Chapter Text
Han Seojun dreams of rooftops, of perching on the very edge of one with his toes over the abyss and his arms open wide at his sides. The wind digs sharp fingers into his face and skin through the layer of his clothes, raking through his hair and fluttering his unzipped jacket with a violent grip. When he breathes, he can see the cloud of it hang in the air, fogging his view of the neon city spread out below him. He’s so high up, he feels like he could touch the stars if he just reached a little further.
Normally, you can’t see much of the stars in Seoul but tonight they’re spread in a brilliant pattern above his head, so bright he thinks they all must be planets. He can even spot Pluto in the dark expanse, 5.9 billion kilometers away. On the building across from him, Seyeon’s face smiles out from a billboard—beautiful and unnatural and young forever.
“What are you waiting for?” This giant digital version of Seyeon asks, sounding impatient in a way he rarely was in life. “Jump, Seojun-ah.”
Jump. Right, that’s why he’s up here. He’s supposed to jump, he’s always supposed to jump.
He sucks in a cold-sharp breath, holding it in his lungs until he can feel the burn of it.
“Jump,” the Seyeon billboard repeats, sounding angrier now. “You have to jump, Seojun, to pay for what you did.”
He lets the breath out in a cloudy stream and whispers, “I know.”
“Then jump.”
He closes his eyes and steps off the ledge of the building into thin air, letting gravity sink claws into his body and drag him down, down, down . He’s falling now—falling faster and faster and faster until the world is a blur of neon and the wind mingles with the noise of the city to build to a deafening crescendo and—
He wakes just before he hits the ground, jerking upright in bed with a hand clapped over his frantically pounding heart. He can still feel the impact echoing like phantom pain—the crush of his bones, the hot spill of his blood on icy pavement, the broken, twisted mangle of his body as it sprawls in the snow. Seyeon is looking down from his billboard prison and Seojun is dying too slow and is this penance enough? Why can’t—
Hands land on his shoulders, big and warm and familiar
“Seojun-ah,” an equally familiar voice says. It’s deep and measured but through years of practice, Seojun can easily pick up the thread of worry lurking underneath the forced calm.
The rest of the world creeps in as the remnants of the dream fade: the softness of a mattress beneath him, tangled blankets wrapped around his legs, the dim glow of a bedside lamp, the austere walls of this modern apartment that he’s always hated … and Lee Suho, with his knees digging into Seojun’s thigh and those big hands still latched onto his shoulders, fingers pressing into skin where Seojun’s baggy sleep shirt has slipped down to expose his collarbones.
The day reassembles itself quickly in his mind: looking after his mother in the hospital; working his shift at the cafe and then a second-shift manning the counter at a nearby convenience store; getting a message from Gowoon that she’d be staying at a friend’s and deciding to come to Suho’s instead of going home because they haven’t seen each other in a week; ordering pizza and dozing off on Suho’s shoulder before Suho half-dragged, half-carried him to bed.
And then a rooftop. Always a rooftop.
“Seojun-ah,” Suho says again and Seojun hurriedly shakes off the rest of his stupor.
“I’m fine,” he says, reaching up to wipe a trembling hand across his face. He was sweating in his sleep, gross.
He doesn’t have to look at Suho to know a frustrated glare is being aimed at him, he can practically feel the ice of it against his skin. Like usual, he turns to meet it head on, matching it with one of his own.
“Seojun-ah,” Suho says a third time, a thousand things contained in that single utterance of his name: don’t shut me out, don’t lie to me, we always do this to each other, you always do this to me, I’m worried about you, I’m always worried about you, you insufferable bastard….
Seojun caves because he’s always been easy for Lee Suho. “It was just a dream,” he mutters defensively.
“The usual one?” Suho asks. He’s still up on his knees, pressed nearly up against Seojun’s side. Seojun isn’t sure if he feels suffocated or grateful for the steady warmth that Suho provides.
“Yeah.”
Suho sighs and moves his hand from Seojun’s shoulder to cup the back of his head. “Did you jump?”
“I always jump.”
If he tries to not jump, he gets dragged over the edge and to the ground by invisible hands or, on the worst nights, he has to watch Suho jump in his place. The counselor he briefly met with said these dreams are a manifestation of the guilt he’s harboring, tangled up together with his grief, and he has to forgive himself for what happened. He has no idea how to do that, though, no matter how many times Suho tells him it wasn’t his fault and no matter how sure he is that Seyeon would never want him to feel responsible.
His stupid brain isn’t cooperating. So he suffers routine, intense night terrors while Suho struggles with debilitating panic attacks.
What a pair they are. Match made in fucking heaven.
“I’m okay,” he says again because Suho is still radiating worry, even if his expression is smooth and inscrutable. He pats his own chest and then Suho’s. “See? Both in one piece.”
Suho makes a noise of agreement. “I think one piece is relative.”
That startles a laugh out of Seojun. “Okay, together we make up one piece.”
“Romantic.”
“Shut up.”
Suho drops a kiss on his hair and Seojun scrunches his face up in a disgusted grimace to hide the fact that he’s touched by the display of affection.
“We should try to sleep some more,” Suho says. Seojun peers around him to the clock on his desk, blinking 3 a.m. at them like an admonishment. “Since you’re coming back to school tomorrow.”
Oh school. He’d almost forgotten.
“Yay,” he deadpans and flops onto his back, dragging Suho down with him. Suho huffs and twists so he can pull the covers back over them, nearly elbowing Seojun in the side in the process.
“You don’t want to come back?” He asks when they’re finally settled.
“You know I don’t like that place.”
“I’m there.”
Seojun snorts. “So what? We can glare at each other all day?”
“At least I get to see you,” Suho says with a shrug. “And we could always tell everyone we made up.”
Seojun sighs, wishing it would be that easy. “I don’t know how to just be your friend anymore. It’s safer this way.”
Otherwise, he’s too worried he’s going to slip up. Touch Suho in a way that seems suspicious, tease him in a way that isn’t platonic—over the past year he’s grown used to Suho-My-Boyfriend. He doesn’t know how to shape Suho back into something different. But a pretend rivalry? That’s just a game, and the boundaries are clear. No one can ask questions if they barely talk to each other.
Suho makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Are you that afraid of slipping up?”
“Yah. I’m afraid of you slipping up. You’re the sentimental one.”
“If you say so, jagi.”
Seojun makes a retching sound and shifts onto his side, facing away from Suho. “Whatever. Go the fuck to sleep.”
A moment later, he feels Suho press up against his back and Suho’s arm drape over his side. It’s cloying and comforting in equal measure. “Sleep well,” Suho murmurs because he really is a total sap. “Dream of good things.”
“I’ll try.”
But he thinks a part of him will always be suspended on that rooftop, trapped between the ground, the sky, and Seyeon, slipping through his frantic grasp.
_ _
(“There was a girl,” Suho tells him several nights ago, looking pale and far too scared. “On The Rooftop. On the edge. I … stopped her.”
And then his breath starts to wheeze and his hands shake until Seojun takes them in his own and squeezes them tight, murmuring, “Hey, hey, breathe with me, Suho-yah. Remember? In. One. Two. Out. That’s it. In. One. Two….”
Eventually Suho calms, but Seojun doesn’t let go, just curls around him like he can fit Suho inside of his own skin. Protect him from this grief that’s still gnawing at their bones like a starved dog. “Idiot. Why do you keep going back there?”
“You go in dreams,” Suho says. “My feet just take me there.” He sighs, an exhausted, trembling exhale. “I’m glad they did. Tonight.”
Seojun thinks of the girl, then of Seyeon, alone up there with the lights and the wind. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”)
_ _
Once upon a time, Han Seojun loves two boys at once. One is sunny and cheerful and brilliant, like looking at the sun. The other is quiet and a little awkward but has a smile like spring and gorgeous hands that caress piano keys, drawing masterpieces from them. Seojun wants to conquer the world with them, wants to watch them catch on fire like comets across the black expanse of space, wants to kiss them until he’s breathless, until they take the last drops of oxygen from his lungs.
He only tells them about some of these things. (Guess which ones.)
But dark clouds creep onto their bright horizon and the first boy that he loves slips through his fingers like water returning to the sea. He stands in a stark-white hospital corridor, listening to explanations and apologies from the staff, and feels the sun implode, contorting into a black hole that sucks in all the shattered pieces of his exploded heart.
Later, he stands in front of an altar in that same hospital and watches the second boy that he loves sob on his knees, curled in on himself like his spine is breaking.
I’m going to lose him too, he thinks with black despair. I’m going to lose him too.
_ _
It feels strange to put on his red school jacket after such a long absence. It’s never felt like it fits right but today he makes an effort, actually putting on a white button down and a tie under it. He slipped out of bed early this morning, kissing a still-sleeping Suho on the forehead before making his way to his own house. They could have gone together, but he needs time to put his barriers up. He hasn’t been Saebom High School’s Han Seojun in several months and he has to remember how to slide the cocky skin on, fix pieces of his mask into place.
It isn’t like he’s totally not himself there … just parts of himself only. He buries the son that holds vigil by his mother’s hospital bed; the brother that adores his little sister; the queer kid that’s always liked men and women equally and sleeps next to another boy at night; the griefstricken teenager still struggling with the loss of one of his first ever loves; the dreamer who wanted to sing and have his name in lights. In exchange, he dials up his temper, his confidence, his inability to care about school, and the fierce, intimidating side of him that has led to many fights over the years. And in the end, he has the Han Seojun that’s one of the so-called gods of Saebom High—a bad boy that girls swoon over and other boys fear.
It’s not easy, exactly, but he manages. Or he did. He’ll manage again, even if he’s spent what feels like an age as just those normally-hidden parts.
“You’ve got this,” he says to the image in the mirror, who does look handsome and not like he only got a few restless hours of sleep last night. So that’s something, at least.
He picks up his helmet and heads out the front door, feeling weirdly like he’s going to war.
_ _
Maybe it’s the motorcycle and the cool factor it gives him, maybe he’s just better at this than he thought, but he falls back into school easier than expected. He glares at Suho like they hate each other, jokes with Kim Chorong and the rest of his ridiculous friends, and sleeps at his desk in the back of his homeroom class, feeling Suho’s disapproving glare boring into him from all the way across the room.
The only change is the new transfer student, Lim Jugyeong, who seems … well, odd. Beautiful and friendly, but definitely odd. She’s also clumsy and flighty and keeps staring at Suho like they have some kind of secret between them. And she’s taken over his usual seat, which is annoying. He’s never been the jealous type, and Suho seems taken aback by most of her actions instead of charmed, but Seojun’s still intrigued. Doesn’t really know what to make of her or if he should care at all. (Probably not.)
That evening, he sheds the suffocating tie and heads for the hospital. He still hates seeing his mother here, even though there is color returning to her skin and she’s able to hold lively conversations again like usual. It’s just … every time he walks through the doors, he expects to be directed to a room with an alter—his mother’s portrait or Seyeon’s or Suho’s waiting for him. But he puts on a happy face for her, regaling her with watered-down stories from school and how Gowoon’s singing is going.
Tonight, he promises her that his first day back was fine (true); that yes, he’ll try hard at school (potentially true); that of course, he’ll quit some of his part-time jobs now that he needs to study again (probably a lie); and finally that no, he’s not still riding his “dangerous” motorcycle (definitely a lie).
“And where is Suho?” she asks, as though Suho hasn’t also been to visit at least three nights a week.
“Aish, you know he has a study group,” Seojun huffs. “And he goes to a hagwon.”
“That’s right,” his mother sighs. “His grades are so much better than yours.”
“Yah!”
She giggles, which makes him smile. It’s so nice to see her happy and cheerful again, to have the mantra in his head of please don’t take her from me, please don’t take her from me, please don’t take her from me finally quiet down. He’s barely been able to breathe for over two months.
Just then, as though their conversation summoned him, Suho appears next to him, dressed in his usual designer jacket that makes Seojun inwardly roll his eyes and also experience a surge of (mostly) unwanted affection. His mother lets out an exclamation of delight, opening up her arms, and Suho smiles that gentle smile of his as he leans over Seojun to give her a hug.
“I’m glad you’re doing better, eomma,” he says with a warmth he never displays at school. “Sorry I haven’t been to visit more often.”
“Nonsense!” Mother declares, like she wasn’t just asking after him. “You study so hard, Suho-yah. Unlike my other son.” She smacks Seojun on the arm.
“Yah,” Seojun says with mock outrage. “I’m your biological son.”
Mother sighs dramatically. “I know, how tragic. Suho-yah, how quickly do you think I can get adoption papers?”
It’s something she’s been joking (though a part of him thinks she’s serious) about for the last year and it always makes Suho smile and awkwardly shuffle his feet like the dork he secretly is beneath that icy exterior. So Seojun can't be mad at it.
“I’m sure we can find someone to expedite the process,” Suho says, still grinning.
“Excellent. You can have his room.” She points at Seojun, who glances back and forth between them with wide, betrayed eyes.
“Deal,” Suho says.
Seojun elbows him. “Hey! You have an entire apartment, asshole.”
“But you always say that apartment feels like a mausoleum.”
“It doesn’t mean you can take my room!”
“You’re always asking me to stay with you.”
“We’re talking about principle here, you jerk.”
“Boys!” Mother finally interjects, trying to hide her amused smile.
They quiet down after that and Suho gives Mother the same spiel Seojun did: yes school is going fine (true), yes he’s making friends (partially true), yes he’s still recovering well (somewhat of a lie), and yes, he’s making sure Seojun doesn’t ride his motorcycle (definitely a lie). He keeps his hand resting on Seojun’s shoulder the entire time that he talks, refusing Seojun’s offer to let him sit down. He smells like coffee and the river and that citrus detergent he uses, and his fingers rub the fabric of Seojun’s school jacket in familiar, back-and-forth sweeps.
“You boys should go home,” Mother finally says, shooing them with sharp flicks of her fingers. “Get some rest.”
“Eomma,” Seojun protests in a whine, “at least let us stay until you fall asleep.”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “You’re too distracting. Go on now.”
Suho bows to her while Seojun grabs one of her hands and squeezes it in farewell, relieved he no longer has to feel an IV tube digging into his palm.
Outside in the hallway, Suho turns to him with a frown. “You rode your bike here, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I could give you a lift home? Or back to my place?” He hates the idea of Suho spending all his time alone in that too-fancy apartment that does feel like a mausoleum.
Suho stares at him, unmoving. Once again, he caves like the weakling he is. “Fine, we’ll take the damn bus. Bastard.”
“You’re the one who’s riding it when your mother doesn’t want you to.”
“Shut up.”
Suho smiles and taps two fingers against the back of Seojun’s hand—a fleeting touch, their own morse code. You’re cute, this one usually means. Seojun huffs and nudges Suho, making sure their shoulders bump as he does.
Sentimental idiot, it means. You’re lucky I like you.
_ _
Once upon a time, Han Seojun sits on his living room floor across from his mother, perched on their worn couch. The boy sitting next to him is officially his boyfriend of two weeks and Seojun has no idea how to work up the courage to tell his mother that. To change the shape of Suho in her eyes, to find the words to explain this shift that happened from best friend to something more. It’s an indescribable feeling, especially when society insists you shouldn’t experience it all—at least not towards someone of the same gender.
So he’s staring at his mother while Suho’s shoulder brushes his, trying to gather all these scattering words on his tongue and force them past the barrier of his teeth. Suho looks back and forth between the scared, frozen expression on his face and the growing confusion on his mother’s and … takes his hand.
That’s all.
He threads their fingers together like he’s done dozens of times in private and pulls Seojun’s shaking hand to rest in his lap, rubbing his thumb across the back of it in soothing sweeps. Seojun watches, breath held and stomach churning, as understanding dawns in his mother’s eyes. Suho’s grip tightens, waiting for judgment alongside him, but it isn’t disgust or anger that takes over Mother’s expression next.
It’s joy.
It feels like watching a sunrise as her lips part to reveal her white teeth and her cheeks scrunch from the strength of her smile.
“Oh,” she breathes, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, my son, I’m so happy for you.”
He chokes on that breath he’d been holding and then his mother is rushing from the couch to embrace them both. Seojun can feel her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt as his own slip hot down his cheeks. She pets the back of their heads while Suho squeezes his hand so tight it feels like his bones are grinding together.
“You’d better call me ‘eomma’ now,” she says to Suho when she pulls away and he nods quickly. Then, predictably she marvels at how Seojun managed to land someone so far out of his league with the next breath while threatening Suho to take good care of her son with the breath after that. Suho just keeps nodding and holding Seojun’s hand, out of his depth, while Seojun can’t seem to stop crying, no matter much he wipes his eyes with his now-damp sleeve.
It’s embarrassing and incredible and Suho actually kisses him on his salt-smeared cheek before he leaves, the simple touch enough to set his skin aflame.
“You’re really okay with it?” he asks his mother when they’re alone again, voice small in a way he usually doesn’t let it be. “You don’t mind that he’s a boy?”
“Does he make you happy?” his mother asks in return.
Seojun isn’t sure he knows how to be happy again yet, not with this hole punched through the middle of him that’s still stitching closed in the wake of Seyeon’s death. But…. “He makes me think the future could be bright,” he decides. “Could be good.”
His mother nods, decisive, and cups his face. “Then, Seojun-ah, that’s what matters.”
It hits Seojun, then, that home is one of the places he won’t have to hide. He swears he could walk amongst the clouds, knowing that.
_ _
(“Whoa, where did you get that comic book?” Seojun asks after they’ve made it home from the hospital and Suho is reading on the couch while Seojun makes ramyun for them and Gowoon. “Haven’t you been looking for that thing for ages?”
“The girl on the rooftop gave it to me,” Suho explains without lifting his eyes from the book. Nerd. “She lives near the comic store. I ran into her again.”
“Huh. As a thank you? For saving her life?”
Suho shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “For keeping it a secret.”)
_ _
Seojun is still juggling a handful of part-time jobs, in spite of Suho’s insistence that he can help out with money. He models and picks up delivery gigs on the weekends, then works a shift or two at the cafe a few afternoons a week. Suho usually spends at least one of those evenings studying or reading there, ordering a string of drinks he barely finishes as an excuse to get Seojun to stop by his table. And sometimes, he’ll come to the mall the fashion studio is at and wander around until Seojun is finished, pretending to shop in stores he’ll never actually buy anything from.
Seojun finds it ridiculous and touching, and today he catches Suho as he’s about to go change into his regular clothes and nods towards the bathroom with a wink. He ducks into one of the stalls and waits, listening for the sound of the door opening again and Suho’s footsteps approaching—a soft knock on the stall door. He opens it, letting Suho in, and latches it behind them.
“Hi,” Suho says.
“I have three minutes before they’re going to come looking,” Seojun says and shrugs his jacket off.
Suho helps him, draping it over his arm as Seojun moves on to the shirt. It’s weird, doing this in front of Suho now. He feels like he should be embarrassed, like he might be around a girl, but they were best friends for years before they started dating. Suho saw him in numerous states of undress and so the awkwardness never really came, even if the way Suho watches him now is very different—eyes dark with a mixture of desire and intent.
“I said I have three minutes,” Seojun huffs when he notices that Suho’s gaze is lingering on his bare chest and stomach and the way his pants sit low on his waist, a little too big for him.
Also it’s not like they’ve done much. Making out, sure, and some heavy, incredibly non-platonic touches in intimate places, but nothing really beyond that. Seojun isn’t sure why. It’s not like either of them are particularly shy with each other. It’s just … the grief has swallowed so much—maybe they’re not ready to be vulnerable in new ways yet. They’ve already seen each other stripped raw, flayed to the bone by loss and trauma. They can take their time, Seojun thinks, with intimacy. With each other.
Still, Suho steps closer now and pulls him in for a kiss. He makes a halfhearted, disgruntled noise against Suho’s mouth, but returns it, letting Suho tilt his head to the side and deepen it, pushing him back against the side of the stall and caging him there.
(He’s never known quite what to do with how small Suho makes him feel sometimes. And how much he likes that.)
They’re about the same height, so it’s easy to press his forehead to Suho’s when they part for air, hands curled in the sides of Suho’s jacket.
“You work too much,” Suho says, reaching up to rub his knuckles along the bone of Seojun’s cheek.
“Modeling is easy. And you study too much.”
Suho smirks at that, but doesn’t deny it. “Let me help with the rest.”
“You’d better. I’ve got like one minute now.”
Suho hands him his sweater, taking the shirt from him and hanging it over the stall door with the jacket, and then reaches for the button on his pants. Seojun pulls his sweater over his head to hide the way his cheeks redden a little as Suho eases the pants off his hips and down his legs.
(Okay maybe he’s not entirely unaffected. Whatever.)
“Meet me after?” Suho asks as he trades the designer slacks for Seojun’s jeans, crouching to help Seojun put his socked feet in them. “We could get coffee. I don’t think we’ll run into anyone from school.”
Seojun takes over, pulling the pants the rest of the way up and fastening them. “Mm, fine. You’re paying.”
“Sure,” Suho says easily. “See you downstairs, jagiya.”
Seojun sputters at the endearment, frustrated that Suho manages to catch him off-guard every time he uses it. Suho, the jerk, takes advantage of his momentary incapacitation to unlatch the stall door and slip out.
“I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu!” Seojun calls after him.
“Sure, jagiya,” Suho calls back, then the bathroom door itself opens and closes, leaving Seojun alone.
“I hate him,” Seojun says into the stillness.
He can almost hear Seyeon laughing in amusement and the echo of is still a sharp prick to his chest, but doesn’t sear right through him like it once did.
_ _
Once upon a time, Han Seojun runs up the stairs to the roof of the building that haunts his dreams. It’s summer and the cool evening air is still thick with humidity, sticking his bangs to his forehead and his clothes to his skin.
I’m sorry, Suho wept to him over the phone, the first time they’ve really spoken since Seyeon’s death. I’m so sorry. I didn’t answer his call, I let him die, I’m sorry.
And Seojun started running, faster than he’s ever run in his miserable life, because he can’t lose both boys that he loved within months of each other. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—what would be left of him?
Now, he bursts through the door to the rooftop and freezes at the sight of Suho on the ledge. For a moment, the image flickers to Seyeon and then back again, and he thinks he’s going to crumble to dust right here. Just collapse in on himself like a dying star.
“You weren’t supposed to come,” Suho says without turning to look at him, voice flat and already dead.
And Seojun hates him, more than he’s ever hated him before. More than even the anger he’s harbored for the past few months, crashing between blaming Suho and blaming himself and wanting Seyeon back so badly it was killing him.
“Fuck you,” he says, and he could just physically pull Suho off the ledge but he already knows that won’t work. Suho’s a stubborn fool and he’ll come back tomorrow or the next day or the next.
So Seojun is going to make him understand.
He gets right up on the ledge with him. And now, now, Suho is looking at him, wide-eyed and scared. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Seojun grits out. “I’m jumping with you.”
“Why?”
“I let go of him too,” Seojun says. “I let him leave by himself. So I should jump, too, right? If we’re paying penance.”
“No," Suho snaps. “You said it yourself, he was coming to find me. I wasn’t there for him.”
Seojun winces, because he had said something like that, in the immediate aftermath of the funeral—when his helpless rage needed somewhere to go and targeted the one person it shouldn’t have. But he knows the truth now, figured it out from Suho’s sobbing confession, and he’s going to pull them both back from this brink or die trying.
“You didn’t know,” he says. “I did and I left him alone.” He straightens his jacket. “So I’m jumping too.”
“Seojun—”
“Shit, that’s far,” Seojun continues as he glances down, ignoring the bile that’s creeping his throat and the way he can picture Seyeon stepping off and falling until he broke open on the pavement hundreds of meters below. “Should we go on three?”
“Stop it!” Suho yells.
Seojun ignores him too. “Yeah, I think three is good. I’ll count us down, okay?”
“One….”
“Enough.”
“Two....”
“Get down.”
“Three.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a step forward, one foot over the abyss—and Suho grabs his arm, wrenching him backwards. They overbalance and tumble from the ledge onto the hard surface of the roof. Seojun gasps as his back connects with the concrete and Suho lands on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs.
“You idiot!” Suho yells, shaking him by the front of his shirt. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
He’s never heard Suho swear like that before. Good , he thinks. Let’s open all the wounds. Get as much of this poison out as possible.
“Me? What about you, you fucking bastard,” he yells right back, shoving Suho so hard in the chest he falls to the side. Seojun crawls on top of him, reversing their positions and pinning Suho to the ground. “You were gonna leave me here alone? Make me mourn you too? Blame myself for your death too?” He shakes Suho hard. “You selfish fucking asshole. How dare you?”
“You hate me,” Suho snarls back. “Why would you mourn me? Wouldn’t it be better if I—”
Seojun punches him across the face, snapping his head to the side. “Shut up. Don’t you dare.”
Suho punches back, knocking Seojun off him, and then Seojun is the one pressed into the concrete again, feeling the rough edges scrape his back and shoulders through the thin layer of his t-shirt. He weathers two more blows to the face from Suho, as well as a knee to the stomach, before he grabs Suho’s fist, stopping him.
“Enough,” he gasps. “Enough.”
Suho is crying. Seojun can feel the tears hitting his face, sliding down his cheeks like rainwater. “Just leave me alone,” Suho hiccups through the sobs.
“I can’t do that,” Seojun says. “I love you.”
Suho freezes. “What?”
“I love you, moron. Bastard. Fucking jerk.” Seojun laughs, his vision blurring from his own tears. “I love you and I loved Seyeon and if I lose you both, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”
“Love?” Suho asks, still sounding shocked. “What do you—”
Out of patience, Seojun yanks him down into a kiss by the front of his shirt. Suho tenses, letting out a stunned noise, and for a moment Seojun’s brain screams at him that this was a mistake, such a mistake you’re the idiot and now you’re going to lose him too just like you thought you would —but then Suho’s fingers sink into his hair and Suho is kissing him back, uncoordinated and messy and desperate. It tastes like blood and salt, but Suho’s tongue slipping between his lips is heaven, Seojun thinks. As close as he’s probably ever going to come.
When Suho pulls away, he doesn’t go far, just buries his face in Seojun’s neck, trembling against him. Seojun wraps his arms around him, holding on tight. “I’m sorry for what I said,” he chokes out. “It was wrong. It just felt easier to blame you than myself. But we’re in this together, got it? So if you throw yourself off a fucking building, you’d better do it knowing that I’m gonna follow after you. You want that on your conscience?”
“No,” Suho mumbles after a moment.
Seonjun pulls him closer. “Good. We’ll survive this, Suho-yah. It’s … it’s what he would have wanted.”
Suho just sobs and kisses Seojun again, like he’s aching for it, like he can’t get enough.
Did you love Seyeon like I loved him? Seojun wonders. Were we in the same miserable boat this whole time?
It’s a question for later. For now, he kisses Suho back just as fierce, trying to convey I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking stay with me.
He has no idea what they’re going to be to each other from now on, but at least Suho didn’t jump. At least Seojun’s not alone.
_ _
(“What the hell are you doing to Lim Jugyeong?” Seojun asks in the mall coffee shop, sipping his very expensive custom drink that Suho only winced a little at before paying for. “She’s been running all over the school like a madwoman.”
Suho shrugs. “She agreed to do everything I wanted.”
“Why? ”
“So I would keep a secret.”
“The one about the roof?”
“No,” Suho says. “A different one.”
Seojun snorts. “She’s full of secrets, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Suho knocks his shoe against Seojun’s under the table, an affectionate tap. “She is.”)
_ _
Suho likes Lim Jugeyong. Looking back, Seojun thinks it should have been obvious. The errands and demands that were obviously a form of hair-pulling—the same kind Suho still exhibits with Seojun sometimes. The trips to the comic store. The faint smile on Suho’s face and the undercurrent of affection in his voice when he talks about her.
But Seojun was ignoring those signs. He can’t ignore this: Suho kneeling in front of Lim Jugyeong on the dirty pavement of the playground Seojun’s supposed to meet him at. He can’t tell what exactly they’re doing, but Jugyeong has Suho’s jacket draped over her shoulders and Suho is looking at her with open warmth. Seojun feels an invisible fist bury itself in his solar plexus, but his first thought is good.
Suho should like a girl, right? It would be easier. No more hiding, no more sneaking around, no more fear of everything crashing down if they’re discovered. He can marry a girl, can show a girl off to the school and the world. He can hold a girl’s hand in public and kiss her and no one would bat an eye. He wouldn’t have to worry about judgment or violence or disgust. Everyone would gush over them—this beautiful, perfect couple.
But could you live with it? an insidious voice whispers and … he doesn’t know. Could he let Suho go, if it came to that? If Suho decided he’d rather be with Lim Jugyeong instead of Seojun, whose sharp edges still cut him open sometimes? Because sometimes, hating each other at school doesn’t always feel like pretend—there’s still poison they’re expunging, anger and guilt and grief leaching out of them too slow. With Lim Jugyeong there would be none of that, only sweetness. Of course Suho would choose her, wouldn’t he?
It would hurt, Seojun knows. It might flay him alive, but he could let go. If that’s what Suho wanted, if that’s what would make him happy. But maybe … maybe Suho would be fine with them both? Jugyeong on his arm in public and Seojun in secret. He’d stay out of their way, just ask for a few snatches of Suho’s time and that could be enough….
You’re pathetic, the voice says, and it’s true. He is. He calls Suho a sentimental idiot but right now he recognizes his own hypocrisy.
Still it’s too late to fix it, he just has to live with this bleeding heart of his. So he waits until Lim Jugyeong leaves and then takes her seat next to Suho on the bench. Suho looks startled, but not guilty, which Seojun will take as a good sign.
“You’re early.”
“You should date her,” Seojun blurts out. “If you like her.”
Suho blinks at him. “But I’m dating you.”
Seojun shrugs, trying to seem casual. “No one knows that.”
“I know that,” Suho argues, brow furrowed in confusion.
“But you like her,” Seojun says. “It’s obvious.”
“It’s a crush. I don’t have to do anything about it.”
“I’m saying you can. If you want to.”
Now Suho’s eyebrows disappear into his bangs. “You’d be okay with that?”
Seojun nods without looking at him.
“Really?”
“Yes! You can date two people at once, right? I’m sure it happens all the time.”
“I don’t think it does.”
“Well you still can,” Seojun insists. “You’d be the talk of the school.”
Suho scoots closer on the bench, putting a hand on Seojun’s thigh. “Do you think you’re not enough for me, Seojun-ah?”
“No.” (Liar.) “I just … it’s different with a girl. Easier.”
“What makes you think I want easy?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“So are you going to find a girl to date, then?”
Seojun glares at him. “No. I just … I want you to be happy, okay? If she can make you happy in ways I can’t then you should date her. Tell her about me, if you want, but don’t pass up an opportunity because of me.”
“You make me happy,” Suho murmurs, tapping Seojun’s thigh in a gentle rhythm. I love you, this one usually says. “You’re enough for me. But if you want me to do this then, fine. I like her. I’ll see what happens with her. She might not like me back, though.”
Seojun snorts. “Of course she will. Who wouldn’t like you back?”
Suho regards him with a mixture of fondness and amusement that makes Seojun’s chest pull taut. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Yes. She seems nice.” He pauses. “Is she nice?”
“She is.”
“I should see for myself, though.”
Suho groans. “No, you’re going to put her through some weird test, aren’t you?”
“Yah. I just want to get to know her. And you’re the one who’s been making her run stupid errands for you.”
Suho winces. “That was a mistake,” he admits. “I’m … I’m used to you. To us.”
To the way they bicker, he means. To vulnerability in the dark—both of their chests carved open and all their inner wounds on display—but never in the light of day. To being something to each other that no one else knows the depth of, existing in this private world of theirs where it’s safe to touch and kiss like they want to. To the way that they rarely say exactly what they mean. It’s a language of coded touches, of insults with double meanings, of an emotional dance only they know the steps for—a secret choreography they’ve developed together.
Seojun hums. “It’s going to be different, with her.” He slings an arm around Suho’s shoulders. “But don’t worry, I’ll help.”
Suho regards him warily. “Why doesn’t that reassure me?”
Seojun just kisses him on the cheek in response. “C’mon. Come stay the night with me and Gowoon. She’s been wanting to see you.”
“Fine,” Suho agrees.
Seojun starts to stand from the bench, but Suho snags his hand before he can get far. “Seojun-ah,” he says, serious again. “If at any point you’re not okay with this, I’ll stop. You come first.”
It’s not that simple, Seojun thinks. The heart can’t help itself, more often than not. But he just smiles down at Suho and says, “Of course. I’m your entire world, jagiya. I get it.”
“Jerk,” Suho huffs, but he’s smiling and he lets Seojun pull him to his feet.
_ _
The next day at school, Seojun sits next to Lim Jugyeong the cafeteria at lunch, ignoring the wide-eyed look of terror she gives him. He knows what his reputation is, even though he’s never actually bullied anyone. He just looks like a troublemaker and so people have built up a narrative in their heads that he secretly beats other kids and commits crimes outside of school. Whatever.
“W-what do you want?” Lim Jugyeong stammers in a soft voice and that’s no good, they’ll need to work on her confidence.
“To eat with you,” he says with a disarming smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Suho hovering and radiating deep mistrust. He doesn’t know why. They talked about this. It’s obvious that at least a part of Jugyeong likes Suho, otherwise she wouldn’t put up with his ridiculous attempts at courtship. She has no feelings towards Seojun whatsoever, but the only way he can think to believably get close to her is pretending to woo her. Now, of course, Suho can’t take that lying down—otherwise Jugyeong won’t realize that he likes her. Therefore….
Three, two, one — “Han Seojun!”
Suho wrenches him out of his seat, hands fisted tight in the front of his jacket and shirt, and shakes him hard enough to clack his teeth together. Fucking jiujitsu.
“This bastard, really,” Seojun says, cold. And then, with a mental apology, punches Suho across the face. Suho grabs him again, fist pulled back. “Hit me,” Seojun goads, but Suho doesn’t. At least, not before a teacher arrives to yell at them.
They’re dragged to the school office and Seojun endures jabs at his character in stony silence, then has to keep Chorang and the posse of idiots from trying to beat Suho up in some weird defense of his honor. And then, finally, they’re alone in the gym as Suho mops the floors, completing his penance in silence.
“Sorry,” Seojun says once he’s sure the others are out of earshot, stopping Suho’s mopping so he can take a look at his split lip.
“You didn’t have to hit that hard,” Suho grumbles, wincing at Seojun’s touch to his lip and the corner of his mouth.
“I told you to hit me back.” Suho shakes his head. Seojun sighs. “It’ll get you sympathy, at least. From Jugyeong.”
“You think so?”
“You defended her honor from the horrible bad boy. Or something like that.”
Suho grunts and goes back to mopping.
Seojun tries to take the mop from him. “At least let me do that.”
Suho wrenches it away. “No.”
“Then I’ll buy you dinner.”
A pause. “Fine.”
And that’s how it starts. The whole mess of it.