is the Ulsan KQ logo, and another is a tiny jersey with a 10 and his name.

San takes a photo. He wishes he had a matching 9 to stick underneath.

(you):

[photo]

wow

that’s another bathroom claimed 😓

also i need the full set

In the airport lounge, he finally gets Seonghwa to himself and shows him the picture first, to soften him up. Then, and only then—sufficiently and gently made fun of—does he bring up the Hongjoong thing.

“It’s not—whatever you think,” Seonghwa says, and though his cheeks look a little pink, he sounds serious enough that San hums. “He told me his side of it and apologised, and I told him I needed time.”

“To?”

“To be friends again.” Seonghwa swallows, playing with the edges of his passport cover. “For now, that’s it.”

San has expected it, and he can’t fault Seonghwa for it, but it still hurts him, too—to know that Hongjoong’s apology doesn’t change anything, that Seonghwa is still going to leave in a couple of months. He best make the most of the time they have left, San nods and squares his jaw. Not that he thinks their friendship won’t survive a bit of distance, but it’s bittersweet.

He’s picked the wrong career; clearly San isn’t made for professional sports.

The flight is long and he doesn’t have his journal, but he makes do with music in his ears and staring out the window until the only thing he can see is the plane’s wing outlined by endless blue. He thinks about the surgery, and the practicalities of the aftermath—how much can San do, how far will Wooyoung let him push. He thinks about the rest of the season—and the one after. He thinks about Hongjoong, breaking Seonghwa’s heart out of sincere but misguided care—and wonders, far from the first time, if that’s what Wooyoung was trying to do to him before the ankle timed them out.

San worries, and he mopes, and—somewhere along the way—he falls asleep.

Once they land and Jongho shakes him back into reality, San doesn’t really remember his last dream, but he feels like it’s one that he’s had before—a green field and two pairs of muddy cleats. Then he forgets altogether, and all he tries to think about is his promise.

≍

Manchester in early June is not as cold as the internet—and most everyone—had made it out to be.

It rains, that much is true, from the moment they leave the airport, through check-ins at the hotel and their orientation, and even the next day during training. It’s mostly a light drizzle, nothing too annoying; the worst of it only starts when they’re given time off, San has fought off the jetlag, and he’s set off to explore the city with Seonghwa.

He offers to share his mini umbrella—transparent with silver stars—but it’s already too small for one person, so San just pulls up his hoodie and braves it like that, even stopping a few times to take pictures of random streets. Look for leading lines, the advice keeps popping into his head. Patterns. Reflections.

“Wait, wait, stand there!” Seonghwa says, directing him to lean on a wall of some red-bricked building.

It’s pretty, San has to admit, but his eyes widen when Seonghwa takes a polaroid camera out of his purse instead of a phone. He’s seen a similar one at Wooyoung’s—unused, because apparently the film runs expensive. But Seonghwa tells him to pose and stop gawking, so San holds back his questions and… tries.

“Too serious, San-ah, try to smile—yes, that’s better!”

The photo prints immediately, Seonghwa shakes it out under the umbrella, but he refuses to show it to San until he’s taken his turn by the same spot and pulled San into frame for a joint selfie. Far from serious, the pictures are goofy and a little blurry. Cute.

“I got it from Hongjoong. The camera,” Seonghwa admits once they’re walking again, so quietly San almost has to ask him to repeat it. “Just a present. To capture some memories from the trip—that’s what he said.”

“Uhm.”

San smiles at him and his warming cheeks.

Back at the hotel, he revives his Instagram to post the photos—including a photo of the polaroids—and gets a cheery gif from Hongjoong for his efforts, a whiny voice note from Mingi, and a weird number of comments that just spam him with the umbrella emoji.

“It looks so gloomy and grey,” Wooyoung says when he next calls, sounding weirdly charmed even as he punctuates the statement with a yawn.

It’s eight in the morning in Sydney and San is already in bed, getting ready to sleep. Seonghwa, on the other twin bed, has picked up his Nintendo after greeting Wooyoung, and is currently pretending not to eavesdrop. There’s no need for San to feel self-conscious about it though—they only talk about the city and the stadium, the game that will be played there in two days.

The day of Wooyoung’s surgery.

“You feel ready?” Wooyoung asks, out of nowhere, just after he’s given up on begging San to mimic the Manchester accent. “For the match?”

“I guess so,” San says, shrugging to boot.

He’s been put on the starting lineup—as one of the team’s attacking forwards—so his training performance must’ve been convincing enough. He likes leading the offense with Hojae—the other striker—and feels like the team works well together, considering how little time they’ve had to prepare for this. He still misses it—Ulsan KQ, the midfield spot he’s worked so hard to earn, Wooyoung’s silhouette to track through every push forward—but it is what it is.

San has to enjoy it.

“And you?” he asks, quieter, angling himself away from Seonghwa for the first time and hugging a pillow to his chest; he hasn’t brought Shiber, thinking one good luck charm is enough. “How do you feel about it?”

“I think you’ll do great, golden boy,” Wooyoung says, and before San can do anything but stutter out a breath, he adds: “And I’m scared shitless.”

It’s the first time he admits it out loud, not a surprising revelation but still making San’s heart thud faster. He isn’t sure what to say, he doesn’t want the silence to settle. “Do you want comfort?” he asks, “or do you want to vent?”

“I want it to be done,” Wooyoung says, quickly, like he’s had that admission lined up as well. “It needs to happen, right? So I just want it to be over already, and then I can—I can start dealing with it.”

Determined, with the slightest voice crack; San squeezes the pillow closer to his chin.

“I’ll choose once it’s done, okay? If I want to yell or sulk.”

San hums.

On the surface, Wooyoung’s attitude seems like a textbook example of delaying one’s feelings—something San is no stranger to, something he knows could end in a disaster. But Wooyoung has grown more open about it, in the most factual way possible: has shared how the procedure is meant to go, how he’ll need to fast to go under anaesthesia, how his PT already had him trying the ankle boot and giving advice on using crutches. He’s shared each fact like he was reciting an encyclopaedia entry, detached like the inevitability of the surgery now made it a subject that could be discussed, just not in any way related to his personal involvement.

But he will be involved, that’s the inevitable part.

“Whenever you need it,” San says, “just let me know.”

After a few more minutes, Wooyoung has to go meet his brother, so they say goodbyes and San lies down properly, turning back to Seonghwa. He’s still playing his game, gaze downcast on the Nintendo in his lap. San’s eyes are already closed when he speaks up.

“For what it’s worth, San-ah,” he says, “I really think he was just trying to scare you off.”

Without looking at him, San squirms, half his face hidden behind the blanket.

“Because he thought it was, you know, a way to protect you. Which doesn’t make it right, of course, but…”

The fabric feels scratchy against his skin as he breathes.

“Wooyoungie cares about you, I know that. Just as much as you care about him.”

San thinks—suspects, hopes for—the same thing, but he doesn’t reply. Just burrows his nose in the starched material, trying to fall asleep.

≍

The decision to host the international friendlies at Old Trafford is a bit of a mystery to San—seeing as England isn’t even playing, and the other teams are not a big draw for the home crowd—but he is not complaining.

There’s an atmosphere about the place; from the first moment he’s seen it with his own eyes, to the first moment their team actually rolls out onto the field in their match kits. It has him feeling like he’s just fantasising, transported ten years back to when he would spin class-time daydreams about his future. He’s in vivid red, a different shade from Ulsan’s, one he used to regard with awe. However temporarily, he’s one of the Taegeuk Warriors.

Choi San, number nine, striker.

That’s exactly how those daydreams went, so he embraces it—even with the bittersweet edge of knowing his daydreams have changed.

The skies are grey, the stands are far from full, and the Korean fans who could afford to travel make up a small minority amongst locals who probably got tickets just for the experience. It still counts, though: their cheers, their banners, their good mood despite the weather.

That’s what San tries to focus on before the game starts—the support and the excitement, not the weight of an uncertain future and a nine-hour time difference—and once the whistle blows, he tries to shift his mindset even further. There are the players, there’s the ball, and there are all the imaginary paths he can take to ensure it ends up in Tunisia’s net. The fans are just a blur and the world outside doesn’t exist, not for the ninety minutes of the match.

It’s what he tells himself, anyway, locking in to score a goal in the fourteenth minute.

A white lie, one that almost feels like the truth when he scores another, fifty-two minutes in.

But, of course, that isn’t how football works—and definitely not how San works.

It’s all there, at the back of his mind: the promise he’s made, Wooyoung’s surgery in about ten hours, the cheers from the crowd and the joy of his team. When the goal song plays, when he high-fives Hojae, when he breathes in the scent of the muddy grass.

San isn’t playing the game by himself, and he isn’t playing it just for himself.

His dad, his fans, his team.

He’s always felt a little guilty about it, like a fraud who only wanted to play well to please—but there’d be no point to scoring if there was nobody to see, and it hits him there at Old Trafford. When it’s over, they’ve won 4:2, and he’s joining forces with Seonghwa to trap Jongho in a hug.

Ever since he got his silly journal, he’s been trying to put it into words, to explain what football actually means to him. Because he loves the game, striker or playmaker. Loves it even when he hates the pressure, when the eyes feel too heavy, when his own mistakes weigh him down—he would've long since given up otherwise.

But he also loves it because he’s always played it for others, too.

He no longer feels guilty about it as he jogs through the drizzle, lining up for the end-of-game handshakes. In one of the biggest stadiums—if not the biggest—he’s ever played in, goosebumps covering his arms, and a black hair tie around his wrist.

≍

San’s newfound peace lasts about an hour.

The win, of course, brings a high of its own. People congratulate him, the team is on cloud nine. Out of the showers, he finds his phone going off with messages and missed calls: Bora, Yunho, a cousin San hasn’t seen since February.

wooyoungie:

THERE WE GO

finallyyyy

fuck

why was that so stressful???

ㅋㅋㅋ

finally i can sleep

thank u sannie

Those are the last couple of messages in a whole thread, Wooyoung seemingly watching the match in real time on some streaming site, breaking up his football commentary with complaints about the incessant ads. Half the messages are cooing over Jongho, at least three point out the skills of their goalkeeper, and there’s a bunch of indecipherable ones, the timestamps of which San roughly matches up to his own goals.

Still, towards the end of the thread, Wooyoung calls the first one “good” and the second one “acceptable”, with a string of “ㅎㅎㅎ” underneath for ironic emphasis.

“Wooyoungie stayed up to watch?” Jongho asks, not even looking at San’s phone screen, seemingly reading his expression.

“Of course he did.” San holds back an eyeroll, shaking his head instead. “I told him not to. The surgery’s in—” looking at the time, San has to hold himself back from wincing “—five hours.”

“Shit,” Jongho verbalises for him.

Putting his phone away, San’s fingers flit to the elastic around his wrist, snapping it once. Twice. He doesn’t get to three before someone steps up to them, a shadow and then a looming presence.

“So it’s bad enough that he needs surgery?” Siwoo asks.

Addressing Jongho, San has mostly kept his distance from the man ever since his Gimpo past revelation. Prejudiced, maybe, but San didn’t see a point in going beyond polite interactions with someone who spent most of his days complaining. Even now, San finds himself tensing, craning his neck to look at the taller man who doesn’t even wait for Jongho’s answer.

“Pretty sure the doctors already warned him last year, said the sooner the better. But he’s a stubborn one, eh?” Stubborn, San thinks, in a way that makes his chest feel tight. Stubborn, Siwoo says, in a way that makes it sound like an insult. “Didn’t want anyone outshining him.”

“Don’t,” San says, softly.

“Like being MVP in a K2 club actually means shit.”

“I said—”

“Still caught up to him, though. I guess he won’t be playing anytime—”

“—that’s enough.”

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t yell, but there’s an obvious warning in his tone that works on Siwoo. He turns towards San with raised eyebrows, like he’s surprised to find him there in the first place. Whatever he sees on San’s face makes his expression grow into yet bigger surprise, the start of a challenge. Then it smoothes out, some realisation making him nod.

“Oh, right. You guys are friends,” he says, sounding almost amused. “Sorry, man—no need to be mad? I know it’s a loss for your team, but I’m sure Wooyoung will be fine. Stubborn, right?”

This time, when San snaps the rubber band, it actually stings. It’s the one thing he can do to avoid curling his hands into fists, jaw already clenched. Jongho must see, so he takes it upon himself to intervene and hold San by the shoulder, then opens his mouth to diffuse the tension.

“But you do know he’s…?” Siwoo beats him to the punch, voice lowering until he’s just letting his expression do the talking: lips pressed, eyes narrowed.

“He’s what?” San asks.

“You know.”

“Not sure I do.”

More annoyed, now, Siwoo answers with a clipped: “He’s gay.”

Jongho’s hand tightens on San, San’s own muscles lock as he strains to contain his movement. In a random flash, he sees it: his knuckles making contact with Siwoo’s jaw, the crack of the impact, the recoil. A proper punch, hard and deliberate.Channeling all his pent-up frustration over Wooyoung’s future and his past, his own secrets, the way he shouldn’t have to worry about them at all.

He hears Jongho whispering that it’s not worth it, though, and San knows that he’s right. Making a scene won’t make him feel any better. It won’t change a thing.

“So?” he asks, looking Siwoo in the eye.

“Look, man, I’m not a homophobe or anything!” He holds his hands up and San feels Jongho’s fingers flex again. “It’s just a bit—weird, right?”

“How so?” San doesn’t blink.

“Why play football, of all things? He could’ve been a singer or something, lots more guys like him—”

“Actually,” Jongho finally gets a word in, “I’m glad Wooyoung-hyung decided to give the idol life a pass. He’s done everyone a big favour. It would be grim if Korean football was full of players like you, Siwoo-hyung, you know?”

“What—”

“Alright, let’s go get food.”

To the untrained ear, he says it all so calmly and leisurely, but he’s insistent with the way he grips onto San’s T-shirt, making him unfreeze from his spot, grabbing both their bags before he bodily turns San around and forces him to walk out. Siwoo yells after them, now insulted, but he doesn’t follow.

“I should’ve punched him,” San mutters, once Jongho lets him go.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “He would’ve complained and got you kicked out—the last thing you need, hyung.” Still, after a couple more steps in silence, Jongho lets out a big sigh and adds: “What a fucking tool. You should punch him after the last game.”

San snickers at that, he can’t help it.

≍

Time seems to slow when San makes it back to their hotel.

He goes there straight after the game—despite Jongho’s best attempts and San’s gratitude, he can’t even attempt a social gathering with the countdown humming in his brain. Seonghwa bows out, too, to keep him company. It becomes a thankless task once Wooyoung texts that he’s about to check-in at the hospital. But they talk a bit, get room service, and then watch some new Star Wars-adjacent show in Seonghwa’s bed until he falls asleep, just before eleven, and San climbs back into his own bed to read.

Poems don’t work in his current state of mind. Webtoons don’t hold his interest. He ends up scrolling through his socials, something he really shouldn’t be doing, but he stumbles upon a post of someone’s kid dressed in a jersey that almost touches the boy’s shins. Tiny and grinning, it’s Wooyoung’s jersey—Ulsan red with his name and the number nine—and the post is written from the kid’s perspective, wishing Wooyoung-hyung a speedy recovery.

It makes San’s breath catch and his eyes burn; after a second’s deliberation, he sends it to Wooyoung.

And then he spends literal hours doing just that, finding heartwarming posts from fans, well wishes and celebrations of Wooyoung’s best moments on the field, praise that stretches all the way back to March. He might’ve seen most of it—San hopes he has—but he still sends as much as he can, like each kind word is some form of karmic energy San doesn’t even truly believe in, like the sum of them can ensure that everything goes well.

He stays up a long time, feeling a bit like he did in Thailand: stuck in a loop of scrolling and reading and his own frantic thoughts. Then, just around 3am, his one-man spam finally breaks.

wooyoungie:

what the hell is this

??????

did u get hacked??

why are you still up???

(you):

wooyoung-ah

wooyoungie:

oh my god that kid is cute

wait

wowww

WOW

THIS IS MEAN

you want me crying

right out of surgery???

(you):

can you please

just

wooyoungie:

it went well

now stop sending these

and stop worrying

and go to sleep

and

thank you

🖤

San thinks his sigh of relief could wake the entire hotel. Maybe half the city. It’s so loud Wooyoung could probably hear it in Australia, on the other side of the world. But Seonghwa just clicks his tongue and turns onto his other shoulder, and San sinks into the mattress, all of the nervous energy that’s been buffering his exhaustion now gone after Wooyoung’s messages.

≍

They play their second game—against Saudi Arabia—just three days after the first friendly.

Far from ideal conditions but they’ve known about the time constraints in advance, and the coaches haven’t pushed them much in training to let them recuperate. There’s a general agreement, though unspoken, that the third friendly will be more important—the one they’ll be playing in Seoul.

San still tries his best.

The crowd is even thinner for the match, the weather even worse. For a few hours in the morning, it pours so heavily that San wonders if they’ll let them play at all. Then the rain slows and he’s standing in the same spot he was on Wednesday: damp grass, crimson jerseys that stand out against the midday gloom, and a good luck charm on his wrist.

Another goal to his name, one assist, one celebratory hug when Seonghwa gets subbed into the game after halftime and immediately scores a screamer. It’s a pretty easy game, overall. A part of San might even find it a bit boring, but he doesn’t want to indulge that line of thinking.

Wooyoung doesn’t have the same problem.

wooyoungie:

well

that was…

boring

(you):

ㅋㅋㅋ

told you not to stay awake for it

wooyoungie:

it’s 11pm

i’m immobilised

not sick

Despite the final verdict, there are still more than fifty messages from earlier, Wooyoung’s running commentary so detailed that San could picture the whole match without having played it himself. And, despite his act, the pain meds do make Wooyoung drowsy rather quickly, so he knocks out before San can call him from the hotel room.

He changes and leaves, not wanting to disturb Seonghwa who’s on a video call. They’ve got a team celebration at some pub later on, so he haunts the hotel corridors, finding a secluded armchair near the conference rooms, replying to his parents’ messages and briefly calling Bora.

“I’ll admit it now, buddy—I was really worried about how this would go,” she says, turning more serious after her initial hoorays. “I know this must’ve been…difficult. After what happened.”

San hums, plucking some lint off his kneecap.

“But you’ve done well, Sannie, you should be proud.”

“Thanks—”

“And I’m sorry.”

He stills at that, thumb and index finger pressing together. “For what?”

“I always tell you that I’m here for you, right? That you should talk to me if something is bothering you. And I mean it, always, but I get why you haven’t,” Bora says, a different kind of solemn now. “It’s—as your agent, I want the best for you.”

“I know, noona.”

“But after finding out, I think I let my worry get the best of me. Because I wanted you to be aware of the risks but—you already know. You’re the one this affects the most. You and Wooyoung.”

“Noona—”

“Let me finish,” she scolds, more firmly than usual. “I still have my responsibilities as your agent, of course, but I do mean it. That I’m here for you as a friend, too. And I want you to be happy, San-ah.”

Supportive as she’s always been, Bora rarely gets sentimental. She can be optimistic to the point it seems like a front, she can be quiet when she doesn’t feel like the occasion calls for her honesty. Right now, she sounds nothing but sincere, and San feels a little bit stronger for it. A little more prepared for whatever is to come, hazy as it is, San’s plans relegated to a later point in time.

He thanks her, warmly, then picks up Seonghwa for their evening plans. Allows himself one beer that still hits him like a freight train, making him cling to Jongho and sing along to the pub music. They’re going to London in the morning, catching a train at six, but San pretends he’s not nauseous just standing up to get his phone out of his pocket.

Definitely not drunk.

“You should go introduce yourself, Sannie!” someone shouts in his direction, making San’s head snap upwards before he successfully inputs his passcode. It’s Jaewon, grinning, pointing his thumb sideways at another table. It’s occupied by a group of girls, several of them looking away when San tracks the motion. “They’ve been staring a while.”

San almost drops the phone, protesting. “No, I don’t—I’m not—”

“Your English is good. You should take advantage,” another player says, winking at him. “Although, on second thought, you probably don’t have to say much. The girl in the yellow dress—”

“I can’t,” San says. He holds up the phone like it’s a piece of evidence, still locked and dark. “I’m—taken.”

Jaewon looks surprised and someone else coughs. San pays them no mind, back to attempting the passcode though the numbers are already swimming in front of his eyes and his forehead feels heavy.

“He’s very private,” Jongho says in a casual tone, bumping San’s shoulder.

San wants to snort at that. He grins instead, finally getting the combination right, and he’s halfway through selecting the photos he’s been wanting to send—dinner, pub, a blurry snap of the sky—when he forgets the plan altogether and navigates back to his contacts.

(you):

wooyoung-ah

do you knoW

about the umbrellas???

Wooyoung doesn’t reply—probably still asleep, but San decides it must be because he’s not making himself clear.

(you):

poeple send me umbrellas

soooo many

i read a whole post abt it

and its

because of yo

you

Still no reply, and the alcohol running through his veins, San doesn’t care about the umbrellas five minutes later when he’s been deposited into the back of a cab, Seonghwa at his side.

(you):

young-ah

Did youu mean it

?????

what you said

that its not

worth it?

He ends it there and falls asleep.

In the morning, Wooyoung’s reply doesn’t even register at first, mortified as San feels about the questions, suppressed for weeks and let out just like that after a single beer. San didn’t even like it. He can’t say he regrets asking.

Through text, Wooyoung could’ve lied to him easily—there is no body language to read, no pauses to interpret in San’s own favour. He could’ve said yes and forced the chapter to a close, even if San wanted to hang onto all the words and actions that could claim otherwise. He could’ve evaded the question and made fun of San’s obvious drunkenness.

wooyoungie:

no

no i didn’t mean it

just

we can call later?

have fun today!!!

🖤

≍

London is louder and warmer, an attack on all of San’s hangover-heightened senses.

“Why did you let me drink, hyung?” he asks Seonghwa, at least for the third time, sulking while they’re pushing through the crowd at a museum entrance.

“Let you?” Seonghwa shoots back, smirking. “You’re an adult, San-ah.”

“I think you’ve babied him into forgetting.” Jongho aims a pointed look at where San’s got his arm linked around Seonghwa’s elbow, very much the picture of a child accompanied on a museum trip by their parent.

He gets back to his normal self, gradually. The amount of sightseeing Seonghwa’s planned gives him no other option, and the beer-related tiredness simply gets replaced with the tiredness of achy feet and stress over public transport. They manage to see a lot of the big attractions—Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Oxford Street—and Seonghwa runs out of his instant polaroid film. Two other defenders have come with them, but it’s just San, Seonghwa and Jongho by the evening, buying overpriced souvenirs that they didn’t bring a proper suitcase for.

San gets the knitwear, the magnets, a few boxes of premium bourbon cookies. A bottle of whiskey for his collection and a new backpack to stash it all into. He also buys a bunch of cute stickers for his journal, and a funny but overpriced Son Heungmin mug for Wooyoung. The hangover is practically forgotten after their dinner of fish and chips, but the call doesn’t leave his mind all day.

None of San’s own photos make it to his Instagram, he just sends them to Wooyoung directly. He’s not there and he can’t be, but San can almost pretend at times—with the photos, with the time he spends deliberating what souvenir to buy for him, with the scent of a perfume San knows so very well, hitting his nose while they’re squeezing into the tube. He whips his head around when he smells it, on instinct. Just some random girl who gives him an unimpressed scowl, and San spends the rest of the subway ride looking at his feet.

The Ulsan squad gets a shared hotel room for the night, one that initially feels spacious with its three queen-sized beds, then quickly feels cramped when Seonghwa starts another video call with Hongjoong. He tells them to stay and join, his face asks them to scramble, so Jongho escapes to watch a Liverpool-Everton game in another pub, and San… walks.

He stays close to the hotel, listening to music and looping around the same streets. Thinking. Waiting. It’s humid but not raining, the streets far from empty. Nobody recognises him, just like nobody’s recognised him through the entirety of the UK trip, and it feels freeing but bittersweet.

What could’ve been.

There’s a small park that he’s passed several times that eventually lures him in, a bench that overlooks a small patch of grass where three kids are kicking a ball around. San’s barely sat down when his phone buzzes with a message; he’s barely got the phone out when it starts ringing with a call.

“Good morning,” he says, in English, getting a laugh in return. The quiet but sincere kind, one of his favourites.

“Now do the accent,” Wooyoung commands.

“No.”

“Alright, bye.”

He goes quiet, probably tries to hold his breath. Bluffing, San can tell right away and he waits it out, watching as one of the kids almost kicks the ball into a passerby’s back.

“Am I a joke to you?” Wooyoung questions his chuckle, losing his own game.

“I could ask the same.”

“Aw, come on, San-ah! You know your English is cute. I’m just teasing.”

San, still smiling, holds his tongue. Holds his breath. Wins, easily, Wooyoung changing course and asking him a hundred and one questions about the photos, actually giving San a chance to answer about two. The sun disappears for good, the football kids disperse in three different directions. It gets chillier but San stays on the metal bench, folding one arm over his chest.

“I had this dream last night,” Wooyoung says, out of nowhere. A sentence ago, he was contemplating how ugly his ankle boot was, how there must be cooler designs on the market somewhere. “I was back at the parking lot.”

That sends a bigger chill down San’s back, remembering an unfinished cup of yuzu tea and his own deflated reflection in a pair of dark sunglasses.

“The one we went to for—you know, driving lessons.”

Just like that, San feels warm again. Bathrooms and parking lots, he wishes some of his rawest memories could be associated with more pleasant places. Like the park. He hums under his breath.

“Yeah?”

“I was there for a run. In my dream. Which is kinda cruel if you ask me, but that’s how I actually found it back in the day,” Wooyoung says. “I needed to blow off steam and just kept running and running and then I was suddenly at this abandoned parking lot. A bit creepy in hindsight.”

“Why’d you—”

“You posted that reel earlier,” Wooyoung doesn’t let him speak. “Well, Seonghwa-hyung posted it, but you know what I mean. Your gym reel.”

San guffaws.

“It was a lot, okay? I needed to run it off.”

“Did it help?”

“I propositioned you, like, twelve hours later,” Wooyoung says, trying and failing to sound unamused. “What do you think?”

“That I should buy a gift basket for hyung,” San says, “to thank him for his brilliant ideas.”

It isn’t that funny, really, San’s delivery is all over the place with the way Wooyoung’s admission makes him feel—but it still elicits a laugh. Longer and louder, this time, the kind that escapes Wooyoung’s mouth without hesitation, no self-consciousness or restraint.

The favourite.

“I miss your laugh,” San says, once he’s let the sound dissolve into easy silence. He can hear Wooyoung’s breath catch and it spurs him on. “I miss hearing it in person. I miss seeing your face. I miss—”

“I miss you,” Wooyoung says. Fast, firm, the words echo in San’s head a few times before he hears them again. “I miss you, San-ah. So much.”

The park disappears and something in San soars.

“I’m sorry about—I did mean some of it. I knew it would hurt you. It hurt me, too, but I thought it was for the—”

“Can I see you?”

Wooyoung’s voice growing more frantic with each word, and his own heart ricocheting off his ribcage, San doesn’t want to have this conversation on the phone. His hands feel useless and empty. He wants to look Wooyoung in the eyes, this time, not stay stuck imagining them behind a reflective shield.

“What?” Wooyoung asks, laughing in his confusion.

“When you’re back in Korea, back in Ilsan—I can drive up,” San says. “We can talk. I’ll do the terrible accent for you, and you can laugh—”

Wooyoung demonstrates, rumbling and exuberant. San knows sounds can’t heal, not really, but for a moment he feels that they can—Wooyoung’s laughter like a balm, so potent and powerful San had once tried to avoid it out of self-preservation.

“Yeah. Yes.” Wooyoung says. “I’ll hold you to it, though—I want a proper show. Recording allowed. You better start practising now, dimples.”

“I’ll do my worst.”

They don’t make another promise—not an explicit one, at least, but it hangs in the air for the rest of their call. A relieved kind of anticipation, like there are only seconds until the end of the match and their team is in the lead. Comfortable. It will be days in their case—Wooyoung’s flight back scheduled after the match in Seoul—but the buzz is the same, the sting of impatience eased by knowing the worst is over.

Not quite.

They still need to talk, San still needs to play, Wooyoung’s ankle has barely started healing.

“I’ll see you soon,” San is the one to say, this time, and he makes it back to the hotel feeling like he’s floating, knowing that he means it.

≍

The jetlag in Seoul somehow hits San a thousand times worse than on their outbound trip. With five days to train before the last friendly—played at the Seoul World Cup Stadium, against Vietnam—he spends two of them feeling like he’s sleepwalking on the field, and two trying to pack his schedule as tightly as possible, to make his time pass faster.

Bora meets San on the third day, joining him for a meeting with the Fila representatives, and she doesn’t mention the hotel conversation but San hugs her tightly. Hongjoong is in Seoul again—reason unspeficied—and he convinces San to third-wheel his and Seonghwa’s cinema trip, witnessing more awkwardness as they attempt to share a popcorn bucket, and also more ease as they walk out of the theatre with their shoulders bumping. On the Friday before the match, San’s parents drive up and Haneul takes a day off work.

“You look tired,” San’s dad says, after they’ve had dinner, all four of them gathered around a bowl of bingsu but only three of them eating.

San swallows a mouthful of shaved ice before agreeing: “Jetlag.”

“You’ve been like this all month, honey,” his mum counters, putting down her own spoon. “I know this is important, San-ah, but maybe you’re letting the stress get to you. National team or not, you shouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Not wanting to explain why he’s been like this all month, San just nods. Haneul eats, pretending they’re all speaking a language she doesn’t understand. His dad clears his throat.

“Objectively, it is very important, yeobo,” he says. “His performance in these matches could get him a spot—“

“Stop right there,” his mum interjects, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t lecture me about this—did I not marry a football player?”

“I don’t mean—”

“Who stayed up the other night to watch him play?” she continues, obviously enjoying his dad’s fluster. “Who bought him his first pair of cleats? It wasn’t you, honey, you were too busy to know what size he wore.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right,” San’s dad relents, the other three chuckling in synch. “You should rest more, son. You don’t want to get injured.”

“Right.”

San nods again, but the words still deal him a blow, the strawberry syrup suddenly tasting sour. He focuses his gaze on the tower of shaved ice, watching as one side droops to the right, melting a drop at a time towards its collapse.

“How’s your friend?” San’s mum asks. “Wooyoung?”

“Um.”

“I heard that he’s going to need surgery?” his dad adds.

“Yeah, he’s—he got it done last week. He’s still—he’s in Australia.”

It’s a bit torturous, having to entertain his parents’ disappointment over the fact, having to talk about it like San’s disgruntled over losing a good teammate. Whatever relief San could’ve felt about sharing, he’s lost it several conversations about the same subject ago. But he answers their questions, slowly digs through his portion of the bingsu, grips the spoon when his mum makes the whole talk even more torturous.

“And what about the girl you were seeing, honey? I hope you still managed to find the time to keep in touch. You seemed so happy last time, when you mentioned her.”

San almost chokes. His dad’s expression mirrors his mother’s curiosity. Haneul looks like she’s just been informed that San was giving up football to become a priest.

“You have a girlfriend, Sannie?” she asks.

“No,” San says, then sputters: “Yes. I, uh—we’re still—yeah.”

Haneul’s eyebrow is so arched it’s practically a right angle. “Eh?”

“We’re fine. It’s been a bit difficult to—keep in touch. But we’re fine.”

He gives his parents a tight-lipped smile, hoping to prevent further questions. Miraculously, it works. Haneul doesn’t tease him either, they finish their icy sludge, and then San drops their parents off at their hotel before driving back to his sister’s place.

The entire time, he’s only half-present, focused on driving and tuning out the conversation. Silent as they walk up to Haneul’s flat. Tense as she disappears into the bathroom and leaves him to his overthinking.

“Noona,” he says, a few minutes later, joining her at the kitchen counter.

“Hm?” She lifts a glass of water to her mouth, then puts it down in favour of touching San’s forehead. “You okay, Sannie? You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine. Just—you know what eomma said? About me having a girlfriend?”

Haneul’s hand drops. “Yeah, what was that about? Are you just lying to keep her off your back?” she asks, amused. “Or were you really keeping it a secret from me? Should I be offended—”

“It’s Wooyoung,” San says—quickly, like ripping off a bandaid, bracing for his own flinch that never comes. “There is no girlfriend,” he continues. “The person I’ve been seeing—it’s Wooyoung.”

His sister’s eyes widen and her mouth drops, but she purses it immediately with a small pop. “Holy shit,” she says, blinking at San. “So it’s true?”

“Noona—”

“Those people were right.”

“People?”

“Sannie. Baby.” Still confused, San finds himself being squeezed so tightly it makes him gasp over Haneul’s shoulder. Her face smushed into his chest, San pats her back, trying to understand the rest of her muffled words: “...long? Must’ve been… makes sense… oh my god.”

“Noona?”

He gently pries her away to inspect her face; another person in San’s life that doesn’t take to sentimentality easily, she’s smiling, looking more touched than he’s seen her at her own graduation.

“Thank you for telling me,” Haneul says, then flicks him in the shoulder. “But what do you look so nervous for, hm? You know I always got your back, Sannie. You’ll be fifty and I’ll still be your older sister.” Just like that, the flip switches and Haneul’s lip curls up. “Well, unless I die first, but let’s not—”

“Hey!”

San winces in horror and she just laughs, shuffling back to her glass of water and downing it in one go. She fills it up again, clocks his stare, holds it out like she’s offering a glass of scotch: “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

“Your loss.” In the same breath, she turns the kettle on and tells San to get the yujacha, setting two mugs on the table herself. She hesitates for a moment, the water heating up behind her back. “What? Are you sleepy already?” she asks, and then understanding dawns on her face when she looks at the clock. “Oh, are you meant to call him? That’s why you’ve been—wait, San-ah, what have you been doing in my spare room?”

She says it playfully, and smirks like she’s inviting him in on the joke, but San still flushes. “Nothing!” he says. “It’s not like—we haven’t—he’s still in Australia.”

That is one weak excuse for something he hasn’t even done—he’s had some choice dreams in there, yes, but he didn’t defile Haneul’s guest room. The walls are thin. San’s had too much existential angst to jerk off.

He helps her make the tea and sits down, ready to defend his honour. In the end, she goes easy on him and San doesn’t even need to try.

≍

“Young people and their phones.”

The overwrought sigh makes San look up, Kyungho hovering above with an amused smile. He’s changed into their kit already, the red almost blinding up close, and his comment brings San back inside the locker room, registering the steady stream of players clocking in with grins and high-fives.

“You’re only two years older, hyung,” San says.

“My point still stands.” Kyungho shrugs. “Put it away and enjoy the day, Sannie. It’s gonna be a fun one.”

And San does, knowing the man is right.

While Old Trafford had its legacy and the charm of a stadium once thought unattainable, the Seoul World Cup Stadium buzzes with the kind of celebratory atmosphere that’s infectious even at a glance—though the game hasn’t started. San knows the place well, it’s where they always play against FC Seoul, but it’s a different crowd today, different stakes, an odd mixture of the everpresent pressure but also something calming.

Their head coach puts it into words in his final brief: “Remember—we want to win, yes, and we can. But, more than that, let’s make it fun for the fans. Make them love the game, okay? Even those who got dragged here by force.”

Everyone chuckles. The coach thanks them for their hard work. San takes one last glance at his phone—still no message, he tries not to worry—and then he puts it into his bag, retrieving the hair tie instead.

He slips it on his wrist just before joining Seonghwa in the doorway.

≍

San’s ball misses the net, narrowly, and bounces off the goalpost with a loud clang. It matches the thud of his heart, but he’s not even given the chance to be disappointed—the chant starts up, drowning out whoever could yell his name in dismay, just a repeated chorus of dae-han-min-guk and five claps, the drums keeping its beat.

The Vietnamese goalkeeper restarts play with a kick-off, and the noise fades but doesn’t disappear. Like a cushion, a constant hum, it’s not something San can push away and he doesn’t want to.

About one third into the match, there have been no goals scored but both teams are making good on the promise of entertainment. San’s had three almost goals, other teammates have made their attempts, and their own goalkeeper has been kept busy. It’s a matter of time until the tie breaks, San thinks, watching as their opponents get a bit more sluggish with each whistle. Objectively, Korea has a higher chance of scoring first.

Five claps. Three passes. One defender coming right at Hojae as he presses forward.

“Jaehyeon, ball!” San calls out to their number seven, open for a pass.

He’s too far to interject himself, but the moment the ball changes feet, he pushes upwards with the two of them, a triangular formation where San is bringing up the rear. He weaves around the defenders, drops back whenever the other two need an intermediary pass. Then he sees it: the perfect opportunity, the perfect angle.

“Right corner!” he yells at Jaehyeon, and it happens within a couple of blinks.

The first goal of the game, a firm slide above the goalkeeper’s hands. Impossibly, even more noise erupts when the ball lands, the drums almost making San feel like his body is one with the rhythm, each beat vibrating down to his cleats.

Hojae celebrates with a couple of jumps, others congratulate Jaehyeon on how beautiful the shot was. It was just okay, San thinks, but he would never say that out loud. Kyungho brushes his shoulder, running backwards: “Nice one, Sannie. Very playmaker of you.”

Afterwards, the tempo of the game changes.

They get more chances, their defense barely breaks a sweat for the last ten minutes. Shot after shot, the fans are working for it right alongside them. Then San lines up a perfect shot for Hojae, and they leave for halftime with a two-goal lead that easily doubles after their break. San scores the third goal, goosebumps raising over his skin as the stadium cheers for him.

It’s exhilarating.

One of those moments he knows he’ll remember, even if the game isn’t that important, even if there’s no big prize to be won. He wishes he could share it with Wooyoung but he doesn’t let himself wallow. Not now, when he’s making good on his promise; he just twists the hair tie around his wrist in his own private celebration.

When it’s 4:1 and they’re playing the last ten minutes, San can see the team getting a bit reckless with it. Losing possession more easily, clustering when they shouldn’t be. He himself drops a bit further down—though he should be the furthest up—and somehow finds himself next to Siwoo.

It’s stupid, San knows. Reckless, and also needless.

But when the other man tumbles on his ass, nobody makes a big deal out of it, a simple accident that nobody questions. San apologises to the referee for his clumsiness, Siwoo gets up with a scowl. That’s that, because just like San would be good at diving if he wanted to play dirty, he’s good at playing innocent.

He doesn’t try to score again, more than content with the image of Siwoo’s fall powering him towards the final whistle. And then it’s a complete chaos of chants and drums and his teammates’ excitement, relief washing over San like a heavy spray of warm water. For the first time, he allows himself to look at the section of the stands where his family is and he waves towards it. Keeps looking that way until they’re lined up for the national anthem and then he looks down at his wrist.

Handshakes over, everyone sweaty and elated, they need to shower before the press circuit starts but San gets stopped in his tracks before he reaches the exit tunnel.

“Hey, number nine!” He hears a shout, one amongst many. “Oi, Choi San!”

San would recognise the voice anywhere.

He turns, trying to locate the source—it’s hard in the frenzy, even if the options are limited. The closest row of the stands, to his right, San’s eyes scan it feeling crazy. Because there’s no way, it doesn’t make sense, he can’t be—

“Over here!”

It is Wooyoung, not just his voice but him standing there in flesh. Cackling when San finally finds him, leaning against the metal fence as he waves. He’s got a cap on, a black one San has once borrowed. He’s wearing a jersey that immediately stands out amongst the crowd of other fans’ crimson red—Wooyoung’s is a more muted shade, the Ulsan KQ colours—and San’s heart leaps.

Then it almost gives out.

Wooyoung turns, still grinning, saying something to the man on his right. His older brother, San recognizes, who’s holding a pair of crutches under one arm, using the other to support Wooyoung under his shoulder. A sting, a painful reminder, but it doesn’t have time to turn into proper ache.

Because the number on Wooyoung’s back, when San catches sight of it, is a big and unmistakable ten.

He can’t reach the stands, security having fenced off an extra part of the field, but he runs as close as he can get. Leans on the barrier for his own support, no injuries incurred in the match, knees feeling wobbly. He must look very stupid, just standing there for a few moments, looking up with his mouth open. Finally, he croaks out a silly: “What are you doing here?”

Wooyoung laughs. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“You didn’t say—”

“That’s how surprises work, dummy.”

San pouts, but it’s just an instinctual response—he doesn’t feel the slightest bit sad, he’s having trouble containing his delight. Someone crashes into his shoulder and he barely notices, but Wooyoung’s attention shifts towards the intruder, waving at Jongho, and then Seonghwa, and then waving them away.

“Go, go! I’ll meet you later,” he says, ostensibly to all of them.

But he’s aiming his words at San, pointing his chin at the tunnel, pretending to sigh in frustration when San barely moves. Go, he mouths again, and San takes a tiny step back, like he’s backing towards a cliff and can’t afford to lose his balance.

“Let’s go, loverboy.” Jongho grips him, not giving San a choice.

≍

Despite getting to the locker room late, San is one of the first ones out. He makes it through the press con, somehow, on the sheer power of smiles and nods. Multiple people try to stop him for a chat but San just bows and throws thank yous at them, rushing against an imaginary clock.

There’s no need for him to, everyone is happily waiting for him by the staff exit.

Everyone, meaning a group of people that makes San lose his crazed velocity on sight: there’s Haneul entertaining Kyungmin, Wooyoung’s older brother next to Bora and the girl who must be his fiancée, San’s parents talking to another couple their age.

Wooyoung.

In the middle, turning to say something to San’s dad, leaning on his crutches.

“Whoa. Family reunion,” Jongho, materialising behind San, comments with a grin.

“They’ve never met,” San says, dumbly.

“Fun.”

This time, Jongho pushes him forward, not just shoving him off an imaginary cliff but letting San fall to a group of sharks. Very friendly, not truly bloodthirsty sharks—they all stop talking when they spot them, then race against each other with their congratulations. Bows, introductions, smiles all around; San does his best to be polite, but his eye keeps straying to the same spot, his mouth working on autopilot.

In a brief pause between all the hubbub, San’s palm twitches. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, a soft breath of acknowledgement.

The cap has hidden it, made San think that Wooyoung just had his hair tied up. But up close he sees that it’s chopped to the nape, leaving his neck exposed. For a moment, San wants to pout: because the hair feels like some proof of change, like the crutches do, like the brace on Wooyoung’s right foot.

But he shakes it off. “Suits you.”

It’s still quiet as he says it, several pairs of eyes on him, but Seonghwa takes it upon himself to catch everyone’s attention with a game-related anecdote. San doesn’t really take it in. He’s still frozen, staring. Thinking of something better to say.

“I thought it would make me feel better,” Wooyoung says, the crowd around them arranging so that he’s no longer in the midst of it. “It was either this or a piercing, and eomma wouldn’t have that—not under her roof.”

San smiles, fighting a great battle to keep his hands to himself. “Did it?” he asks. “Make you feel better?”

Wooyoung purses his lips and pretends to think about it. He shakes his head. “No, not really.”

Now there’s a sadness San can’t shake off as easily, a good reason to pout. He doesn’t give into the impulse—not here, not when he’s got so many reasons to be happy. “Did you tell them?” he asks instead, pointing to Jongho and Seonghwa. “That you were—”

“No. Surprise, remember?”

“When did you get back?”

“Two days ago.”

Their chat has been more quiet since then, but San has just chalked it up to Wooyoung’s tiredness or his attempts to make San focus on the football. His muscles jump, suddenly, with an onset of new guilt: he’s hurried through his post-match responsibilities but it still took some time, meanwhile Wooyoung has been standing here with his crutches for—

“Guys! Where’d you go?”

The shout comes from Hojae, and their crowd further multiplies with the arrival of more players. There’s no privacy there to be found, too many streams of conversations to track. The primary one, though, is of the players banding together to go celebrate and inviting everyone to join. Both sets of parents bow out, then Bora, then Haneul.

“You should come, Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa says.

Wooyoung opens his mouth but hesitates, shuffling as much as the crutches allow. San jumps in: “Is everyone coming?”

“Not all the players,” Jongho says, and then in a quieter tone that’s only meant for San: “Not the one you fouled, anyway.”

“I—”

“And it won’t be just the players, either,” he returns to normal volume. “Some are bringing their girlfriends. A few wives. And Hongjoong-hyung is coming, too!”

That makes Wooyoung snicker, Seonghwa flush, and San lose his long-standing battle. He touches Wooyoung’s elbow, softly.

“I could drive you back home,” he offers.

It doesn’t take any more convincing than that.

≍

Alas, they don’t get any more privacy in San’s car.

A whole bunch of players end up squeezing into the backseat while San helps Wooyoung into the passenger one, hiding the crutches in the boot. A loud ride to the barbecue place, full of stolen glances and restraint; after a month and thousands of kilometres’ distance, not reaching out almost brings San physical pain.

But he holds back, relying on ample experience, and focuses on the little things.

Supporting Wooyoung out of the car again, thinking about how he’s there and real and not the reason why San needs to be doing it, the stiffness of Wooyoung’s shoulders that doesn’t quite yield. The way their knees knock together under the table once they’re seated, the intentionality of it when Wooyoung presses into the touch.

He’s thinner, San cannot help but notice. The stupid jersey that still makes his heart flutter hangs on Wooyoung a little too loosely, he’s got a hint of shadows under his eyes, and then there’s the hair, of course—bangs still long, but the difference undeniable now that Wooyoung’s lost his cap.

“Who’s been looking after your flat, hyung?” he asks Hongjoong, a challenging tone as he chews on a strip of beef. “I heard you’ve barely been there all break.”

“Ha-ha,” Hongjoong says. Going for inflectionless, his tone cracks on the second syllable. “Close your mouth when you eat.”

Ever the contrarian, Wooyoung only pauses his chewing so that he can laugh into Hongjoong’s face.

And that’s the other half of the equation, because he still laughs the same, and he teases the same, and he downs three shots of soju like it’s nothing, only cocking his head towards San when he says he has to drink for his designated driver, too, since he’s such a lightweight. He easily chats with everyone around the table, stranger or not, and San could so easily forget about the ankle when Wooyoung catches him staring and winks, a blush rising to his cheeks.

It deepens when Wooyoung checks his phone and clears his throat. He doesn’t give San a chance to ask, turning to Seonghwa. His knee shifts and then pushes right back, resting against San’s.

Two hours go by like that, the best conclusion to the national team episode that San could imagine.

Except it gets better, when they finally say goodbye, and they’re back in San’s car, and he doesn’t have to hold himself back anymore.

Wooyoung is the one who pulls him into a hug.

With bruising strength, still in front of the restaurant, he buries his face in San’s shoulder and breathes him in like he’s been out of air for hours. Days. It makes San shiver, his fingers gripping onto Wooyoung’s back and making the jersey bunch up. His own inhale is indulgent, his fingers turn more tender when they rest against Wooyoung’s nape.

He smells the same.

Like comfort and a hundred different memories, his woody perfume and the Wooyoung underneath. San can feel his pulse and can sync up their breathing. A bubble that’s completely see-through, probably the most intimate thing they’ve done in this car, and he doesn’t care one bit.

“Missed you,” Wooyoung says, lifting his head just enough that the words brush against San’s neck.

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry.” Those land closer to his ear, just above a whisper.

“Me too.”

Wooyoung stays like that, folding himself into San like he'd be happy to fall asleep there. San keeps one hand at his nape, the other rubbing patterns over Wooyoung’s back: the 10 that he can’t forget, the knobs of his spine, the ridges of his shoulderblades.

The drive to Ilsan takes an hour, but San feels like it passes in a flash.

At first there’s a comfortable silence, then Wooyoung picks one of his self-made playlists—adds three new songs and removes five. He keeps his hand on San’s thigh—letting San rub his knuckles and play with his fingers, the kind of simple indulgence he’s never going to take for granted again. Wooyoung looks at the time, licks his lips, and thinks so loudly that San has to ask: “What?”

“You should stay the night.”

San gulps, looking into the sparse traffic ahead. “At your parents’ house?”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung shrugs. “They wouldn’t mind. Eomma suggested it.”

San gulps again. “Do they know?” he asks. “About us?”

“Well, my hyung never really believed the fake boyfriend stories,” Wooyoung says, quickly, squeezing San’s thigh. “And he’s even worse at lying than me, so…”

“Um.”

“Eomma texted earlier. Asking if she should clean the guest bedroom for you, or if you’d just sleep in mine.”

Bless the sparse traffic, San whips his head to the side to stare at him. “She did?” he asks, almost offended by the knowing grin that spreads over Wooyoung’s face. “What did you say?”

“That I’d ask you,” Wooyoung says, and then he starts messing around with the playlist again, skipping over a song that he’s just added.

San briefly wonders if he’s so unaffected by this because he’s drunk, or because he’s having him on, but then he sees the pink tinge over Wooyoung’s cheekbones and realises they’re in the same boat. It takes the rest of the drive for San to make up his mind—weighing politeness and selfishness, what would be the bigger hassle, what would make the visit less awkward. He’s got his answer by the time he parks where Wooyoung navigates, but he doesn’t get to share it.

“Took you too long,” Wooyoung says, slapping San’s thigh before he retrieves his hand and reaches for the door handle. “Won’t stress eomma over cleaning at this hour, right?”

“I—”

“Go get my crutches, babe.”

San doesn’t have to be told twice.

≍

Wooyoung’s father turns out not to be a sports guy.

“I prefer music,” he says to San in a faux-hushed tone, admitting he’d once held hopes of Wooyoung becoming a famous guitarist or a singer. He’s just teasing, making Wooyoung roll his eyes like the jab is old and tired. He then starts showing off his vinyl collection and San has to pretend he knows what ‘pressing quality’ means, knows there are different vinyl compounds, knows how it all affects a record's depth of sound. Cold-heartedly, Wooyoung watches him scramble until his mother interjects.

“You want to see the pictures?” she asks, tugging San away from her husband, towards Wooyoung and the sofa.

“What pictures?” San asks.

“The pictures,” she says, looking at San like the answer should be obvious, a curl to her lip that feels perfectly familiar.

“Eomma!” Wooyoung shouts, all too loud.

“His baby pictures,” Wooyoung’s mother clarifies with a sigh. “I’ve got some cute ones from when he just started playing. He was always the shortest on the team—I had to tailor all his—”

“Really? You must do this?” Wooyoung clicks tongue. “Kicking a man when he’s already down?”

His mother laughs and pushes San down on the seat, ruffling Wooyoung’s hair on her way out of the room. Their thighs touch when San sits, in the middle of the sofa and not the opposite end, and he wonders if that’s too much, too fast—but Wooyoung leans into him.

“I was a really cute kid, actually,” he says, covering his mouth. “I just refuse to give her the satisfaction.”

“I heard that!” his mum shouts—though she really couldn’t have—and just then Kyungmin comes back inside the room, already in his pyjamas, jumping on the sofa next to San.

Walking into the house, San’s palms were sweating worse than the time he had to play his first big league match. Though he’d already met Wooyoung’s parents earlier, they barely exchanged five full sentences, and a parking lot gathering was a whole lot different from having the spotlight aimed at San in their own territory.

He’d never pictured it happening this way.

Truthfully, San had never had the guts to picture it beyond the vaguest outline of a formal dinner and hoping against hope that they would like him. Tolerate him. He’d planned to rely on his own manners, carefully chosen gifts, and a bunch of overpriced courses he would offer to pay for.

This—Kyungmin tugging on San’s sleeve to show him a scrape he got in PE last week, Wooyoung’s dad choosing a random record to play at a volume that makes them all jump, and Wooyoung’s mum returning with a thick album that she basically tosses in Wooyoung’s direction—is none of that.

San still feels nervous—he needs to make a good impression—but he also feels at ease.

“I was seven here,” Wooyoung says, inflectionless. He points at a picture of himself: scowling in an oversized jersey, the bottom of it tucked into his shorts, the shorts pulled way above his belly. Wooyoung tries to turn the page but his mum interjects.

“Seven—what description is that, Wooyoung-ah? You were seven in the next ten photos. This was—Kyungmin-ah, go brush your teeth!—was his first game at the academy. He met Yeosangie that day.”

“You did?” San turns to ask.

“Yes. You’d find out soon enough.” Wooyoung flips to a page that, indeed, shows his younger self hugging a miniature Yeosang, posing for the camera with their cheeks smushed together. “Just let me tell it how I want to, eomma.”

“Suit yourself,” she says.

But she takes over in the end, showing off the last fifteen-or-so pages of the album while Wooyoung excuses himself to the bathroom. He grabs his crutches and gives San a pointed glare before he can offer any help. Limps out like it’s nothing special.

Kyungmin has already gone to sleep, after some valiant protests, and Wooyoung’s dad has dozed off in the armchair, the record now playing at a low thrum. Left alone with Wooyoung’s mum, San’s palms almost start sweating again, but she doesn’t give him a chance—she just talks about how a particular match, when Wooyoung was nine, gave her the wrinkle above her left eye that San can’t even see.

“Oh, you’re too polite, honey!” she says, swatting at his knee. “Wooyoungie was right about that. A proper gentleman.”

San feels himself blush, up to the roots of his hair. “I—um, I’m just telling the truth, eomeonim.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s too formal!” She gets up, swiftly closing the album and walking towards the record player, letting the room descend into silence. “I’ll get you some pyjamas to wear. They might be too small for you, San-ah, but they should be fine for a night, hm?”

With her gone, San leans his head back, looking at the ceiling and listening to the snores coming from the armchair. He feels exhausted, he feels content. He feels the happiest he has in a while, and the feeling only grows when he hears someone’s soft breath, and finds Wooyoung watching him from the doorway.

Changed into a simple black T-shirt and loose shorts, San just catches one of his quiet smiles before it grows toothy.

“Pyjamas for you.”

He holds them out, clumsily, not wanting to drop the crutch under his right arm. His body tilts and San jumps up like the sofa cushion has burnt him, grabbing the fabric at once.

“They’ll be too small for you,” Wooyoung says, taking a step back before San can try to help him with his balance. He points his elbow at a door to their right, obviously the bathroom. “Go get changed. I’ll take my meds.”

“Wooyoung-ah—”

“And get ready to see things… much more embarrassing than baby pictures.”

San watches him hobble away, frozen until another loud snore from behind his back makes him move.

≍

Wooyoung’s childhood bedroom is a lot different from the flat San has come to know.

The colour scheme is the same—black and grey, obviously a preference that hasn’t changed over time—but it’s not the austere room he keeps in Ulsan, almost overwhelming when San first steps inside.

There are boxsets, a collection of figurines on a shelf, more trophies than he can count. Several different club scarves—some of which could stoke a rivalry—and a huge Lotte Giants poster on a wall. A pinboard full of pictures above his desk: photos, but also photocards of different idols, a League calendar from 2021, more football paraphernalia and pictures of players like Messi, Cho Guesung, and—

“Yep.”

Wooyoung hums just as San sees it—himself, in the pink kit they had for his first season at Ulsan KQ. A candid shot of him on the field that looks like it’s been cut out from a magazine, the edges rough. San opens his mouth but doesn’t quite know what to say.

“You knew it was coming,” Wooyoung says, sitting on the edge of his bed. He leans back on his palms, red in the face but trying to act unaffected. “Don’t overthink it.”

San tries, but he can’t say he’s very successful.

At first he feels giddy over the confirmation, then he revisits the old guilt over how he’d behaved in Thailand. He wants to ask why, and he wants to kiss Wooyoung silly. Out of all the options, he settles for a teasing: “No poster of me?”

“Shut—”

“I expected better from my biggest fan.”

Wooyoung laughs, full-bodied but still embarrassed if the flush is any indication. San delights in it, knows he’ll tease him more about it later, but he rotates around the room again, taking in more and more details.

“Okay, that’s enough perceiving,” Wooyoung says, clearing his throat. “Hopefully you can sleep with the Giants watching over you.”

San looks at the poster again, just above Wooyoung’s bed. Then he feels his own face heat up, fully realising that it’s the only bed in the room, a single smushed under the window, three pillows but one blanket.

“Uh—is this okay?” he asks.

“What?”

“Your parents don’t mind—”

“We’re adults,” Wooyoung says, and adds a bit too hurriedly: “And it’s not like you’re going to fuck me with the boot on.”

It’s crass, pointed, a joke that seems to misfire the moment it leaves his mouth. Because Wooyoung’s smile sours, like he’s revealed something he didn’t want to, or like he’s reminded them both that things are not okay. That he isn’t.

Picking his battles, San takes a long drag of breath up his nose and steps closer. “Do you keep it on when you sleep?”

“Not anymore, I—”

“Can I help?”

Holding Wooyoung’s gaze, San can see the kneejerk refusal melt into hesitation, the itch to say no slowly giving way to a nod. It’s small, almost imperceptible. San crouches down right away, but he reaches out for Wooyoung’s hand first, waits until his shoulders unwind and the leftover panic dissolves from his face. Only then, carefully, does San undo the velcro straps and pull back the lining, keeping his eyes trained upwards as he gently lifts Wooyoung’s foot.

His breath snags, but San doesn’t think it’s from pain.

“Is this okay?” he asks, allowing himself to look at the socked ankle for a beat. “You did a lot of standing today. Is it swollen? Do you want me to—”

“I saw you tripping Siwoo,” Wooyoung says, out of nowhere.

San jolts, but Wooyoung stills him in turn, placing a hand on his neck.

“I saw the hair tie,” he continues. “You had it—for all the matches.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Wooyoung asks the question like he doesn’t really expect an answer but needs it to come out and hover between them. Likewise, his next words are not a reprimand, just another statement he voices like he needs to sound the idea out. “You know that’s the opposite of being careful, San-ah.”

“I wanted you there,” San says, earnestly. “With me. In some way. I—”

“Come here.”

Despite saying that, Wooyoung leans down first, nudging his nose against San’s. It’s playful, inviting, and San is more than happy to oblige and close the distance.

The kiss is soft, unhurried. Just lips brushing, pressing, parting enough that San can draw a breath right out of Wooyoung, melting into him. There’s ease and comfort to the way Wooyoung tips his head up, how he captures San’s bottom lip and pulls it between his. How he trembles when San pulls him closer by the nape, playing with the short hair there until Wooyoung’s mouth opens for him.

More than a month without this, San can feel the whisper of his want, the urge for more and now. But a louder part of him wants to keep it slow—content with kissing Wooyoung like he’s drinking in the familiarity, memorising his lips like it’s the first time, all over again.

Eventually, Wooyoung lets out a needy whine and San’s tongue traces his favourite spot, licking over the mole on his bottom lip. Eventually, each kiss grows deeper and San’s thighs start straining, knees aching. Eventually, he smiles and retreats, just taking in what his mouth couldn’t: Wooyoung’s half-lidded eyes, the hair that falls over them, the dot underneath the left one.

Still there.

“I can be more careful,” San says, his words falling on Wooyoung’s skin and making his eyelashes flutter. He doesn’t like the idea of holding back and pretending he can be the least bit unaffected in Wooyoung’s presence, but he’s willing to do it. To train himself. “With us, I can be—”

“Maybe I can’t,” Wooyoung says. He swallows. “I trust you, San-ah, but that’s the thing—maybe I don’t want you to be.”

“Then—”

“I know I didn’t go about it the right way. I’m sorry I lashed out.” He keeps his hands on San’s shoulders, pushing him back, ever so slightly, so that he can look at him better. “But I don’t want you to regret this.”

“Wooyoung, I would never.”

“You don’t know that.” His nails scrape against the skin on San’s back, just above the collar of his pyjama top. “What if I—what if it gets to be too much? And it’ll be too late to take back? You’ll resent it, and you’ll—”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Wooyoung repeats, but there’s little fight in him. Unlike that time at Munsu, San can see how much effort it takes him to offer each argument, and how his eyebrows furrow each time. “I know it’s how you feel right now, but what if things go wrong?”

“Then I’ll own up to it.”

“San.”

“I can decide for myself, Wooyoung-ah. And I know I want to do this. I want to be—your person.”

There’s a proper sting, then, Wooyoung’s fingernails digging in as he inhales—loud and sharp. He smiles like he can’t help it, and something unfurls in San’s chest.

“Do you want that?” he asks, and he smiles back at Wooyoung’s nod, a startling kind of calmness settling over his entire body. His mind. “So, we’ll figure it out.”

Pronouncing it is easier than doing it, but San has been over this. If the previous month was good for anything, if he gained something from all the time and distance, it was the certainty: he might still not know where he wants to be playing in a year, but he knows he wants this, and he knows the stakes, and he’s not scared.

It’s a start.

“Just take the pants off, come on,” Wooyoung says, a few minutes later, when he’s settled in the bed with his ankle propped up on its own pillow. “There’s nobody to scandalise.”

San sighs but does as he’s told, the pyjama bottoms too small to be comfortable. Again. He doesn’t accuse Wooyoung of planning for this, but he does prevent any further teasing by joining him on the bed, shuffling until he can get Wooyoung to lean against his chest.

“The mattress is too soft,” Wooyoung says, for no good reason.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sick of this place.”

“I like your room.” San hugs him closer before adding: “It’s—cosy.”

Wooyoung hums, closing his eyes, but he doesn’t rest. “I just stopped seeing the point,” he says, more of a rumble than a real sentence.

“Hm?”

“With the flat. I would always leave. People always—” He turns, nose digging into San’s bicep. “The only thing that’s never left me is football. And now I can’t—”

San knows he doesn’t mean it—he could easily remind Wooyoung that he’ll always have his family, tonight has been proof enough. He’ll have Yeosang, he’ll have their team, and he’ll have San. Instead, he presses a kiss to the crown of Wooyoung’s head and says: “You’ll play again.”

To underscore his conviction, he doesn’t let Wooyoung react, swiftly changing the topic to his own childhood bedroom: how he used to have his own shelf displays, his plushie collection, and football players on the walls.

“Seriously?” Wooyoung turns, when he admits to having multiple Haikyu!! and Free! posters above his desk. “And you didn’t realise you were into guys—how?”

San easily brushes the question off by answering in his best accented English. Wooyoung laughs, no care for waking up the house. Slowly, San lets the tiredness take him, closing his own eyes.

“I missed this,” Wooyoung says, his soft voice at the edge of San’s consciousness, “how easy things are, with you.”

And if he wasn’t only half-awake, then, San would confess something else; because he feels the same, and it’s a paradox given how everything had started, how much of a mess they were and the struggle San had to go through just to let himself see the truth.

Easy when it shouldn’t be.

Easy like falling asleep, holding onto Wooyoung like he never wants to let go.

Chapter Text

stoppage time

(in football) the extra time added to the end of each half to compensate for time lost during stoppages like injuries, substitutions, or other delays.

⚽︎

The chairs scrape against the linoleum stage, a multiplied squeak that gets lost in the noise of journalists setting up equipment and players chatting amongst each other. San himself sits with a thump, hissing when his elbow connects with the table.

“Careful, San-hyung!” Hyunwoo laughs by his side, while San holds his arm to his chest, massaging the spot that has sent sparks down to his wrist. Hyunwoo’s eyes travel the same trajectory and they light up, the rest of his face following suit. “Oh! Now I know what to get for your birthday!”

“You don’t have to get me anything,” San says, automatically.

“Sure, sure.”

Then he says what he really wants to say: “What do you want to get—”

“No spoiling the surprise.” Hyunwoo shrugs.

“I don't like surprises.”

“You do.”

“Hyunwoo-ya,” San lowers his voice and his eyebrows, doing his best to look stern and uncompromising. This kind of pressure rarely works on the rest of the team—they’d be more likely to cave at the sight of San's pout—but he can see the cracks in Hyunwoo's determination, the slight snag as he looks at San’s wrist again and—

Someone from the Daejeon staff sabotages San's efforts, announcing the start of the press con.

He doesn't particularly want to talk about the match right now: it was far from their best performance, a lukewarm return to the season with a 2:2 draw. Not unexpected; San hopes Coach Eden can cut the team some slack.

Their training only started back up three days ago. They're still getting used to the changes in their formation—with Wooyoung out, Maddox recovering from a sprained knee, and Dahan temporarily loaned to Bucheon to gain playing time. San himself feels more tired than he's letting on. Not the bone-deep kind of exhaustion that would concern him, but the kind that comes from having his routines disrupted several times in a single month, a persistent string of changes in his location, schedule, and emotional state.

“Have you considered letting San-ssi play as the leading forward again?” a reporter asks.

Hyunwoo starts squirming in his seat, and San looks towards Coach Eden.

“We have.” Eden nods. “It was discussed with the team, as were other possibilities, but we agreed to go forward with the current lineup.”

“Will you be changing it after today's game?”

“No.”

“But Wooyoung-ssi isn't coming back anytime soon, right? At this point in the season, wouldn't it be wiser to—”

“I think you're wasted on journalism, Beomseok-ssi. You should give coaching a try.”

The man sputters but he puts his recorder down, another reporter using the lull to her advantage and asking San about his time in the national team.

It’s an easy set of questions to handle: the matches, the results, and his own feelings. Focusing on the positive parts of the experience only is the kind of media training San mastered a while ago. The reporter doesn’t bring up any of the other questions Bora had warned him about—addressing the hair tie or Wooyoung showing up to the final match—but there’s a familiar face in the row behind her, the man making San tense before he even opens his mouth.

It’s the guy who’s questioned Wooyoung’s move to Ulsan, Kim something or other, the one who’d made San’s skin crawl with his polite front and rude implications. He looks directly at San as he waits his turn, hand raised and impatience written in the uneven skew of his shoulders. Then he clears his throat: “San-ssi, a question for you,” he says.

San resists the need to hold his breath. “Of course.”

“How is Wooyoung-ssi?”

He does it anyway.

Despite San’s distrust towards the journalist, the question is fair. Most everyone in the room has probably been itching to ask the same thing, and Eden has probably prepared an optimistic but vague statement about Wooyoung’s recovery plans. San has answered the same question about twenty times just in the last three days, with varying degrees of honesty.

Wooyoung is back in Ulsan. Wooyoung is off the crutches now, still wearing the boot. Wooyoung is coping like a champ, he’s so diligent with his PT appointments and stretches that he’s bound to be back to running in no time.

All the good things, all true.

Only Seonghwa knows about the crying episodes—and only because he’s witnessed one firsthand, the day of Wooyoung’s return from Ilsan. He and San had bought some basic groceries for Wooyoung’s fridge, which was the first strike, manifesting in a tight smile which slowly mellowed into a sincere one. Strike two—oferring to help do his laundry—took longer to recover from. Strike three, which set off the crying, was San asking if Wooyoung was okay after he’d heard a loud thump and a louder swear from the bathroom.

“What do you think?” Wooyoung shouted through the door, and came out five minutes later with his eyes red-rimmed and wearing a different pair of pants—sweats instead of shorts.

He didn’t say more. They didn’t prod. When San later found a fresh bruise on his knee, he had to fight all his base instincts not to ask, not to worry, not to mention the darkening yellow. Just a bruise—Wooyoung would get a worse specimen any week of training.

It still haunted San—trying to pretend it wasn’t there.

“He’s doing well,” he says, holding the reporter’s eye and barely blinking. “Thank you for asking.”

“Is there anything more you can share? About Wooyoung-ssi’s condition? It must be hard on him, mentally, to know that he might never play the same as—”

“Can we please have a question for Daejeon?” Hongjoong cuts in, looking at nobody in particular. “We appreciate everyone’s interest in Ulsan KQ but there were two teams playing the match, right?”

Somehow, he manages to make his words sound light-hearted enough that the crowd chuckles and a different journalist immediately rises up to the bait. Hongjoong leans back with relief, the flippancy fading into a tight grimace. San can see himself looking just as agitated—if not more—but the rest of the questions don’t stray off the match, he isn’t singled out again, and it only takes about five more minutes until they’re allowed to leave.

Now San’s got a week to figure out how to deal with that question again without wanting to curse on record.

≍

“There he is!”

“Perfect timing!”

“The birthday boy!”

Heat climbing into his cheeks, San considers tugging his cap lower and walking backwards out the door. He’s grabbed before he can take a single step—Mingi on his right, Yeosang on his left—and pulled into a circle of noise, well-wishes, and stinging back slaps. Seonghwa breaks through the crowd with a loud shushing sound, the first notes of the birthday song coming from his phone’s speaker. He pushes it into San’s face, prompting him to sing, and he tries not to, gives it a valiant five seconds or so, but then Jongho starts and San can’t resist joining.

“Alright, that’s enough! You should’ve all been stretching already!” Eden shuts down the commotion, then lowers his voice as he nudges San. “Another year older, huh? I got an idea for the perfect present.”

“Please don’t worry about—”

“Winning the next game,” Eden says, deadpan, then winks. “Wouldn’t that be just perfect, San-ah?”

San laughs, looking at the floor in embarrassment.

He doesn’t really mind the others bringing it up—doesn’t care about the number, would be sadder if they didn’t say a thing—but he’s been getting messages all day long and there are only so many ways he can say thank you before he starts sounding like a robot. His mum had been the first one to call, Bora interrupted his morning gym session, and fans have been spamming all his socials since midnight.

Wooyoung, of all people, hasn’t mentioned a thing.

He’s got his hyung staying over and had both a check-up and a PT appointment scheduled for the morning. Legitimate reasons to miss out on a birthday wish, but San knows better than that—knows Wooyoung is doing it on purpose, wanting for San to break once he comes over in the evening.

And San might just play along and indulge in the pout for a day.

“Right, Coach,” he says, nodding at his cleats.

He quickly trails after the others, hoping that’s the end of the show, but there are more birthday wishes awaiting him from the assistant coaches, more jabs from the team, more secretive whispers that stop at the sight of him. They spell trouble; San focuses all his attention on the training.

Eden is right, the team is due a proper win and San needs to do his part. He’s past the worst of his tiredness, his routines are clicking again, he and Hyunwoo are doing more 1v1 drills to improve their synergy. After the warmups, San is just setting up the cones so that the two of them can practice narrow passes when he hears an excited shout. And then another, and a few more. Like dominoes, several other voices join, ranging from surprised to disbelieving to smug.

“Wooyoung-hyung!” Hyunwoo turns, leaving both San and the ball behind.

Understandably, San feels like he leaves himself behind just to stare.

It’s difficult to see much, Wooyoung gets swarmed by the team like they’re a bunch of bees and he’s bloomed right at the touchlines. Eden could be yelling for their attention at the top of his lungs and they wouldn’t notice—except, in reality, he’s right there with them, obstructing San’s view even further. He can see the top of Wooyoung’s cap, a flash of his smile. The bulky grey of his ankle boot.

“—really cut your hair!” Minjae is saying when San finally gets within hearing distance.

“You look taller,” Yunho teases.

“How did you even get here?” Mingi seems to voice everyone’s question.

“Took the bus, duh.”

Frowning, San tries to look around for Dongyoung-hyung to see if Wooyoung is just having them on—half-hoping for it, half-recognising the proud lilt in his voice and knowing Wooyoung’s brother can’t be anywhere near the stadium. He gets sidetracked fast, though, when Wooyoung zeroes in on him with a smirk.

“Hey, birthday boy.”

San’s first instinct is to grin like an idiot, and he might give into it for a few blinks before scaling it down and raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered?”

“I thought it was yesterday,” Wooyoung says, not missing a beat. “Seonghwa-hyung just reminded me.”

“I can always count on you, hyung,” San says, draping an arm over Seonghwa’s shoulders. “So sweet and caring.”

Wooyoung nods. “I’ll get going then.”

He doesn’t make it past a wave before San gives up on the act and goes in for a hug. A failed attempt, Wooyoung’s facade also cracks as he bends forward in a fit of laughter. The circle around them disperses and San momentarily thinks it’s to give them privacy—jokes aside, he can’t be nonchalant about any of this, Wooyoung turning up at training for the first time since the injury on his birthday, another surprise for the ages from the man who claims romantic films give him hives.

But then the illusion shatters; Wooyoung looks beyond his shoulder and there’s the team again, advancing upon San with something that looks like a melting chocolate log with a candle stuck in the middle.

“Make a wish before it catches on fire,” Wooyoung says, nudging him. “Who knows what they put in these things.”

The log is a protein bar, San realises from closer up. He almost accidentally blows the candle out in his amusement, then struggles to do it once he really tries. There are several wishes he has, like wanting his family to be healthy and hoping the team can win the cup. One obvious wish only crosses his mind in opposition to the thing he really wants, something he wouldn’t have ever asked for a year ago.

He and Wooyoung hadn’t known each other, they hadn’t played together, there had been no injuries for San to mind except his own.

The candle flickers, San closes his eyes, and the others clap.

“Okay boys, you’ve got five minutes and then you start racking up the bearcrawls,” Eden warns, not looking the slightest bit impressed by the chocolate smudge that now stretches across San’s cheek. “Ten for ten seconds—how does that sound?”

It works to scare some of them, but Wooyoung cocks his head and asks: “You said you had presents for the birthday boy?”

His smile is so smug that San could almost believe he’s glad the warning doesn’t extend to him—no crawling up and down the field as punishment, no drills to return to. He knows Wooyoung would trade in a heartbeat, though, and happily delay training to bask in their collective suffering.

“I think I need to sit down for this,” San says, taking Wooyoung along by the elbow.

Hunched under the booth in the technical area, he’s glad for the decision even if none of the gifts are scandalous. Wooyoung, sitting next to him, holds up a timer on his phone, either to expedite the process or to see the bearcrawl count go up in real time. Seonghwa gifts him a set of coloured pens for his journal. He gets the newest EA Sports FC game, a signed Carvajal poster that might or might not be fake, and no less than five pairs of socks.

Hyunwoo beams at him, holding out a purple sweatband.

“For your wrist, hyung,” he says, obviously proud. “I wanted to get you a bracelet, but this is more practical for matches, and better than the—”

“Aish, Hyunwoo-ya!” Mingi smacks the boy’s shoulder. “He’s never going to wear it.”

“Why not?”

“It would clash terribly with the red,” Jongho says, flat and poker-faced.

Wooyoung cackles, leans into San to grab the sweatband and pull it over his wrist, and declares that he’ll be wearing it in training. The timer goes off. They end up getting two minutes of punitive bearcrawls—after the three-hour training is over, once Eden has lured them into a false sense of security—but nobody complains too much. The whole time, Wooyoung sticks close to the coaches: chatting, watching, yelling at Yeosang to raise his knees higher off the ground when they’re down to the last thirty seconds.

San doesn’t want to play favourites, but it’s the best birthday present he could’ve gotten.

≍

“Come on! Get up! Time to clean!”

Eyes closed and head propped against the sofa, San groans. It gets him a jab in the ribs.

“I’ll clean up later,” he tries, calculating with his whiny undertone.

Wooyoung doesn’t fall for it. “Nah, you’re doing it now if you want your present.”

“I thought I already got one.”

“Hm?”

“You came to training.”

Opening his eyes properly, San sees him pull on his lower lip. He straightens up—no groan this time—and kisses Wooyoung’s temple before getting up, stacking the empty bowls and collecting cutlery, disappearing into Wooyoung’s kitchen. It isn’t running away, San would gladly talk about it. But he knows Wooyoung wouldn’t, not yet, so he washes the dishes and rubs his hands with the kitchen towel until they’re red and dry, then returns to find the living room empty.

He calls for Wooyoung but only gets something akin to a hiss in reply. Sits and waits and only then notices a new photo on the shelf by the window: a team photo from the last day of training camp, three rows of them scorching under the Thai mid-day heat, San’s own face twisted sideways. Even without getting up to see the photo better, San can already tell what he was looking at. Who he was looking at. The same target his eyes fly to when Wooyoung clears his throat and unceremoniously seats himself sideways on San’s lap.

“Careful, Young-ah, don’t—”

“Happy birthday,” Wooyoung shuts him up, nudging the edge of a small black box into San’s chest.

It’s palm-sized, decorated with an uneven bow. San unties it carefully, not knowing what to expect. A real bracelet, perhaps, or a watch, or—

“Oh my god.”

A sticker sheet, slightly bent and wrapped in plastic: miniature jerseys in Ulsan KQ’s signature red, their team logo up top, smaller strips with the names of the coaches and their silly match slogan. It isn’t part of the club’s official merch—San has looked after the Incheon bathroom episode—but it’s a well-made set. San grins.

“You remembered.”

“I had a lot of time on my hands,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Now you can—do whatever you wanted to do with these. Stick them on your locker, I guess. Or bribe Hongjoong-hyung with the eight, next time he forgets—”

“Thank you,” San says, leaning forward with a chuckle. He wants to kiss Wooyoung but his lips meet the other’s palm, fingers digging into his chin and smushing it up.

“Hold up.”

“Mmph.”

“There’s more.”

Giving the box another look, there’s nothing underneath the stickers but a piece of paper. A square card with a decorative border, there isn’t a dedication or a message. Only rows of numbers, the handwriting starting big and then getting smaller at the bottom, a smiley face in one corner instead of a signature.

“This is…” San tilts his head, trying to look for a pattern. Maybe it’s a code. Maybe he’s too dumb to decipher it. “What is it?”

“Just some suggestions,” Wooyoung says, lips curved, “for your new door lock code.”

“Oh my god.”

He bends forward in laughter and mortification, burying his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder as the heat consumes it. Not a comfortable resting spot, it shakes with Wooyoung’s own laughter, contained snickers that grow in volume the deeper San tries to squish himself into his collarbone.

“I’m sorry. I’m really—it haunts me, too.”

“Good.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise—”

“You still haven’t changed the code, have you?” Wooyoung asks, tugging on San’s hair to get him to look up. He looks amused but knowing, clicks his tongue at San’s expression like it’s enough of an answer. “Alright just—pick one and we’ll do it together. Next time I’m over,” he says, not inviting any protests. “I recommend one of the first five.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Easy for me to remember.”

San takes another look at the paper, wondering if the combinations are related to Kyungmin, Wooyoung’s favourite players, or if he’s suggesting San use his bank pin for his apartment lock—but the box gets snatched from his hands, thrown on the coffee table as Wooyoung shuffles on his lap and taps San’s chin.

“Now, the last present.”

“Young-ah, how many—”

Silenced by a kiss, San melts into it happily. Soft and lazy, it’s the kind of a kiss that had once seemed off the table, just another way to exist in each other’s presence, a whisper of something that doesn’t need to be said. Then Wooyoung loops his arms around San’s neck, pressing closer, and the meaning changes.

He becomes more demanding, greedier as he licks along the seam of San’s lips and lets their breaths mingle. His fingers dig into San’s skin and he shifts his weight with a different purpose. It’s a bit clumsy with the position—Wooyoung’s legs hanging to the side, torso twisted—but he’s not leaving San any room for doubt.

Quite literally, untangling one arm so that he can trail his hand down San’s chest in deliberate increments: a short rest on his pecs, another on his belly, a meaningful pause once he reaches San’s crotch.

San, loopy with the kisses and the heat coiling in his stomach, opens his eyes.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, hm?” Wooyoung says, removing his hand completely.

“Young-ah—”

“It’s been too long.”

San’s eyebrows furrow at first—it hasn’t been longer than five days since they jerked each other off in Wooyoung’s bed, which might seem too long to his libido on the one hand, but it’s nothing compared to the stretch of time they’d spent apart in June. It’s too long compared to how things used to be, maybe, but San is set on creating a new normal. There’s no point yearning for the days when they’d leave for training together, when they’d shower together without Wooyoung’s face pinched in discomfort, when the ankle boot wasn’t nudging into San’s calf and—

“I won’t break, San,” Wooyoung says, firmly. “You have to stop acting like I will.”

San swallows, trying and failing to phrase his words: “But your ankle—”

“So?” Wooyoung snorts, shaking his head. “Are you planning to fuck my ankle? Because otherwise—”

“Wooyoung.”

“—I don’t get what the problem is. My dick is fine. My ass is fine.” He wiggles again as if to demonstrate, making San groan. “Frankly, you should be taking advantage. You’ll have regrets when I’m back on the field and you’ll be getting cockblocked by matches and Eden-hyung’s scheduling whims and—”

San is the one kissing him quiet this time, using it to drown his own fondness and apprehension. Squeezing Wooyoung’s waist when they break apart, San’s words are muted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please! You’re only hurting me by stalling,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. He lets his expression soften, though, taking San’s hands in his. “Come on. I know you’ll be careful. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

And technically, San knows that isn’t true. He could easily hurt Wooyoung’s feelings—has done it before, just like he’s gotten rough with his touch before. But he’s not confused and jealous anymore. He’s only let himself get rough when asked, trusting Wooyoung’s judgement. So he nods, watching Wooyoung’s grin bloom.

“We can try.”

“Cool.” Wooyoung nods back.

“Cool?”

“You don’t expect me to walk, do you?”

He laughs when San picks him up, latches onto his shoulders with bruising strength and dives into his neck while he gets carried. A short walk, familiar territory. When San crosses over the threshold, he makes sure Wooyoung’s foot doesn’t catch on the frame.

≍

“You should just slam it, Sannie,” Yeonjun says with a grin, “as compensation.”

“I’m already paying for you.”

“Sure, but we lost pretty badly.” He pokes his finger into the whiskey glass in front of San. “My heart hurts, so does my pride, and only seeing you drunk can help me heal.”

Wooyoung snorts, close to San’s ear, nodding in approval. He takes it upon himself to lift the glass and hold it out for San, encouraging. “Do it, big boy,” he says, flashing his teeth.

“Young-ah.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll get you home safe.”

San can’t say that he worries: he knew exactly what he was signing himself up for, reminding Yeonjun of his whiskey bar invitation after the match was over, a belated birthday celebration coupled with Ulsan KQ’s 3:2 win against FC Seoul.

The match had been far from a straightforward win, both teams only scoring once before halftime and keeping possession almost perfectly even. The defensemen were in top form, the ball stayed around the midfield for long stretches of time, and San couldn’t help but feel a little helpless after his umpteenth attempt to advance it with Hyunwoo’s help failed right out of the gate—like in the 42nd minute, when FC Seoul’s number 6 snatched the ball from Hyunwoo like it was a mutual decision.

San had looked towards the technical area, then, not for the first time, searching for a particular face to keep his frustration at bay. It worked in a funny way: Wooyoung himself was clearly just as frustrated, yelling something inaudible in their general direction, wildly gesticulating with his right hand. The other was clutching Shiber like Wooyoung was intent on choking the poor dog for his own comfort.

And so, the loop closed again and San could look away with his heart a little lighter. FC Seoul returned less pushy after the break, too, and Hyunwoo managed to hold onto the ball with more ease.

San could only wonder if it had anything to do with Wooyoung taking him aside in the locker room. He’d have to ask later. Tomorrow, likely, because San knows he’ll be out of commission as soon as the alcohol makes its way into his bloodstream. He relents and downs the amber liquid in one go, scrunching his face up at the bitter taste.

“There you go!” Wooyoung cheers, patting the top of his head like San’s just bravely swallowed some unpleasant medicine. He takes a sip of his own whiskey without a single twitch. “You’re in for a show,” he says to Yeonjun, then drops his voice to sound more authoritative: “But remember—no photos and no videos.”

“What are you, his—?” Yeonjun stops himself halfway, the realisation dawning upon him yet again. He chuckles into his glass, self-effacing. “Right. You are. Yeah.”

“I think we broke his brain, Sannie,” Wooyoung jokes.

“No, no! It makes sense! It really—it’s just—I’ve known you for so long,” Yeonjun tells Wooyoung. “And I’ve known you even longer,” he tells San. “And now you two are—” he puts the glass down and claps his hands, demonstratively “—yeah.”

“We definitely broke it,” Wooyoung hums.

“No, I just need to get used to the idea,” Yeonjun says. “Not in a bad way, I swear! You’re cute. I’m happy for you.”

San, usually detesting how fast alcohol gets his face to colour, feels grateful for the precedent. He guesses he’s got a few minutes before his words start slurring and his limbs start feeling loose and noodley. The bus stop is three buildings away, though, and he and Wooyoung had talked about it before coming—that they would catch the bus back to San’s place, after.

“Well, get used to it,” he says, narrowing his gaze as much as his muscles let him. Though he tries to sound somewhat intimidating, he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. He knows the warning is needless, too: “And keep it to yourself, yeah?”

“San-ah, don’t wound me!” Yeonjun thumps his own chest with his fist. “Do you think I’m a complete idiot?”

“No, you’re just excitable,” Wooyoung says.

“That’s rich coming from you!”

“And I’m good with secrets.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Defend me, please?” He bumps San’s knee, stretching his lips into an unimpressed line.

“You’re terrible with secrets, honey,” San says, his brain to mouth filter already gone.

“Oh, wow. You know what, Yeonjun-ah? Maybe don’t get used to the idea just yet.”

Chuckling, he tries to placate Wooyoung by rubbing his shoulder, but his hand undershoots and only brushes air. That seems to work just as well, the other two abandoning the conversation to laugh at his expense. San frowns, stops, frowns again. Pokes his forehead with his index finger to check if he’s actually moving anything and jolts at the touch.

“There he goes,” Wooyoung says, confiscating San’s finger like he’s in danger of stabbing his eyes out. As if, San thinks, he’d need to stab through his glasses first. “Cute, eh?”

“It’s nice to know some things don’t change.”

San wants to protest but then he gets distracted with how the overhead lights reflect off his empty glass. The bar is rather dark on its own, their seats are in an even darker corner, but he chases the orange glint, rotating the glass this way and that, listening to the hum of the others’ conversation.

The match. Details of Yeonjun’s new contract with Vissel Kobe, effective next month. Wooyoung’s ankle.

“Did you know there’s an app for it?” Wooyoung asks, immediately whipping his phone out to show it off. “This is the Tuesday plan—towel stretches, number tracing. If all goes well—” he pauses, swiping through “—we’ll be ditching the boot this time next week.”

“Already?”

“I’ll get a brace instead, so. Still a long way from freedom.”

“But life will be less annoying.”

“A little.”

San, chin propped on his arm, arm now draped over the table, hides his mouth in the crook of his elbow. Somehow, shifting his head feels easier than controlling his expression—once he takes the glasses off—and he knows what he must look like: sad on Wooyoung’s behalf, fond and proud in a way Wooyoung doesn’t want to see because he interprets it as pity.

It’s difficult territory to navigate even while sober—the limits of care that Wooyoung allows, the little tells that San is still learning to read that tell him when he needs to back off.

He shifts further, burying his forehead in the same elbow hiding spot. Smiles when a hand pats his nape, almost like he’s a napping cat. Feels his muscles melt under the touch, and listens as Wooyoung sneakily navigates the conversation to the topic of Yeonjun’s family.

The ankle is a fact; Wooyoung treats the recovery as two distinct subjects, based on his mood.

Either he’s feeling hopeful—the PT had something positive to say, or he’s advanced to a new exercise—and then the recovery is a journey. He tracks it on his app, thinks in timeframes and progressive milestones. He shares and he celebrates. Those days are good.

But sometimes he’s feeling frustrated—no progress, or an exercise he’s already mastered suddenly gives him trouble—and then the recovery is an obstacle. He acts like he’s got something to prove, takes the bus instead of an offered ride and exhausts San in bed just to show that he can. He locks up at the slightest implication that he’s anything but independent. Those days still give San trouble.

“—disappointing, to be honest,” Yeonjun is saying, when San forces himself to leave his resting spot, blinking his eyes open. “You promised me a show and he’s just napping.”

Wooyoung drops his hand. “It’s not my fault you tired him out.”

“I did?” Yeonjun hoots.

“Yeah. You knew you couldn’t win, fifty minutes in. There was no need to fight so hard for it.”

“Right.” He picks up San’s glasses and perches them on his face, smirking. “You’re right. I should’ve thrown the game to see Sannie sing his little heart out.”

“My heart is big,” San says, only half-jokingly.

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Wooyoung laughs hard enough for the both of them.

They don’t stay out too late, or at least San doesn’t think they do—the analog wristwatch is a pain to read when the world is still hazy at the edges. He doesn’t drink any more after the first glass, and he’s not drunk by the time they’re leaving, just tired and uncoordinated. Maybe just a tiny bit drunk because he lets Wooyoung hold his shoulder for a while on the way to the bus stop, and he wouldn’t let himself do that when sober.

Not because others could see, but because San isn’t the one wearing an ankle boot.

“I really need to learn how to drive,” Wooyoung says, perching onto the bus shelter bench.

“Ask Jongho,” San suggests.

“Yeah, sure, he’ll think I’m looking for a third. And you know the only other person I’d accept in our bed is—”

“Lamine Yamal.” He nods, none too thrilled.

“Alright, good luck with your matches,” Yeonjun says, to no one in particular, as he watches their bus pull up. He hugs San and kisses Wooyoung on the cheek. Like he’s showing off—unaffected by the alcohol, not hindered by an injury—he walks backwards, shouting: “And take care of each other, yeah?”

“Look at this guy—acting like he’s moving to the other side of the world,” Wooyoung says, smiling.

“We will,” San says, and he immediately tries to make good on the promise.

Clumsy, loopy, perhaps he stumbles a bit, but he makes his way to the bus first, blocking the door off so that Wooyoung can get on without having to rush. Their cards beep against the reader, they wave through the window, and Wooyoung looks at him like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

When they make it to San’s, he’s the one tapping in the new code.

≍

“So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

San looks at the photo again, scrutinising the details. It’s dark and pixelated, far from the quality of a professional camera. Their silhouettes are identifiable, he supposes, though he looks strange to his own eyes: maybe it’s the glasses, maybe it’s the angle, maybe it’s the fact that he seems shorter in the picture, leaning into Wooyoung’s side. Yeonjun, walking a few steps behind them, looks like he could be a random passerby.

“It was my birthday last week,” San says, keeping his eyes downcast. “We went out to celebrate.”

“Just the two of you?”

“No, with a mutual friend. He’s there in the picture—”

“You and Wooyoung-ssi look cosy.”

He baulks at that, analysing the shot once more, trying to see it from the perspective of someone else. Someone with mean intentions and little patience. He squares his shoulders, holds, shrugs. “We’re friends.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“We’re close.”

“How close?”

At his sigh, Bora takes her phone back, making the photo disappear. A fan had taken it, wrote their names in the caption with a question mark and got mixed responses in the comments. The post hasn’t gained much traction—yet—but Bora found it right away, her methods equal parts mysterious, effective, and terrifying. Her expression is soft, though, as she looks at San from the other side of her desk.

“It’s okay, buddy, take your time,” she says, pulling on a strand of her bangs that has started curling the wrong way. “You’re on the right track. It’s less about the words and more about the—delivery.”

San hums—he knows.

It’s the pause, the defensive note in his voice, the way he tries to make himself sound unbothered and instead overdoes it, sounding conspicuously detached. A matter of practice, Bora keeps repeating, but San fears they could keep going over the scenarios in her office for days, and he’d still give himself away the moment someone questioned him in the wild.

Which is the exact point of why they’re doing this, and San knows a thing or two about discipline.

“Let’s try one more time,” he says, pulling his chair closer and leaning away from the backrest.

Though the idea had been Bora’s, he was the one who decided to go through with it after discussing it with Wooyoung. A protective measure, a plan of action, the most they can do without denying things outright—and San was set on not doing that from the very start.

No outright lying but no confirmation, he and Bora had gone over the terms a few days after San’s return from Seoul. Bora advised against calling each other soulmates. Wooyoung was clear about steering clear of brothers. What’s left is friends, and it’s not a lie, and San just has to externalise what he already knows: that they don’t owe anyone else complete honesty as long as they’re honest with each other. That there is time and space for acknowledgement, but it’s not in the public eye. Not if it hurts either of them.

“Okay, that was better,” Bora pronounces after their sixth or seventh run-through of the same scenario. “You’re getting the hang of it. Just pretend you’re talking about—Seonghwa-ssi, hm? You’re close to him, too. You’re affectionate. But I’ve only seen dating rumours about you like, twice.”

“You have?” San asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“Of course—remember the chocolate ad from two years ago? The outtakes?” Bora says, flying past the topic like it doesn’t warrant any further discussion. “But listen, Sannie, once you have the communication bit down, we’re gonna have to address the bigger issue.”

“Which is?”

Bora heaves a sigh that makes the notepaper on her desk flutter. “You stare a lot.”

San wants to protest; he keeps his mouth shut. There’s not much he can say to defend himself, and there are no promises he can make for the future.

Eventually, Bora abandons their media training session to brief San about the upcoming matches. Scouts are to be expected, and she’s been in talks with a representative of some Italian club, but it’s still early days so she doesn’t want to get San’s hopes up. He hums and doesn’t tell her that the news only opens up a familiar pit in his stomach.

It’s a stronger reaction than what San feels when he himself brings up the Fila sponsorship—something Bora has been suspiciously mum about for a while—and she admits it’s been given to a Jeonbuk player. Quickly, she brushes the subject under the rug and asks if San is available to meet Eunji next week.

“She’s a fan, you know, and I promised her you could—give her some tips. Encouragement, mostly. She’s so talented, but I don’t think she fully realises—”

“Of course,” San says. “Have you found her a club yet?”

“Still working on it.” With that, Bora looks at the clock, grabs her phone again, goes quiet like she’s said everything she needed to say and San is about to get dismissed. Then she clears her throat. “Also, is Wooyoung free on Friday?”

San swallows at that.

He isn’t the only one who could face uncomfortable questions—they’re all aware of the fact, Wooyoung most of all. He’s been involved, but he’s also been avoidant, the idea of meeting Bora alongside San always swept off the table with one excuse or another. He won’t be giving interviews anytime soon, he already knows the talking points, he needs to focus on his rehabilitation. San agrees, and he also knows that’s not the real reason Wooyoung keeps saying no.

“I’m not sure—”

“You know Whistle Talk? The show on Coupang Play?”

“I’ve seen a few episodes,” San admits.

It’s a biweekly recap format, two hosts analysing K1 and K2 matches, interspersed with short skits or guest interviews. Last season, San was watching it almost regularly until his slump. He’s been too preoccupied this year, but he’s not surprised to hear that the show has grown more popular.

“Well, I know one of the producers, and they’re looking for a third host. A player, specifically,” Bora continues. “You’re too busy for that, of course, but I was thinking and... Wooyoung might be a good fit. I can put a word in, if he’s interested.”

Grinning, San’s unease pops like a balloon.

“Maybe it’s silly.” Bora keeps talking, now opening her diary as if she has to note something down, not actually writing a single word. “I don’t know if he wants to chat about football when he can’t be playing it, but I figured it’s worth—”

“I can ask,” San says, a little rushed.

“Please do,” Bora says, writing down the date like it isn’t pre-printed on the page. She smiles up at San as she clicks her pen. “Productive meeting today. Fabulous. I’ll let you go, Sannie.”

“Go get some food, noona,” San says, standing up. “Coffee doesn’t count.”

“Yah!” She swivels her chair around, waving him off. “You go get some vitamins for the attitude!”

≍

Friday is a good day—Wooyoung is cleared to stop wearing the boot, replace it with a brace, and start balancing exercises. Light ones, for now, but he logs them into his rehab tracking app with excitement that has San feeling weak. He mentions Whistle Talk, and Wooyoung’s eyes light up, and he doesn’t say no.

Saturday is good, too—he comes along to the game in Daegu, watches it play out from beside the coaches, stays loud and involved and punches Shiber into the air when Hyunwoo scores his penalty. Though they end up losing, he poses for a fan photo with the rest of the team, throwing up a peace sign. San hears him talking about Whistle Talk to Yeosang on the bus back, and he says it could be fun.

On Monday, things take a turn for the worse.

He’s snappy with San in the morning, barely texts all day. When San messages about getting tangsuyuk for dinner, Wooyoung says San, as an athlete, should be making wiser diet choices. He dismisses San’s offer to cook, says he doesn’t need food poisoning on top of a busted ankle. Coming over after training, San knows it’s one of those days, knows he needs to tread carefully, knows something must’ve set Wooyoung off.

Still, he doesn’t expect to find Wooyoung in the living room, in the middle of assembling a bookcase.

“No, no, that’s the wrong screw—look at the picture, San-ah!” Wooyoung says, holding the manual up to San’s face. “You need the smaller one.”

“This one?”

“No, that one.” He points at a pile of medium-sized screws by San’s knee, stretches from where he’s sitting on the floor and snatches one to take over. Cheeks pulled in, San can tell he’s holding back from saying more. After Wooyoung’s done fixing the panel, he clears his throat but doesn’t look up. “How was training?”

“It was fine,” San says. He steers away from details, flipping through the manual as he talks about Mingi being late and Yunho trying to—unsuccesfully—cover for him. Locker room gossip, Hongjoong scolding Sumin when he told Seonghwa to watch his reels on mute. “Mingi wants to go bowling, after the next game.”

Wooyoung hums, picking up another black slab of wood. “You need to beat Jongho this time.”

“Have to beat you first.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he says, muttering. “Can’t exactly go bowling with a fucked ankle.”

“Young-ah—”

“You can have the screwdriver.” Wooyoung pushes it towards him, standing up. “I’ll get a knife to do it—a table knife, San. Relax.”

San bites into his tongue and slouches against the bottom of the sofa, watching Wooyoung practically sprint towards the kitchen. It’s then when he notices it: a more pronounced limp than usual, a hissing sound that comes with Wooyoung’s next step. He jumps up before he can help it, trailing after Wooyoung as his mind thinks in falls, and risks, and support. It’s the wrong thing to do.

“Can you please—” Wooyoung says, not turning around, rummaging through a drawer “—stop hovering?”

Opening his mouth, San doesn’t make it to a single word.

“I thought you’d be happy about it.”

“What do you mean?”

Getting a knife and setting it on the counter with a clang, Wooyoung leans against it. “The bookcase. The flat. Didn’t you want me to get more things?”

“You know I’m happy about it,” San says, stuck in the doorway. “I just want to help.”

“You always do,” Wooyoung shoots back. “But who are you really trying to help, San? I don’t remember asking you to.”

San grits his teeth. Nods. He retraces his steps into the living room and stands above the half-assembled bookcase for a few moments, trying to do a better job of his thoughts. Wooyoung is okay, he tells himself, but he hates that he has no way of verifying it, no way of asking. He is not okay, but San also hates that he has no way of fixing it, no way of helping that doesn’t tread a slippery slope.

On the last bad day, Wooyoung accused him of not wanting to have sex. Because San said he was tired in the morning, but then he went to the gym, and that meant he’d been previously forcing himself to touch Wooyoung. On the bad day before that, Wooyoung complained that his hair was growing too fast, then complained about it not growing fast enough a few hours later.

The mood swings are understandable. Some of the jabs are expected. It doesn’t hurt any less.

“I’m going to get tangsuyuk,” he says, when Wooyoung finally makes it back to the living room and drops the knife on the floor.

“San, I’m—”

“I get that you’re frustrated, Wooyoung-ah, I do.” San slips his shoes on and grabs the keys. The keys to Wooyoung’s flat, he reminds himself of the fact as he squeezes them, reminds himself of the very good day that he got them. “But is this going to make you feel better? Picking fights?”

He walks to the tangsuyuk place, taking the longer route and an intentional detour on the way there. To give them both space, to mull his words over. There’s nothing he can do to really help Wooyoung, nothing to do to make Wooyoung accept his help. There will always be bad days after the good, that’s the ugly truth of it.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says, as soon as San locks the door behind himself.

He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again.

San knows he means it, though, so he just nods and gets the food ready.

It stays a bit quiet while they eat, a bit awkward. The unfinished bookcase lurks from the shadows like a reminder that they haven’t really solved things, just put them on pause. Then Wooyoung drapes himself over San’s back while he’s doing the dishes, pressing his nose between San’s shoulderblades.

“It makes me feel like shit,” he mumbles.

“Hm?” San tries to twist around to look at him and fails.

“Picking fights.” Wooyoung tightens his arms around San’s waist, painfully so. “It’s just—the kind of shitty I can only blame myself for.”

“That’s dumb.”

“I know.”

They make a bet on how quickly they can finish the bookcase and San wins—it’s long before midnight that they stand it up and fill it with some of Wooyoung’s clutter. Wooyoung admits he pushed a bit too far with his exercises earlier and got a flare up. San asks him to be honest next time.

“I think I’d like to,” Wooyoung says, before sleeping, shuffling close enough that he’s basically stealing San’s pillow, “try the host thing. It’d be nice to keep myself busy.”

San kisses his temple. “I’ll tell Bora.”

≍

At the end of July, Incheon kicks Ulsan KQ down to the third spot in the league table. With nine matches left to go until the top six is decided, the news isn’t alarming, per se, but that doesn’t mean the team takes it lightly.

Coach Eden, most of all, claims it’s a necessary wake-up call.

“Look at that pass! Three players could’ve intercepted that!” He pauses the footage of their latest match to stand in front of the screen and point at the football like doing so will enlighten the players with one swift gesture. He stays in the same spot, motioning for Ollounder to restart the video, tracking the ball’s motion as an Incheon player moves it upfield and directly into the left corner of Yunho’s net. “See that? He’s moving like he’s stuck in quicksand! Clumsy ass sprint, and you just let him get away with it?”

The players don’t respond—there isn’t much they can say. Eden sighs with projected disappointment and sits back down, settling to watch the rest of the match with furrowed brows, chin almost digging into his own chest.

San can’t remember the last time he’s seen the analytics room this crowded. In the past, he used to have his own set of display preferences, he’s seen Mingi around often enough, and Hongjoong still haunts the room like a ghost. But, out of pre-season, Eden likes to address specific issues with specific players.

Still, San knows that none of them are strangers to how it feels—magnifying one’s shortcomings until the embarrassment fades into motivation, the urge to prove that they can do better.

They finish the match without any more dramatic pauses—the final total coming up to eight—and San fills up two pages with notes. The same journal he’s been using for his thoughts—he’s flipped it to write from the back, the task of noting down positioning changes or diagrams a lot easier than everything the first half of the journal holds.

“Let’s take ten,” Eden says, turning on the light. “Then we’ll go over some individual…development points.”

Half the room sighs—either in relief or trepidation, the nuances are hard to spot. Some players leave to get water, a few leave for a secret smoke break. Wooyoung, who’s been sitting next to Hyunwoo for the match analysis, plops himself down on the empty seat next to San

“Unclench, babe, you’re not getting scolded,” Wooyoung says, a mock-whisper as he leans in, “yet.”

Stubbornly, San clenches his jaw and slaps Wooyoung’s thigh.

Match disappointment aside, the morning has been one of the good ones. The entire week has been, truth be told, with Wooyoung cleared for swimming, present at each training session, and even inviting himself along to San’s meeting with Bora—to discuss the Whistle Talk production details. He grins at San as he massages his upper thigh, then steals his journal and pen to doodle something in the margins. Upside down, it looks like a cross between a football ball and a disgruntled cat.

He keeps at it once the session restarts, Hongjoong taking the lead to point out how they could all, “contribute to maximise the team’s potential, going forward.” He’s to-the-point, doesn’t really sugarcoat the player’s mistakes, calls out the defense’s moments of laziness alongside the offense’s clumsiness. Nicer about it than Eden would’ve been, and fair.

For the most part.

“Now, that was a smooth steal,” Hongjoong says, pausing the video himself and then rewinding it. “Look at how Seonghwa does it, Sumin-ah! He pushes but he lets the ball move, creates more space before he—”

“Yeah, hyung. Got it.”

Hongjoong rewinds again. “Look at his approach, here. It’s exemplary. He’s not projecting the attack, but he’s already anticipating where the ball will—”

“We got it, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says, with a pleased little smile.

“Right.” Hongjoong clears his throat and looks away from the screen, nodding to himself. “Right.”

Wooyoung, still doodling, grins. “He’s so painful to watch.”

“At least he’s trying,” San protests, but he knows both points are true.

Hongjoong’s flirting attempts have been painful to watch, to say the least—fleeting touches on the field that saw him catapulting himself five feet away if Seonghwa actually looked at him, now-daily compliments that were obviously coming from a place of sincerity but came out stuttered from Hongjoong with his lack of practice. He’s always been good at praising where the praise was due: players, coaches, staff, fans, and, of course, Seonghwa.

But not to his face.

“He needs a mastercourse,” Wooyoung says. “Some stern guidance.”

“From you?” San raises an eyebrow.

“Who else?”

As if to demonstrate, Wooyoung grabs his hand and smooths a palm over San’s forearm, up to the divot of his elbow. He draws a heart there before San can blink, a small and misshapen one with a nine in the middle.

“What—?”

He drops San’s hand just as quickly to hold his own up, bringing the pen to the same spot on his inner arm. Two strokes to form a heart, number one inside the shape. “We’ll match,” Wooyoung says, winking, but he doesn’t complete the ten inside his doodle, stashing the pen back inside San’s journal and flashing him with a challenging grin.

San slaps the back of his neck, this time, squeezing. “You’re so annoying.”

Wooyoung giggles and squirms in place, all pride in his own mischief and loud satisfaction. “You love it,” he says.

“Too bad you don’t care,” San says, trying to stay stiff but failing, trying not to smile but already feeling the telltale pull in his cheek. “Go annoy Yunho.”

“I will.”

“Good—”

“Good.”

He doesn’t move from his seat, though, and there’s a zero on his arm by the time the session is over.

≍

They leave the analytics room after another twenty minutes, changing into their training kits and spreading across the field with palpable relief. They’ve accumulated too much energy; they’re all ready to move past words and mental images. The drills feel refreshing in comparison, and San relishes the way his muscles thrum after he’s done with his laps.

Expecting some positional play practice to put Eden’s advice into action, or perhaps a rondo, he’s surprised when he gets separated from the rest of the team, Ollounder calling him over to the touchlines.

“You’ll be working with Wooyoung today,” he says, leisurely.

Wooyoung, indeed, comes over from the technical area, smugness radiating off his steps.

San looks from one to the other, brows pulling in. Wooyoung is recovering, yes, but he’s still far from being cleared for play. Brace on, compulsory icing after each PT session, sprinting only allowed when he’s in the pool. Letting him on the field is—

“Hyunwoo-ya!” Wooyoung calls, waving his arm at the boy. Then, in a shriller tone, “Sang-ah! Get your pretty ass over here!”

They join at once, radiating the same confusion San feels. Before anyone gathers the courage to voice it, Wooyoung scans them from left to right, right to left.

“Look, I’m pretty sure we’re making it into the top six in October, so I’m not worried about that. But if we actually want to win the cup, we need a tighter offence,” he says, inviting no questions. “So, to put it bluntly, you three need to pull your socks up.”

Despite the objective criticism that laces his words, everyone reacts to Wooyoung’s statement like he’s just announced that he’ll be taking them to an amusement park instead of training. They all smile, Ollounder motions for Wooyoung to take the lead, San might whoop when they make it to their designated spot by the right goalpost. He already knows Wooyoung won’t be going easy on them; he’s thrilled by the prospect.

They do 2v1s, swap combinations, drill passes while Wooyoung and Ollounder stand watch and discuss. None of Wooyoung’s pointers are new, necessarily, he’s talked them out with San in private. Don’t overcompensate, give Hyunwoo more trust with the ball, slow down. But they land differently when Wooyoung is orchestrating their play, shouting “slower, San-ah” every once in a while, then moving to a non-verbal stare.

“He’s not as fast as me,” Wooyoung says, taking San aside while the other two practice dribbles, “you have to stop expecting him to be.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He takes San by the shoulders, rotating him so that he’s watching the pair. “He’s got a different style of play—more straightforward, more forceful. A bit like you. But he’s not fast, so you have to keep that in mind.”

San nods.

He knows Wooyoung’s right, and he has been trying, has been adjusting his expectations for weeks. He knows he can’t try for the Shadow Pass with Hyunwoo, or the Silent Echo, and San doesn’t want to. But he feels ashamed, suddenly, realising he’s been waiting for Hyunwoo to catch up all this while, instead of doing his job as a playmaker: finding a way to accommodate him.

Slow down, let Yeosang lead, be there to back them up. Simple advice, crucial for San to take to heart. “Just don’t get used to it,” Wooyoung says, low, before pushing him forward to join the others.

“So much for your matching tattoos,” Yeosang teases when San runs up to him, looking at his arm.

The doodle is almost gone, washed away by sweat. All that remains is one arch of the heart and the loop of the nine. San shakes his head, fondly, though his stomach flips at the words.

“Oh, that? That was just a doodle,” he says. “We’re actually both getting your name tattooed on our—”

“Shut up, San-ah!” Yeosang throws the ball at him, clearly amused but not having it.

“On our asses!” Wooyoung finishes.

It’s not quite what San was going for, but he can’t really complain when it gets everyone laughing, Yeosang pretending to run for his escape, and Wooyoung patting his butt with a cackle. Not exactly like old times, but San knows comparing won’t do him any good.

A new normal.

≍

Their next match is a home game, against Pohang.

Seonghwa won’t be playing, flying to Spain for the weekend to iron out some contract details with Sevilla. Wooyoung won’t be at the stadium, recording another episode of Whistle Talk. San’s dad, on the other hand, tells him he’s meeting a friend in Ulsan the Friday before the match, so San offers to let him sleep at his place.

He has a brief dilemma about it after sending the initial text, thirty minutes of filial piety warring against an unspoken fear, a standoff between his need for honesty and the questions he’d open himself up to.

Although they’ve been staying mostly at Wooyoung’s place, there are unmistakable traces of him at San’s: clothes borrowed and left behind, a toothbrush, his perfume. Half the kitchen ingredients that stay untouched when he’s not around. Coffee and the mug San got him in London, and polaroids from when he’d recently decided that the instant camera on his shelf needed immediate use.

It’s enough to tell a story, and San doesn’t want to hide a thing. That’s what he settles on, dilemma over, and then his father texts back to say he’s already booked a hotel.

“He hates spending money on unnecessary stuff,” San later complains, feeling like all his emotional turmoil has been for nothing. “Parking. Calling a professional when he thinks he can fix something himself. Even the necessary stuff—what?”

Wooyoung smiles up at him, shifting to give San better access to his nape. “Nothing. Go on.”

“Eomma said he’d always wear his cleats down to the ground.” San sighs, looking at his phone on the coffee table like it can stand in for his father. Instead of reaching for it, he sinks deeper into the sofa’s backrest, grounded by Wooyoung’s weight in his lap. “It just feels—sometimes, it feels like he’ll do anything to avoid spending time with me alone.”

His dad is fine when there’s a buffer: San’s mother, Haneul, his friends, or even the distance provided by a shaky internet connection. When they’re left alone, though…

Wooyoung considers him from below, a thoughtful gaze that turns towards the TV soon enough, making San think the situation must be dire, when not even Wooyoung can come up with a single thing to say. He grabs San’s phone after another second or two, though, shoving it into his face.

“Invite him out for a meal,” he says, “after the game.”

“I don’t think he’ll—”

“Just do it,” Wooyoung insists, and San does, and his dad agrees.

≍

It’s a draw on Saturday, and San leaves the Big Crown thinking that at least there’ll be a lot to discuss over dinner.

In the press con, he hesitated to call it a bad match. It wasn’t great, but there was a lot of effort on Ulsan KQ’s part, most of the team acting on the feedback from their technical session and pushing much harder than they have all month. San also couldn’t call it an unfair match, he’d leave that to the fans and the officials, but he’d had his misgivings about the referee’s calls and was certain his dad would have his own.

They’re meant to meet at a barbecue place downtown, far from upscale but reputable, and San finds a parking spot right next to his dad’s Hyundai, then hesitates before opening the door. He gives himself a glance in the rearview mirror, fixes his hair. Reminds himself of ten different possible talking points to bring up if things get too quiet, and Wooyoung’s eleventh—baseball—just in case.

He’s barely made it five steps out of the car when someone walks into his path, and San’s stomach twists.

“Oh, San-ssi! You’re also here for dinner?”

Kim Heejun, San has made it a point to learn the man’s name after the first post-break press con. He’s not a sports journalist, working for an online magazine that barely skirts the edge of tabloid, but he can’t exactly be barred from the conferences either—he’s got the right accreditation and his questions might be invasive but they never cross the line. They never get answered, either, because the team has been helping San deflect them, week after week.

But here, a few steps away from the barbecue restaurant, San is first in the line of fire.

“Heejun-ssi,” he says, painting on a fake smile. “What a coincidence.”

“I heard this place is good.”

“It is.”

The man seems immune to the struggle, his smile stretching ear to ear. “Are you meeting the other players?” he asks. Then, like they’re sharing a good joke, like San has any reason to laugh at his own expense: “Or Wooyoung-ssi?”

“I’m meeting my father, actually,” San says, attempting to take a pointed step forward.

“Ah, I see.” Heejun doesn’t let him. “You and Wooyoung-ssi prefer to eat at home.”

Bora’s voice resounds through San’s mind, their media training sessions telling him to stay calm, stay genial, carefully weigh his words but try to bring the conversation to a close. It had been Heejun’s face San was picturing, for many of the simulated run-throughs, but the reality of answering him—here and now—feels infinitely more difficult.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time at his place, San-ssi, or so I’ve heard.”

Don’t let yourself get dragged into the game, Bora cautioned. Stay polite and take your leave. The man has no right to be questioning San about this, no excuse to be doing it out of the professional confines of a press room.

“He’s still recovering from his surgery,” San says, trying for that step again. “I’m just doing my best to help out and keep him company.”

“What a good friend you are, San-ssi!” He fails again, Heejun now clapping him on the shoulder. Once, and the man immediately drops his arm, but it’s enough to make San’s fists clench. “I have a lot of friends, but I don’t think any of them would do this for me.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Isn’t it?” Heejun nods. “Right, I’ll let you get on with your evening.”

He moves aside, just a hair, an illusion of having had his fill. San doesn’t fall for it, recognising the glint in his face and the smugness that spreads across it when his eyes catch on San’s wrist.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about this—the hair tie,” Heejun says, cocky. Perhaps because he can sense San’s discomfort and he relishes it. Perhaps because he already knows the answer to his question, knows it so well that anything San could do—deny, get upset, recite a practised line—would just confirm it for him. “Why do you keep wearing it?”

“I—”

“You have no use for it. Wooyoung-ssi’s hair is short these days, too,” he says. “Is it just for show?”

“What are you talking—”

“That’s romantic, San-ssi. I can’t imagine doing it for a friend.”

And that’s San’s opening, the opportunity to deflect and double down—close friends would do it without a second thought, San misses his striker and the hair tie is a way to keep space for him. But he doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t say anything at all.

San just freezes.

It’s then that he notices there’s someone else filming them from the side, but it’s not the photographer that usually accompanies Kim Heejun—it’s a young man taking a video on his phone, other hand interlocked with the hand of a shorter girl. Just some random couple, maybe fans. San’s nails dig into the meat of his palms again, his throat works, and—

“San-ah, there you are!” his father calls out, striding towards him from the restaurant entrance. He barely pays the others attention, polite but single-minded in grabbing San around the shoulders and manoeuvring him towards the cars. “Ready to go?”

“Go?”

“Yeah, I’m not in the mood for barbecue,” he says. “Can you drive?”

Safe in his car, San keeps his back straight and his eyes flick to the spot he’s just got trapped in. The reporter is still there, watching. He has the gall to wave. San’s dad sees, and he must’ve seen more—heard more—because when he buckles his seatbelt, he asks San to find them a Lotteria.

≍

“How is it?”

San watches his dad swallow down the first bite of the burger, hiding behind his palm as he chews. It’s a funny contrast to their table setup—the table being the dashboard of San’s car, two napkins spread over his father’s lap, and condiments lined up on the console.

When he’s done chewing, San’s father shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says, plainly. “But I’ve had fast food before, San-ah.”

Unwrapping his own burger, San doesn't say that he has no memories of his own to prove it. He tries to relax into the silence instead, let the food ease the sting of the uncomfortable encounter that still lingers at the forefront of his mind. Chewing quietly, San’s dad is the one who decides to turn the music on. San almost chokes when his dad’s finger taps away from the radio, scrolls through his Melon playlists, and hovers over the one most recently played, songs for FUN people ONLY (feel free to skip) 🔥 🖤 ❤️‍🔥.

Without a comment, his dad swipes over to the public playlists and chooses something generic. The music plays, San eats, and he thinks there’s actually some ease to it: the way he can predict this, the compartmentalising. Focusing on their food first, then discussing the match, then choosing one of the eleven talking points to fill the space and pass the time.

He forgets that he’s never seen his dad eat Lotteria in a car.

“You need to be firmer with people like that, San-ah,” he says, out of nowhere, burger only half-eaten. “Polite, yes, but the moment they start encroaching on your privacy, they don’t deserve attention.”

San, taken aback, just pulls at the oily paper that’s gotten stuck to his beef patty.

“Boundaries, right?” his father continues. “Sometimes it’s worth speaking out to send a message.”

He hums, not saying that the message he’d actually like to send is one he can’t afford to. He feels his dad’s gaze on him, turns to find it full of concern and something else. Something weighty that dissolves before San can reply.

“That was a frustrating game today,” his dad says, swerving the topic into expected territory. “The refereeing…left a lot to be desired.”

They discuss the match as they share the fries, and predict their chances against Suwon Samsung next week. San’s dad asks about the scouts and any outstanding offers, and San tells him about US Sassuolo, the Italian team, and blames his apprehension on how it wouldn’t be a good career decision. He’s not even lying—the club’s interest is flattering, but they’ve just made it back into the highest Italian league, following a very disappointing season two years ago.

“You’ll have more offers,” his dad says, completely certain. “Don’t settle, San-ah. Don’t make a choice unless it feels right.”

San pushes the straw of his soda cup against his upper lip, inhaling. “What if…”

“Hm?”

“What if none of the choices feel right?” San asks.

In the ensuing silence, he regrets speaking the thought aloud. It’s silly. He doesn’t even have choices to make. He might get offers in the future but right now he’s stuck with one, and he already knows he’s not taking it.

“Then you stay where you are,” his father says, at last. He puts his own water bottle down, screwing the cap back on. “You like Ulsan KQ.”

“I do.”

“So—”

“But isn’t that settling?”

With the slight shake in his voice, and the carefulness in his father’s face, San expects some practical reassurance: it isn’t if they pay you well enough, or, there are still ways you can challenge yourself domestically. But his father just shrugs, looking out the windscreen. “I guess that depends on your definition.”

San knows he’s right.

And he knows that he still wants it: the big stadiums and matches that go down in football history, laying his soul bare before a crowd, pouring his sweat and blood into being the best player he can be. But, day by day and match by match, the thought of doing it alone feels a lot like settling.

“Look, San-ah, I didn’t get to make a choice,” his father speaks up, breaking him out of his head. “And I was bitter about it for a while, there’s no point in denying that. But somewhere down the line, I realised I was more bitter about having the choice taken away from me than I was about the outcome.”

San looks at him, biting his lip. He doesn’t try to reply, only waits.

“Losing football broke my heart, but I got to put my family first. Got to put you first.” His dad stops to smile at him, just slightly. “And I’d like to think now that I would’ve always made that choice if it came to it—that even if my heart wasn’t broken, I would’ve listened to what it was telling me to do.”

Another parking lot, San thinks wryly. This one is bright with the Lotteria signage and several streetlamps, and there’s a family loudly exiting their car just to San’s right. The youngest is pulling a toy car by a string, the wheels thumping with each bump of uneven concrete. San feels like he’ll remember the sound for a long time.

“Do you know what I mean?” his father asks.

“I do.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied.

They make it to three of San’s conversation topics after that—his mum, Haneul’s texts, and the baseball. San’s phone buzzes with a message at one point—a photo of Wooyoung, Seonghwa, and a flustered Yeosang, sending him finger hearts—and his dad insists on cleaning everything away before San starts the car up to drive them back to the barbecue place. Silent again, the music is still on. San’s dad clears his throat.

“I watched Wooyoungie’s show, by the way,” he says.

“Whistle Talk?” San asks, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“Yeah, the boy’s got a real knack for it! It’s his first time doing commentary like this, right?”

“It is.”

“He’s really funny. It’s clear the other hosts love him. And—he’s actually got a lot of great points about the matches when he’s not cracking jokes.”

San can only nod—he agrees with the entirety of his dad’s assessment.

Wooyoung had been nervous about San watching the first episode, but it took less than a minute for San to realise he’d been pulling at his sleeves for nothing; in front of the cameras, Wooyoung is a natural. He’s witty, playing off the other two hosts perfectly, much younger than them but just as sharp-tongued. He gets teased, he teases back, but he’s on the show as a player first and foremost, and his expertise is given due space. Though San knows it must be frustrating for him, to just watch week after week and sit behind a table, analysing a sport he can’t play, he also sees it every episode—the sparks of joy Wooyoung radiates when he gets to talk about what he loves the most.

“How’s next season looking for him, by the way?” San’s dad asks. “I guess he’s not really looking for a transfer right now?”

“No, he wants to stay put,” San confirms. Wooyoung did actually get an offer two weeks ago, Dongyoung-hyung called with the news during training. It was just okay, but it prompted Wooyoung to admit what San had already suspected. “To focus on getting the ankle back into shape. Not rushing it. He, uh, said he’d wave us all goodbye if it was Barca—” San smiles, rolling his eyes “—but otherwise he’s pretty set on staying another year.”

“That makes sense.”

Complete sense, San agrees, and he studies the traffic ahead with unnecessary focus, not wanting to slip right back into his all-consuming thought spiral.

“I don’t really think he needs my input,” San’s dad says, lowering his voice just a little, “but I’m happy to talk to Wooyoung if he ever needs it. Ankle injury veteran, and all that. Just let me know.”

San nods, making sure he keeps the car steady. He’s quiet for the rest of the drive. Once he parks, he glances at his dad again and wonders if he knows, no need for careful confessions, and that’s why he and San’s mum had stopped asking about a girlfriend that never was. Not because of rumours or implications made by a rude journalist, but because San gets just as transparent, talking about what he loves.

“I’ll see you soon.” San’s father grips his shoulder.

“Thank you, appa.”

He pats San’s back, once, and then his cheek. “Don’t worry too much, yeah?”

San hugs him before his dad leaves the car.

≍

In August, Wooyoung’s training interventions start paying off and Hyunwoo scores four goals across three games. Ulsan KQ holds onto the third spot in the league. Whistle Talk grows in popularity, Wooyoung drops by Bora’s office with her current favourite—dirty chai americano—to say thank you, and it’s a pretty even split between the good days and the bad.

But San’s days start getting divided along the same line.

The video of his encounter with Kim Heejun gets uploaded, leading to comments San tries his hardest not to read. They don’t matter, and he knows he shouldn’t care. It’s what they’ve all been bracing for—him, Wooyoung, Bora—and what San accepted as the price of trying to be private, not hidden.

But it isn’t possible to tune everything out.

There are the comments he sometimes comes across on his own socials, like a self-professed fan of six years begging San to come to his senses, or an older one expressing disappointment over losing a role model for their son. They sting, and San scrolls past them, and he focuses on the positive comments, the praise, the umbrellas.

Then there’s a remark Bora drops when Fila publicly announces their new ambassador, how the guy wishes he had a tenth of San’s charisma. It leads to her admitting that—though she has no concrete proof—the company’s final decision had been swayed by the rumours. And that stings, too, but San knows it’s better that way; he wouldn’t want to be the face of a brand that wouldn’t respect who he is.

The worst part, though, is the way he sees people talking about Wooyoung.

San should feel happy, really, when Wooyoung starts posting on his Instagram again: photos from training, Whistle Talk behind-the-scenes, even selfies. But then he sees some of the vicious comments, the same kind that pop up on Coupang Play every second week, and it makes San want to lash out because he can’t really speak out, can’t protect, can’t do anything about it.

So, he keeps his head down.

He plays, and Wooyoung logs more rehab milestones, and some days they get a bit too snappy at each other because of strangers that don’t deserve their attention—but then they’re always kinder to each other, after, because they both know it’s worth it. Wooyoung’s number one priority is still his recovery. San still gets two other offers after US Sassuolo—one Dutch club and one Japanese—and nobody is brave enough to confront him to his face.

≍

Come September, there are more good days than bad, and they mostly align.

Like the day Wooyoung is allowed near a football again: just on his own, low intensity, nothing more complicated than a few minutes of ball control drills and dribbling. But it makes him glow when he tells San—a smile that could rival the sun, excitement shared at an inhuman pace of fifteen words per breath.

“God, I can’t wait to kick more balls!” he says, mouth twitching.

“Is that a threat?” San asks.

“Maybe so,” Wooyoung hums, pretending to make an attack with his left foot.

San easily dodges, trapping him on the sofa, and no amount of mean comments could make that day turn bad—he knows he’d go through much, much worse if it meant he got to keep sharing moments like these with Wooyoung.

Still, sometimes, the bad days align too.

Like the day they’re meant to meet the team for dinner but Wooyoung cancels at the last minute, then scolds San for coming over to keep him company.

“I cancelled for a reason, San,” he says after five minutes of one-word answers. “I wanted to be alone.”

“Do you want me to go?” San asks.

“No,” Wooyoung sighs, dragging a nail down his own forehead in frustration. “No, just—I don’t want to fight today.”

“Then don’t.”

Wooyoung chuckles like that’s a ridiculous request, but he nods and lets San stay where he is, disappearing into the kitchen. He cooks his favourite kimchi jjigae and they eat, and San tries to forget about the tasteless joke that’s been bothering him for hours, Minhyuk telling him in the showers that San was standing “a bit too close for comfort.”

He partly manages, puts on Queen of Tears while Wooyoung browses Coupang looking for a rug to put into the kitchen.

“This one?” he turns his phone to San, showing off a circular black rug that San approves with a nod. “Or this one?” he asks after a while, showing off a rectangular black rug that earns the same reaction. “And this?” he says, in the same tone, but the picture on his phone is that of a black hoodie. “They’re buy one get one free.”

“I don’t—”

San bites his tongue and drops his eyes from the screen, glum. He hates that his first instinct was to say no, to warn Wooyoung that a matching hoodie would rouse more rumours. San wants to be matching—hoodies, caps, smudged doodles on their arms; he doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of taking that away. But the worry is there these days, an unshakeable awareness, something San has to consciously fight against.