Chapter Text
San’s arm swung around his shoulders, and Wooyoung instinctively leaned into his touch, pressing his body as close to San’s as he could and tilting his head back to rest on San’s arm. San’s smile was fond as he leaned his head over to rest against Wooyoung’s, reaching out his free hand to capture Wooyoung’s own.
Aside from his family, Wooyoung had never loved anyone as much as he loved Choi San.
No one else was as willing to put up with his boundless need for attention, his constant desire for cuddles, and his occasionally mean-spirited teasing. No one else indulged him when his energy was high enough to power Seoul’s electrical grid, or when he was loud and overbearing.
No one else was as protective of him when people were annoyed by his bouncy nature, defending both his feelings and his body from every perceived threat.
With San, Wooyoung didn’t have to be anyone but himself.
Which was why the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
No wonder he’d been unable to get a date. No wonder people looked at him strangely when he exercised all of his flirty energies. They all thought he was dating San.
“You’re frowning?” San said, brow furrowed as he eyed Wooyoung’s face. He pulled his hand from where it was linked with Wooyoung’s to cup Wooyoung’s cheek.
“I’m okay,” Wooyoung quickly corrected himself, forcing a smile. He loved Choi San with all of his heart, and maybe that meant that there wasn’t room for anyone else. If dating someone else meant distancing himself from San, he wasn’t sure he could live with that. “Just thinking about stuff.”
He was happy. He really was.
Sure, work could be rough sometimes, but he was living his dream. And he had San to hold his hand through it all.
“Was that Chef Man being an asshole again?”
“Sannie,” Wooyoung whined, kicking his legs out a bit. “It’s the head chef’s job to be strict and keep the kitchen in order.”
“He can do that without yelling at you,” San grumbled. “It doesn’t cost him anything to be nice.”
“He yells at everyone,” Wooyoung grinned, falling over into San’s lap and burying his face in San’s middle. “And I’m the youngest line chef there, of course he’s going to be tough on me. We have a Michelin star to keep up!”
He felt San lean over and press a loud kiss into his messy black hair, causing Wooyoung to giggle and blow a raspberry against San’s abs. San twisted, laughing, as he heaved Wooyoung up and crushed him to his chest.
They used to be practically the same build, but Wooyoung had gotten softer and thinner over the years as he spent all of his time honing his skills in the kitchen and sweating through late nights at his restaurant while San had stumbled his way into becoming a fitness influencer, his body now rippling with muscles and shilling protein shakes to followers.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” Wooyoung screeched, laughing as San’s arms bound his own to his sides while San peppered his cheeks with kisses. “Imagine if your alpha male groupies knew you were such a softie.”
San shrugged, letting Wooyoung pull away from his grasp. “If they didn’t get that from all the cat pictures I post, they’re not going to figure it out from anything else.”
Wooyoung gasped dramatically, sliding from the couch and beginning to gather his things for work. Yeoubi was only open in the evenings, but all the prep work happened in the late afternoon, as they were usually swamped with guests. “Don’t let manager-nim hear you say that!”
Park Seonghwa was the unofficial head of a small collective of influencers, offering his advice and guidance to the members, as well as scolding them for any bad decisions. Wooyoung had only met him a few times in person, but he found Seonghwa to be very cute and huggable, especially when he was at his most awkward. He just liked to pretend Seonghwa was much scarier than he actually was.
San whined, making grabby hands at Wooyoung that he ignored. If he let San capture him for another cuddle, he would definitely be late.
“I might be late tonight,” Wooyoung said, slinging his jacket over his arms. “Some chaebol group booked the private room, and you know they can party—and don’t care about official closing hours.”
“Okay, call me if you need a lift,” San offered, stretching out to take up the whole of the sofa, looking like a sleepy big cat.
“Will do,” Wooyoung nodded, reaching out to ruffle San’s hair before leaving their apartment.
///////
He quickly tugged off his jacket and sweatshirt before shrugging on his second chef coat, grimacing slightly at the smell. He definitely needed to take everything in his locker home for a long-overdue wash.
“Maknae-yah,” Chef Kim called, waving Wooyoung over, and Wooyoung hurriedly complied. He was a large and boisterous man in charge of the steak and poultry stations, as they were some of the most popular items on the menu. “Check the meat and fish to make sure we have enough to deal with that big group tonight.”
Managing ingredients wasn’t Wooyoung’s job, but he would do it anyway. It was important that they could all rely on each other without question, especially in high-stress situations. “Yes, chef,” Wooyoung nodded cheerfully, earning himself a friendly thump on the back.
Wooyoung gracefully made his way around prepping chefs and to the industrial reach-in fridge pushed into a corner, meant to house what was immediately needed for service. The front door panels were see-through, making it easy to catalogue the various proteins and vegetables, which would later be moved to refrigerated units at their various stations.
“I think we’re good, chef,” he called to Chef Kim, moving to his own station to start prepping ingredients there. Though not the most glamorous of line jobs, Wooyoung had snapped up the opportunity to be responsible for vegetables when the previous line chef had moved to a different restaurant. He’d beaten the competition fair and square and found himself the youngest line chef of the crew.
He still had a bit of trauma from the headache he’d gotten after the celebratory night of drinking with San.
Wooyoung’s vast reserves of natural energy made the job a lot more bearable for him than for a lot of people, as it required a skill, concentration, and dedication that left all of them drooping in exhaustion by the end of service. His once-smooth hands had toughened up with calluses, and scars from minor burns and cuts littered his skin from finger to forearm. San fussed over them, but Wooyoung was proud of his hard work.
Service went as usual, just prolonged an extra few hours thanks to the VIPs ordering whiskey, champagne, appetizers, and expensive cuts of meat in a continuous flow. Wooyoung could hardly complain, as the waitstaff had to stay even later to help clean everything up and shuffle the drunk men into cars.
He packed his chef jackets into a small tote and scrubbed at his face with a spare towel, grimacing as it came away drenched in sweat. Searching his pockets, he found his emergency granola bar with a small cry of victory and guzzled it down, helping to temper his complaining stomach.
He waved goodbye to the other staff, heart warming at the half-hearted wave he managed to pull from Chef Man.
Wooyoung shivered as he stepped outside the restaurant, the wind hitting his cooling sweat even through his jacket, cutting through the fabric. He walked to the bus stop on the corner, squinting as he read the posted schedule. Sighing tiredly, he pulled out his phone and called San, hoping to secure the promised ride, as the next bus didn’t come for an hour. He growled when San didn’t answer—he must have fallen asleep—and decided to text him just in case he happened to wake up in the next thirty minutes. He sat down on the stop bench and started humming, running his hands up and down his arms to keep himself warm.
He’d been sitting for ten minutes when a body in a black sweater and sweatpants slumped onto the bench next to him, and he couldn’t help the squeak that erupted from his throat as he clutched at his chest in surprise.
“What’s in the bag?”
Wooyoung froze, not liking the tone of that voice at all, dread creeping into his body. Still, it was in his nature to be outgoing, and maybe it was an innocent question between two guys waiting for the bus. “U-uniform clothes,” Wooyoung said, lifting the bag up and down with a little flourish. “I work at a—at a restaurant down the street? Umm—we do contemporary French—”
The knife wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been, but Wooyoung spent all day working around knives, so they scared him less than the average mugging victim. Oh shit.
“Hand it over. Wallet, too.”
“Are you serious?” Wooyoung said. “A shitload of rich people just went the other way, and you’re stealing my dirty clothes?”
“Shut up,” the man said, the pointy end of the knife pressing into Wooyoung’s cheek. His exasperation quickly transformed into fear as the blade dug into his skin, whimpering at the spike of pain and pressure.
“Okay, okay,” Wooyoung said shakily, letting the bag strap slip from his shoulder and holding it out, eyes burning as they stayed fixed on the weapon pushed against his face.
“Wallet,” the man said.
“Are you ser—we’re well into the twenty-first century, I use my phone!” Wooyoung said, swallowing harshly at the bitter exhalation the man let out.
“Phone, then.”
“Come on, please?” Wooyoung said. “I just paid it off, and Sannie got me the case for my birthday, and it’s like the nicest thing I own other than my stand mixer—”
“Shut. Up.” The point dug in deeper, and Wooyoung could feel warm blood running down his cheek, contrasting sharply with the cool air and his frozen nerves.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Wooyoung squeaked, holding his hands up in the air and finding it incredibly difficult to resist the urge to clutch at the wrist of the hand holding the knife. “It’s in my pocket, I just have to reach for it!”
The knife finally relented a bit as the man sat back, eyeing him and gesturing with the knife to pull out his phone.
Wooyoung realized his hands were violently trembling as he reached into his jacket pocket, shaking uncontrollably. As he pulled his phone out, he fumbled it, sending it clattering to the cement sidewalk to land a few feet away.
“You think you’re funny, kid?” the man snarled.
“No! No! I didn’t—didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!” Wooyoung said.
“Oh, you will be—”
Wooyoung was already wincing away, instinctively curling up and raising his arms over his head. He inhaled an unsteady breath as he braced himself for the worst, for a stabbing pain in his gut, for a strike to his body.
“Are you alright?” a soft voice said.
Wooyoung blinked, lowering his shaking arms slightly to peer over them.
The man dressed in black was nowhere to be seen, until Wooyoung directed his gaze past the new stranger and to the man scrambling up from the pavement and sprinting away.
“Excuse me?” the new stranger said again, large eyes bright with worry as he lowered himself slowly onto the bench next to Wooyoung. “You’re bleeding,” he mumbled, eyes flitting to Wooyoung’s cheek and his trembling body. Moving so quickly that he scared Wooyoung, he pulled off his thick wool coat and leaned over to drape it around Wooyoung’s shoulders. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Wh-what?” Wooyoung said, teeth chattering as stared dumbly at the stranger—his apparent savior—who was focusing on him so sincerely. “Who—what?”
The stranger was dressed sharply in a suit and tie, hair brushed back and coifed away from his face. His facial features all seemed rounded and soft, contrasting with the wide breadth of his shoulders. “My name is Jongho,” the man said gently, reaching out to take one of Wooyoung’s trembling hands. “Do you want to tell me yours?”
“Woo—Wooyoung,” Wooyoung choked out, frustrated with himself and his body’s frozen state. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t know why I—”
“It’s okay, Wooyoung,” Jongho said. “It’s the shock and adrenaline. Give yourself a moment to catch up.”
Wooyoung closed his eyes, taking in a few shuddering breaths as he focused on Jongho’s hand and grounding warmth. “Okay,” he breathed. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Are you alright?” Jongho repeated his first question.
“Yeah, I mean, I think so,” Wooyoung said. He reached up to his face and winced as his finger found the small wound on his cheek. “Fuck. Other than this. Nothing major. I mean,” he floundered.
“Do you think you need to see a doctor?” Jongho said.
“I don’t think so,” Wooyoung said, shaking his head.
“Then is there anyone I can call for you?” Jongho said, voice soothing and patient.
Wooyoung sat up straight, Jongho’s jacket slipping from his shoulders, as he looked around, scrambling from the bench and diving for his phone.
San. He wanted—he needed—
By some miracle, the screen wasn’t cracked, but his fingers were uncooperative as he tried to unlock it. “Fuck—fucking—”
Jongho stood and once again rested a hand over Wooyoung’s. “It’s okay, there’s no hurry.”
When Wooyoung managed to get it working, there were two missed calls from San, and a text message with a dozen exclamation points saying he was on his way. Despite that, Wooyoung found himself pressing his finger to San’s contact. His eyes watered the moment San picked up.
“I’m sorry! I’m late! I’m sorry! I fell asleep and,” San rushed out.
“Sannie?” Wooyoung whined, tears spilling over abruptly.
“Wooyoung? What’s wrong?”
“I,” Wooyoung gasped, sniffling, “I don’t know. I need you here, please.”
“I’m almost there,” San said. “I’ll be right there, okay?”
“Would you like to sit down, Wooyoung?” Jongho asked, and Wooyoung realized that it was probably smarter for him to sit than to stand, listing unsteadily. He nodded and practically collapsed back onto the bench, where Jongho re-settled his jacket over his shoulders.
“Sannie,” he whined again, “how—how far away are you?”
“I’m here! I’m here!” San said, panic edging into his normally jovial voice as headlights appeared from around the corner a block away. He was definitely speeding, breaks squealing as he came to a halt in front of the bus stop. The door flew open, San not even bothering to close it or switch off the ignition as he rushed towards the two figures under the stop.
Wooyoung watched as San jerked, hands frozen in the process of reaching out to Wooyoung. His eyes narrowed as he took in Wooyoung’s tears and the blood dripping from his face. Before Wooyoung could say anything, San was pushing Jongho backwards with a hand to his chest, standing in front of Wooyoung’s slumped body.
“San, it’s okay, just—hug?” Wooyoung said, feeling pathetic as he tugged at the back of San’s thick sweatshirt. But it felt like San’s arms were the only thing that could hold him together.
“I’m not a threat to you,” Jongho said calmly. “He needs you.”
Gritting his teeth, San turned on his heel to gather Wooyoung into a bone-crushing embrace. Wooyoung shuddered as San’s warmth seeped into him, tears spilling once more.
“What happened?” San said.
“Man,” Wooyoung said, voice muffled as he pressed his face into San’s chest. “Knife.”
“Someone tried to steal his things,” Jongho supplied. “He ran off when I came this way.”
“Youngie,” San said, sounding on the verge of tears himself. “Should we call the police? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Just wanna’ go home,” Wooyoung whined, fingers tangling themselves in San’s clothes.
“Okay, okay,” San agreed readily, casting Jongho a suspicious glance before guiding Wooyoung to his feet.
Wooyoung managed to pull himself back from San’s sweatshirt to smile tearfully at Jongho. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Any time,” Jongho said. “I just started at the Horizon jazz club a few weeks back, and this is my usual bus. I’m just glad I was here to help.”
“C’mon, Youngie,” San said gently, helping Wooyoung into the passenger seat.
It was only when they’d gotten home that Wooyoung realized he was still wearing Jongho’s coat.