Chapter Text
It's been two weeks since Hongjoong moved, and his fridge is still empty.
He's made halfhearted efforts to fill it, but when most of those efforts (in the form of pre-cooked lunches and leftovers for dinner) have consistently been made by San and - with some reluctant, stubborn care - Seonghwa, it leaves him sparse on motivation to feed himself.
San isn't much of a cook, but he tries.
Hongjoong knows Seonghwa is better than the tupperware containers he leaves on Hongjoong’s desk every morning, but Hongjoong can respect the grudging and petty spite that fills the containers with overcooked dumplings and fried rice made with all the ingredients Seonghwa knows Hongjoong hates.
That's fair. This is Seonghwa’s private and earnest way of telling Hongjoong that he's still pissed, but also that he still cares. It's sweet, or whatever.
Hongjoong isn't counting all the times he's wanted to upend the containers into the top drawer of Seonghwa’s desk. That would entail counting the exact number of times Seonghwa has given him food in the past two weeks, and Hongjoong does not want another tally of all the favours he can't pay back.
Hongjoong stares at the fridge; the fridge yawns back at him, mocking for the half-empty bottle of milk and three sauces in the door.
He shoves the two containers balanced in his hand onto the shelf and swats it closed. Stupid fridge. Doesn't it know he isn't in the mood for overcooked dumplings and cold hotteok?
Do better.
He thinks about ordering delivery - really considers it, gets the app open and all - and then scrolls through the prices, and thinks about his poor bank account so recently sucked dry by the house deposit and the moving van, and transport fare to work, and a new stack of rent on top of that, and sighs. Whatever.
He opens the fridge.
Overcooked dumplings.
Hongjoong wrinkles his nose, frustration and insult rising hot in his chest. He's not that hungry.
Cold hotteok can be dinner, if you open your heart.
Hongjoong’s heart is open, and so is the container in his hands, and so is his mouth for the doughy, cold pancake.
Thank you, San. I love you, San. You're the only one who cares for me, San. A petty, private thought punctuated by each time his jaw clenches into coagulated brown sugar.
Fuck you, San.
Hongjoong lowers the hotteok and sighs. No, he doesn't mean that. He takes it back. Look, he's taking it back! He appreciates this, really. Really really, he appreciates it. Thank you, San. Where would Hongjoong be without you, sweet boy. Good boy.
Wait, is that a slur? Did Hongjoong just micro-aggress his favourite friend (fuck you, Seonghwa) in his mind?
Fuck, who knows. Sorry, San. Hongjoong will pat his head tomorrow to make up for it. He knows that isn't an HR issue for sure, because Hongjoong was doing it long before he found out San had ears hiding under that beanie, and San has been leaning into it long since Hongjoong found out.
Not that it's a secret, or whatever. San doesn't hide his ears because it's a secret.
He's never really said anything about why. Maybe it's 'cause his head gets cold, and completely unrelated to anything at all.
Hongjoong thinks it's because as soon as anyone finds out they give him this look, like, awkward as hell and kind of nervous of their own transgressions, and then start giving him a wide berth and talking real slow. Not that San ever had any issues keeping up before they 'found out'. Just, it's not that common to see a hybrid in the workforce.
We need more dogboys in STEM, etcetera.
Wait, that one might actually for real be a slur. Hongjoong doesn't know, he's trying! And by trying he means he's doing the absolute bare minimum of treating San like San, which is more than the majority of their workplace can claim.
He'll do more, for sure. Absolutely for real he will do everything he can, as soon as he has the energy to do anything more than come home and stare at an empty fridge and sit on the kitchen floor with his knees curled to his chest nibbling cold hotteok in the dark.
He tilts sideways and lies on the floor.
It's cold.
He's never lived alone before.
It's nice, it's just…
He loves his friends. He doesn’t give them enough credit. Seonghwa particularly - Hongjoong doesn't give him enough credit. He deserves worse than overcooked dumplings.
Hongjoong keeps biting steadily on the hotteok, lying lax on his side on the kitchen floor and staring at the dim green lights of the oven's analogue display. He hasn't even set the clock yet. It's just blinking 00:00 into the dark, telling him to do something.
He's done enough already, hasn't he? The oven can wait. It's not like he's ever gonna look there for the time anyway, and he's tired. He's done enough already but the numbers keep blinking at him steadily waiting for him to pick himself up off the floor.
This is where Hongjoong draws the line. He staunchly refuses. This is his small defiance, his quiet act of saying actually, no. He stares the oven down, no move to get up from the floor. Keep blinking, coward. Hongjoong isn't going to save you.
Hongjoong is already at his desk when San skips into the studio with a bounce in his step and a bright call to the team, predictably and reliably fifteen minutes late.
"San-ah," Seonghwa had been about to step out of the room when San had bounded in, Hongjoong sulkily glaring at his concept sketches ever since the morning brief started so that he wouldn't have to look at or acknowledge Seonghwa.
It's petty, he knows. He's being childish for sure. But what else is he meant to do, really? Talk? At work? This is a personal issue. Don't be ridiculous. Hongjoong will swallow it down so hard it'll turn into a kidney stone, and then he'll have to have surgery to get it removed, and then he can shake it in Seonghwa’s face and say see look what you did to me even though they both know this is Hongjoong doing it to himself.
"Here's the notes for the brief," Seonghwa hands San a thin document that he typed up and printed out beforehand because he knows San will only arrive after he's finished talking, and he knows Hongjoong wouldn't read it so he has to say it all out loud. "I'm getting coffee, would you like any?"
"Thank you, hyung," San takes the pages and pretends to glance over them. He's batshit blind without his glasses, and Hongjoong knows he's just being polite. "I'm good though, thanks for offering," he flashes his bright dimpled sweet boy smile, just this subtle hint of canines that Hongjoong is almost certain he's paid a fortune to have re-shaped flatter and blunter.
"He doesn't drink coffee," Hongjoong mutters to his monitor display, hunched over to lean his chin haughtily in his palm.
A silence freezes the three of them for a moment before Seonghwa admits, "I know."
"So why do you keep asking?" Hongjoong counters, flipping through the sketchbook by his elbow to find the concept they'll be moving forward with this week.
"It's not-"
"I'm trying to be nice," Seonghwa speaks over San’s attempt to intervene, a thread of ice in his voice.
"San-ah," Hongjoong addresses him without looking up, "Seonghwa-ssi is going to the cafe, is there anything you'd like him to order for you?"
"Um," an awkward mumble, the shuffle of San edging around Seonghwa to his desk, "I'll have…a green tea, please. Thanks."
"Sure." Hongjoong can hear the way Seonghwa has to force the bright warmth into his voice. "I'll bring it in."
The door slams shut just a little too hard behind him, and San sinks into his seat with a whimper and a groan, dropping his head into his arms on the desk.
"Sorry," Hongjoong offers, paltry and not nearly enough. He can apologise, see? Look at him, he's capable of apologising.
"It's bad enough you guys are fighting," San mutters, tugging the creamy off-white beanie off his head and tossing it at Hongjoong’s keyboard without any sort of vindictive heat. "Can you stop dragging me into it? I'm going grey," he pleads, tugging sadly at a piece of his fringe all flopped out in front of his eyes now that it's not tucked under the hat.
Hongjoong rolls his eyes and throws the beanie back across to San’s desk. The wide grey streak in his hair is completely natural and has been there since forever, courtesy of the salt-and-pepper speckles that silver one of his velvet ears. From what Hongjoong knows, his fur is a lovely deep black apart from the white tip of his silky, sweeping border collie tail, but there is a matching smatter of freckles along the opposite side of his neck which gives the idea that, had there been fur there, it would have been a similar silver spots situation.
It's cute, and very pretty, and every time San tries to say that Hongjoong and Seonghwa are turning him grey Hongjoong has to fight back the urge to shave him bald just so that he has something to really complain about.
"The First Look shoot got pushed forward to Thursday," Hongjoong summarises the briefing while San digs through his bag for his contacts, wiping his hands briefly and then staring up at the ceiling to fit them in, "so I need a copy of the reference sheet they gave you so I can double check the concept and finalise the styling. I need you to put together set and lighting, and also get in contact with Mingi because Seonghwa’s been trying to call him all day to confirm the new schedule and he's not picking up."
"It's nine in the morning, hyung," San blinks quickly and squeezes his eyes closed to make the contacts slip into place. "Mingi isn't even awake yet."
"Well, whenever he decides he wants to fulfill his contract," Hongjoong huffs, dragging his concept breakdown to one side of the screen to make room for San’s email once it comes through, "tell him the shoot's rescheduled for 6PM this Thursday, and it's for First Look so I don't want any of that Vogue washout bullshit. Tell him I want clear, readable pictures, don't feed into that art couture abstraction nonsense that blends the models into the background. He's photographing people, not clothes."
San gives him a look. "Are you pissed, hyung?"
Hongjoong shoots him that same look right back. "Despite all my efforts to change," he tells San, "the first person I see and speak to every morning still manages to be Park Seonghwa."
San sighs at him, and sends the email.
It's going to be a long two days. Hongjoong loves getting pissy over deadline crunch and overtime more than anyone will allow him to admit.
Ah…the fridge, his old enemy…
He's barely been home in two days, rushing between the design studio and his workroom, on the phone nearly constantly trying to organise the rat race of twenty people with different ideas of what they should be doing and no idea of what they're actually meant to be doing.
The shoot finished hours ago - some editorial for an up-and-coming model as a thinly veiled excuse to promote the perfume brand her company will be marketing next week - and Mingi was almost late, and then swore black and blue that he could not do the post-shoot editing tonight, he has three other deadlines to meet before 7AM and until forty-eight hours ago he'd been under the impression that this photoshoot wouldn't be his responsibility for another two weeks at least, and Hongjoong is lucky he even shifted his schedule around to be able to turn up but if he wants Mingi to edit the photos then he can get them exactly on the deadline they first agreed - two weeks from now.
Hongjoong had sworn Mingi black and blue that if he was going to be such a stubborn unhelpful prick with no regard for the fast pace and flexible changes necessary for an industry that demands an instantaneous turnaround then he might as well have just called in sick so that Hongjoong could do his entire job for him, as opposed to just the two thirds held in the SD card that he snatched out of Mingi’s hand.
Mingi had told him good fucking luck finding a photographer half as good who would put up with half as much of Hongjoong’s shit, and Hongjoong had given him the finger while he stormed out to catch a taxi back to the office to edit the photos himself.
It was fun.
God knows he and Mingi both know that neither of them are the asshole here, and it's the clients snapping their fingers for miracles to happen.
So, Hongjoong gave them a miracle. That's what he does.
'You know how we gave you fourteen days to organise a whole ass photoshoot and get the final pieces to the magazine editor? Well now you have two.'
Hongjoong likes being busy. He likes being run down to the bone for some sense of purpose. He likes working his ass off for arbitrary goals that other people set, and he likes having an excuse to snap and bite and raise his voice that no one can hold him accountable for because he's just doing the job they asked him to, and he's doing it damn fucking well.
Hongjoong likes doing the impossible and giving people their miracles, because even if they're not wowed with appreciation they still pay the bonus fees for the fuckaround.
It's fulfilling, or whatever.
And then he comes home, and he doesn’t know what he is. And that's why he's on his own. Because somehow even though they were living together, his best friend still only ever saw him work. And Hongjoong is, put lightly, a cunt at work.
He doesn't know how to clock out. He doesn't know how to leave it in the office - especially when Park Seonghwa, office incarnate, was coming home with him.
In hindsight it was a fuck of an idea to move in with his coworker-slash-manager-slash-friend. There was no way that possibly could have gone well. But Seonghwa had so much faith in the person Hongjoong could be when he wasn't being a cunt at work.
Hongjoong never gave him any reason to believe he was any different than the way he is. Any trust to the contrary is entirely Seonghwa’s own fault.
(Hongjoong could have tried, though. He could have made an effort, but he didn't. Because he's stubborn and proud and likes to make a point, and doesn’t like that he doesn’t have anything to offer anyone except for what he can create. He doesn’t know how to exist, and sometimes it scares the shit out of him.)
There's nothing to do here. No work, no goal, no pursuit of any kind of purpose. Just an empty fridge and an oven that he still hasn't set the clock on, and the roast chicken he bought from a 24-hour grocery store on his way home.
He sets the bag on the bench and pulls off a leg. It's still warm, and it's fucking delicious after only bothering to eat the snacks that San would put in front of him for the past two days.
Shit, he's barely eaten in two days. Seonghwa’s overcooked dumplings have probably gone bad.
Hongjoong opens the fridge, chicken leg stuck in his mouth, to empty the container and clean it and give it back. Except it's…already empty.
He furrows his brows, tilts the clear plastic box around in the light of the fridge as though that will somehow make them appear. There's a little bit of wrapper stuck to the bottom, and a crumb of meat.
He thinks he might remember eating, like…a couple, here and there? When he came home to nap for two hours before heading back to the office? He doesn't think he ate the whole container…
But then again, he'd been hungry as shit, stressed as hell and barely slept. Maybe he just didn't notice himself finishing it.
Hongjoong tosses the container into the sink with a too-loud clatter, and winces at the silence of his dark apartment. Whatever. It's past midnight and he only just got home, and he's tired, and he's gotta be up again tomorrow. There's another shoot - properly scheduled without all the rush shit - that they need to fulfill, and Mingi can have all weekend to finish the edits. Hongjoong won't even ask him for an update. In fact, Hongjoong will even say thank you when Mingi sends them through on Monday. How about that.
God, he's tired. He's so fucking tired, the chicken can wait until morning.
Hongjoong puts it in the fridge, closes the door, and slumps to bed.
He wakes up sick.
"I'm sick," he tells Seonghwa, having managed to move only far enough to capture his phone from the edge of the bed in the past hour. "Tell San to send my shit through. I'll work from home."
"No," Seonghwa says.
Hongjoong scowls, a headache throbbing behind his bleary eyes. "I'm not coming in," he snaps. "I can't even get out of bed."
"Exactly," Seonghwa tells him, and holds their silence for a beat before he sighs. "You have a month of paid sick leave stacked up," he says. "You can afford to take a day."
"But we have a shoot today," Hongjoong blankly reiterates.
"San can run it."
"San can-" Hongjoong tries to repeat, surging to sit upright and immediately forcing himself to collapse back down when his head spins so hard it almost feels like it'll fall out. "Whew," he breathes carefully, steadily, too lightheaded to keep making words.
"Watch your blood pressure," Seonghwa says, dry and amused. "San's helped you run shoots for two years, he's willing to take charge. If it goes well and he likes it I might promote him to take some weight off your back. I know I ask a lot," he starts, and then hesitates for a moment. "I know I ask too much of you," he corrects, "but you always give more than you should. San is someone you can rely on," he tells Hongjoong. "You know that. So just go back to bed and rely on him." Another short silence, softer and less polite. "It'll be fine, Joong."
Crazy. His head is still spinning, kinda, and he can't really take in the words. That sounded almost like an apology, and the arm he's draped over his face to block out some of the morning light from his aching eyes tells him that his head is hot enough that this might really be a fever dream. "I want that in writing," he finds his mouth is mumbling out loud.
Seonghwa snorts a laugh. "Go back to sleep. And can you send me your new address, please?" he adds, exasperated. "It's just petty at this point. I'll send San to bring you food later."
"Don't send San to my house," Hongjoong groans, rolling painfully over to shove his hot heavy head beneath a cool pillow. "I don't need food." He stops, and thinks. "I have a chicken," he recalls.
"I'm sending San with some food," Seonghwa says, dry. "I'll also give him a stick, so he can poke you and see if you're dead."
"I hate you," Hongjoong mumbles childish and slurred into the pillow.
"I know," Seonghwa indulges, a smile in his voice. "Sleep well."
Somewhere in the lull of being hung up on, Hongjoong passes out without even moving the phone from his cheek.
He wakes up hours later in a horrified panic of having missed work, completely forgetting Seonghwa’s insistence that he stays home, and is calling San before he's even fully conscious.
"San-"
"Oh, hyung!" he chirps before Hongjoong can get a word in. "Good you called, Seonghwa hyung told me you'd send your address and I was just about to pack up for the day."
Hongjoong pauses where he'd been struggling to kick off his pyjama pants halfway to the overflowing dresser and looks at the window and takes in the low sun coming in from the wrong direction, and glances at his phone screen to check the time. It's 4PM, and he slept all fucking day. His head feels like it's being ice picked, but at least his thoughts are almost mostly clear.
"...What?" he states into the phone.
"I'll pick up some dinner," San tells him, "and tell you about the shoot. Where do you live?"
Hongjoong sits numbly back onto the edge of the bed and tells him. He doesn't really know what feeling is unfolding beneath his feet, but it's broad enough that it almost feels strangely like vertigo.
"I'll be over soon," San eagerly informs him. "Don't bother getting dressed or cleaning up, you know I don't mind a bit of mess. Do you want anything particular?"
"I…" Hongjoong is still wrong-footed and odd. "No, I don't care, what's-"
"Cool! I'm thinking bulgogi, there's a good place on the corner so I'll-"
"San," Hongjoong cuts him off, sharp and firm. "What happened with the shoot?"
A moment of considering silence. "Nothing," San tells him, plain and simple. "It went well. I finalised the materials, everything stayed on schedule, and Mingi did a good job with your concept outlines. I'll catch you up when I get there."
The subtle vertigo tilts him and he lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, his eyes closed to the ceiling.
"Do you want anything to drink?"
"No, just," his head is splitting, and his mouth is all cottonballed and dry. "No. I'm good. Thanks."
"I'll message when I'm outside."
San doesn’t message once he's outside. Hongjoong had lain on his bed for ten minutes, then gotten a long drink of water, then showered, and had been staring at his wardrobe trying to pick between two cardigans when he hears the knock on the door.
He rolls his eyes and takes the blocky black-and-white pattern knit off the hanger, kicks his feet into his slides and shuffles around the half-unpacked boxes dropped around the apartment to let San in.
He's looking curiously up and down the hall when Hongjoong opens the door, a perplexed little furrow between his soft brows, but he snaps to a startled sort of attention a moment later, his tail giving two reluctant sweeps of greeting while he fixes a smile on his face.
Hongjoong peers past the doorframe to look down the hall. "Something wrong?" he asks.
San blinks away from where he'd been staring past Hongjoong into the inside of his apartment with a jolt and immediately insists, "No! Oh," a strange laugh forces past his lips, "nothing. It's nothing."
Well that's terribly suspicious. Hongjoong steps back and narrows his eyes. "No, seriously," he insists, firm. "What's wrong."
San’s ears shift beneath his soft beanie and he moves his weight awkwardly from one foot to another, bringing a hand up to wave in front of his face as though earnest to clear the air between them. "No, no, it's none of my business," he reassures, that smile still sitting odd in the corners of his mouth, his eyes darting to Hongjoong and then past him to the apartment, then back to Hongjoong. "Don't worry, I don't know anything. It's nothing. Sorry," he appends, awkward and with a strange flash of chided guilt.
Seriously, what the fuck. San came to his old apartment before and it wasn't weird at all. Why is he being weird? "Why are you being weird?" he says.
"I'm not," San defends, and Hongjoong can see the subtle shift of his ears tilting back beneath his hat. He's a liar and he knows it, and Hongjoong’s head is still splitting too hard for him to care.
"Then why are you standing outside the door refusing to come in," he counters, gesturing to the space he'd made for San to walk in.
San looks at the apartment. He looks at the threshold. He looks at Hongjoong, this stressed and guilty expression on his face that Hongjoong hasn't the slightest idea what to do with.
Hongjoong watches him very…very carefully…almost reluctantly…step over the threshold and into the apartment.
"That wasn't so hard, was it," he says, and closes the door behind San. "Get yourself some water, if you want," he says, flopping onto the couch while San toes off his shoes, still entirely too careful. "I'm not playing host today."
"Were you sick?" San asks, distracted, peering into the kitchen and then veering to the couch, and then stopping for a moment, staring at it.
Hongjoong narrows his eyes. "Yeah," he tests, "I had hemorrhoids. I was shitting blood everywhere."
"That sucks." San is still staring at the couch, this subtle, silent short-breath as though he's sniffing, or can smell something. He hasn't touched anything, and he's standing dumb in the middle of the living room refusing to sit down.
"San," Hongjoong says, and his head snaps up, his silky tail swaying one of those single beats to show he's listening. "Does my house smell bad or something?" He for sure doesn't have any leftover dumplings going bad in his fridge. He checked. "What's your deal?"
San’s eyes widen, a startled realisation that he's bordering on offensive with his discomfort, and he rushes to raise his hands again and say, "No, no I can't smell anything! Nothing, nothing is weird! Just, uh," he gestures, the bag of food swinging wildly from his nervous hands, "maybe just the people who lived here before you might have…had a pet, or something." He curls his hands close to his chest, his eyes darting from the kitchen to the couch to the window, then back to the couch, then up at Hongjoong. "Uh," he mumbles, and forces another laugh, "I don't know. It's nothing. Sorry."
Hongjoong furrows his brows, a little bit perplexed. He doesn’t know hybrid shit. San is the only hybrid he knows, and San has these very strange peculiarities of seeming so incredibly and thoroughly human, removing himself from any assumptions anyone would make of him - almost removing himself from being a hybrid entirely - that Hongjoong doesn't know if he even really counts. He doesn’t know if it would be better or worse to tell San that there's no way the people who lived here before him had a pet, because the lease was clear; no hybrids as non-paying tenants. It's outdated and borderline illegal and blah blah blah, and it's fucked up that they get away with gatekeeping hybrids out of housing like this knowing full well that someone like San - employed, well-paid, fully educated from a human school - is rare as hen's teeth and that most domestic hybrids prefer a social life as pets.
Or something. Maybe. Hongjoong thinks, he doesn’t actually know. He’s never met someone with a hybrid as a pet, and he’d never met a hybrid with a job before San. It’s not that he sees that many strays around all that much, either. Just people on the street with their pet as a friend. Foster clinics scattered through the city, health clinics nestled between doctors and vets.
He thinks he remembers walking past a dentist once which boasted from a sign in the window that they took appointments for feline and canine checkups, cleaning, and ‘cosmetic orthodontics’ for a ‘friendlier smile’. It had kind of made Hongjoong uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite place, and then it had made him think of San and his blunt-toothed smile, and then it had made his stomach turn a bit.
Something about that is just…
He doesn’t like it much. And he doesn’t know fuck about shit about hybrids, and it’s not his place to decide whether it’s a likeable idea or not, but he kind of wishes that he’d met San before he’d gotten his teeth changed, if only just to tell him that Hongjoong likes his smile.
San keeps glancing at the window, and he still hasn’t sat down.
“You can open it, if you want some fresh air,” Hongjoong says.
San jolts again, noticeably on edge, and it seems very strange to Hongjoong that even if the old tenants did have a pet, there’s no way that its scent would still be strong enough after the apartment being cleaned and Hongjoong living here for two weeks that it should set San acting like he’s about to get jumped.
…Right?
How strong is a dog’s nose, anyway?
San walks to the window, and peers out without opening it. Left and right, his tail drooped tense and still. He slides the bolt of the latch home and locks it, and some of the tension at last eases from his frame.
Hongjoong arches a brow. That is not what he expected, but what does he know about the complex cross-section between hybrid instincts.
“Sorry,” San says, stepping quickly back over to the lounge and setting the food out on the coffee table, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor - still avoiding the other seat of the couch. “You should keep that locked.”
Hongjoong lifts his second brow to match the first, creeping up his forehead in surprise. Well that’s certainly unnerving to hear.
"San," Hongjoong says, "I don't know what you can smell, or whatever. But you see how that's a horrible piece of advice to leave me with, right?"
San glances up at him, his eyes wide, and sinks with a guilty sort of apology in his seat. "I don't know," he mumbles, averting his sad little eyes to the cutlery he's setting out as though he has every idea how awful it makes Hongjoong feel to scold him in any way. "I don't know anything either," he says. "It just feels weird. Like…" Couch, kitchen, couch, window, Hongjoong, couch, kitchen. "I don't know," he says. "It feels like I'm in someone else's house when they're not home, and they don't know I'm here, and they're gonna be pissed when they find out. You know?"
Like… kinda? But also, no. Hongjoong does not know.
"Well, it's my house," he asserts over his own lingering discomfort, at least trying to reassure some of San’s, "and I know you're here, and I'm annoyed for sure but I'm not pissed," he says, leaning forward over his knees to swirl some noodles around his chopsticks. "So you can chill out and tell me what happened with the shoot today."
"Oh," something in San perks up, his ears lifting slightly beneath his beanie - which he still hasn't taken off, which isn't strange, except that he usually always does when he's comfortable around Hongjoong - and he tears his attention at last away from whatever is on the couch to turn his bright, sparkling, life-is-beautiful eyes on Hongjoong while he starts recounting beat for beat every single thing that happened that day starting with Hongjoong’s call to Seonghwa, and he's so lovely it's almost unbearable.
And…he's right. From everything he tells Hongjoong, the shoot went smoothly apart from the few small and predictable potholes which shake up every job, but everything tied up neatly on schedule and San even snapped previews of Mingi’s photographs on his phone, leaning over the table to show Hongjoong for him to flick through and verify.
It's…good. It's really really good. San did as good a job of managing the photoshoot, setting everything up and resolving issues as they arose and keeping everyone in place and on schedule as Hongjoong would have done if he'd been there. That vertigo feeling is kind of back, but it's not a bad feeling really. It's just, like…
It's like, Hongjoong has always worked his ass off to be utterly indispensable to his job. Absolutely irreplaceable. He kind of needs to be needed, because if he isn't the only one they can rely on then what is he? What has he got, other than that?
And apparently…apparently what he's got is San, reliable and earnest and hardworking, who Hongjoong has been training as a junior photoshoot director for nearly two years now, and who is perfectly capable of covering for Hongjoong when he overworks himself into a coma. And he's been clinging so tightly to his own necessity, this made-up idea that they'd be lost without him, that he doesn't entirely know how to loosen the white-knuckled grip he's got on it.
The fact is, San did well. Really really well. And Seonghwa is going to promote him to Hongjoong’s partner rather than his junior, and Hongjoong isn't threatened at all by San’s competence so much as he just…doesn't think he'll know what to do with himself, if he isn't working himself to death over too many too-tight deadlines. What is he, if not a tightly-wound ball of stress?
"Sannie," Hongjoong says, and San’s tail sways once across the floor where he's sitting to show he's listening. "You did really, really well. Thank you," he says. "I'm proud of you."
San steadily lifts beneath Hongjoong’s words, so giddy it looks like it's crawling up his throat, and in a moment his long pretty tail is wagging like crazy and he scrambles around the coffee table, and there's this moment where they both kind of realise that San is about to bodily throw himself onto his supervisor in an expression of unparalleled joy, and a very quick and unsteady course-correction results in San slamming his head hard against Hongjoong’s chest and forcing some of the air from his lungs, and he's wriggling like he doesn't know what to do with himself, his hands curled neatly on the edge of the couch, his whole body wagging with his tail, and a laugh puffs its way past Hongjoong’s lips and he settles a hand on the back of San’s head, scratching his fingers into the beanie.
"You're a good kid, Sannie," Hongjoong tells him. "Really. I couldn't have done a better job myself."
San’s hands curl tighter on the edge of the couch and he pushes his head harder against Hongjoong’s chest, so Hongjoong tucks his fingers beneath the back of San’s beanie to scratch gently into his soft, silky hair.
"Sorry," San mumbles into Hongjoong’s cardigan, tilting his head into Hongjoong’s hand.
Hongjoong doesn't really know what he's apologising for, because he really did do a good job and Hongjoong isn't generous with his praise but San has absolutely earned it, and if he wants to throw himself into Hongjoong’s lap for a head pat over it then Hongjoong isn't going to deny him. He doesn't think it's odd, or all that uncomfortable. He doesn’t think it's weird. It's just…San.
But then, he thinks of ears stuffed under beanies in an attempt to seem more human, and sharp teeth filed flat and blunt, and the conflict of reluctance when he can clearly tell something that Hongjoong can't by the smells that Hongjoong can't smell, but refusing to elaborate not as an intention to keep Hongjoong in the dark so much as an insistence that if Hongjoong doesn't know then San shouldn't know, and he always tries so hard to not seem as though he's a hybrid.
Hongjoong tugs at the beanie. "Can I take this off?"
San hesitates, and nods against his chest.
Hongjoong pinches it between his fingers and places it on the couch beside him, San’s silk-soft hair mussed from being hidden and his mismatched ears flopping out at these odd, adorable angles.
The silver-speckled one kind of stays a little bit floppy no matter what, and Hongjoong thinks that is just the greatest and most San-like thing in the world.
He sinks his fingers into San's hair and massages behind his sweet freckled ear, and San gives a pleasant sigh and tilts into the touch. He is such a sweet and earnest and hardworking boy, so tireless and clever and kind. It hurts a bit, to think that he thinks he isn't allowed to be himself.
"Sannie," Hongjoong starts, and then hesitates when San’s tail gives a pleasant thump against the floor.
What should he say? What can he possibly say?
I already don't treat you like a human. You know that, right? You know I'd never scratch Seonghwa’s head. You don't need to be more, or less. You're San, and that's already enough. Don't worry about all this nonsense. Don't worry about any of it. I don't think it's weird.
Yeah, no, he's not that sincere. And he's not gonna tell San how to live, or what to care about.
"You're great," is all he ends up saying, and lets himself smile a little when San’s tail moves slowly in a few pleased gestures. "I really think you're great."
Something in San relaxes a little more, after that. He doesn't put the beanie back on, even when he reluctantly pulls away from Hongjoong’s petting with a rueful smile and this awkward, embarrassed flush to his cheeks. It's cute, and his hair is a mess from Hongjoong’s fingers, and he nudges the bowl of bulgogi closer for Hongjoong to eat, and he still keeps looking at the window now and then between lapses of conversation, but he isn't so tense about it anymore. Just a kind of head-tilted curiosity.
He stays until evening bleeds into night and Hongjoong is slumped across the couch with an arm thrown over his face barely keeping up the thread of conversation. His headache is mostly gone thanks to the food, but despite that he'd slept all day he still feels incurably tired.
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a long minute - or minutes, several. Hongjoong doesn't know. He kinda dozes off, admittedly, when he hears San stand up and shift around, tidying up the lounge and packing away the leftovers of their food.
"Hey, hyung," he says at last, coming to crouch by Hongjoong’s heavy head. He gives a vague, slurred grunt as an answer, still more than half asleep, and feels the quiet ghost of San’s little laugh. "I'll head off and let you sleep. Enjoy your weekend, okay?" he prompts. Hongjoong gives another vague grunt, still barely awake. "I'm sorry about the window thing, too. I unlocked it and all. You shouldn't worry about it."
Hongjoong puckers his brows together in a soft frown. He doesn’t really have any choice but to worry about it at this point. San could have just kept the window locked, and he'd never think about it again.
"And, hyung…?" He sure has a lot to say, doesn't he. Can't he see Hongjoong is physically incapable of achieving full consciousness right now? "Thank you." Quiet, whispered, barely a breath. "I think you're really great too."
There's a warmth lingering over him, the soft scent of San’s deep, gentle perfume, faded from the long day but still clinging subtly to the freckles on his neck. Hongjoong knows the smell of it, gently pervasive when San walks into the office, but he doesn’t know it like this. Low and quiet and blended warm with his skin.
There's a brush of something unrepentantly soft against Hongjoong’s brow - so soft that it takes Hongjoong a long, long moment to realise it might have been the lightest touch of lips, and that by the time he thinks to be confused, San's warmth has already slipped away, and Hongjoong can hear his front door pull open, and then click softly closed.
His heart twists in his chest, awkward and uncomfortable, and he swallows down the wordless insistence that that isn't what he'd meant.
Ohhh, he's fucked up now. Isn't he?
Should he text Seonghwa right now? Put in a letter of resignation and take all that sick leave? Oh god. What did he do? And why is it his fault? Hongjoong has only ever tried to be a considerate cunt, so why is San kissing his head and saying shit like I like you too.
Maybe he still has a fever. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe he'll dig himself into a hole in the ground and never show his face at work again.
Fuck.
Hongjoong sits up and hunches over his knees, rubs his hands over his face, heart beating heavy with a sudden anxiety that won't let him sleep.
Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god. Maybe he misunderstood. It's not like San said anything, and Hongjoong was more than half asleep. Maybe San didn't even kiss him at all. He's being stupid, yeah. He imagined it. It never happened. San was just…being San, and after a nice little D&M about how valuable and precious he is then of course he was feeling a little bit sentimental, and of course there is no way that Hongjoong can just up and start avoiding him without seeming like the biggest most hypocritical asshole in the world.
It's San, for fuck's sake. Sweet lovely San who has never pushed a boundary or rocked a boat in his life. He avoids confrontation like the plague, there's no way he'd do something that bold. No way at all. And if he did, it was because he meant it in a sincere and platonically affectionate way.
Fuck.
Then there's a scuff outside the window, and Hongjoong’s heartrate SOARS. He nearly screams, actually, lightheaded with immediate jumpscare fright, and his bursting adrenalin throws him sharply back onto the couch, the throw blanket tugged over him to hide.
The window rattles just quietly beneath Hongjoong’s breaths rushing loud in his ears, this subtle sound of the lock being tested. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit- San… SAN! Why did you leave! Why did you unlock the window! Oh god oh fuck oh shit Hongjoong feels like he's about to faint or something, carefully carefully carefully peering around the arm of the lounge as the window is almost silently slid up in its frame.
There's a guy.
There is just, like. A whole ass guy standing on his fire escape balcony lifting the window with practiced ease. Like he's done this a dozen times and he knows exactly how to keep it silent and smooth.
Oh, fuck, Hongjoong is getting broken into. His shit's getting stolen. He's being murdered. He can't even reach for his phone on the coffee table to call someone, or text San to come back RIGHT NOW, because if he shifts his arm out then the guy will see him, and then he'll he super dead.
Hongjoong stares at him placing his hands on the windowsill, and then he pauses for a moment and looks at something left there. Something pale and creamy in the moonlight, a small misshapen lump of fabric.
San’s beanie…?
The guy lowers his head and seems to sniff near it, then glances around, alert. Leaning into the apartment through the window, his feet following his hands up onto the sill and then slinking silently down into the shadow of the floor. From his breathless vantage, all Hongjoong sees of his descent is the careful flick of a full, bushy tail.
No wonder San was freaked out coming in here. What the hell is some random hybrid doing, sneaking into Hongjoong’s house in the middle of the night?
He stays coiled in the shadows, silent and so thoroughly out of sight that, after long minutes of straining his ears and eyes, he wonders if he didn't just imagine the whole thing. He wonders if San's tension didn't put weird anxieties in his brain, and he had one of those hyperreal half-asleep dreams that you think absolutely definitely happened but then, like, you blink and they don't exist anymore?
He's just about convinced himself that's what happened when the invisible guy shifts and slinks out of the shadows, long and slow, his feet silent on the floorboards.
He steps past the couch and Hongjoong slams his eyes shut, forcing himself to keep utterly still, forcing his breathing steady.
He kind of feels more than sees the guy pause, and Hongjoong knows he's been noticed and prays to every god that he's not gonna die, but he just seems to look Hongjoong over and either decide he's asleep, or decide he's frozen too shitless scared to do anything. Because he just…keeps walking. Right past Hongjoong, right to the kitchen.
And Hongjoong hears the fridge peel open and feels the light shift behind his eyes, so he squints one open and hazards a glance, and the guy is just. Standing there, in the washed-out yellow light. An open container of leftover bulgogi in his hand, swirling a pair of chopsticks around and eating it right from the box.
He kind of looks up, his cheeks stuffed full as he eats Hongjoong’s food, and peers around the other sparse parts of his fridge.
Hongjoong can't get a good look at him, silhouette limned in the shitty fridge light. He's wearing a sweater, the hood pulled up over his hair. He has a nose, Hongjoong is certain, and sure, firm hands - one of which is reaching again into the fridge, and coming back with a leg from Hongjoong’s roast chicken . That's about all he can tell.
He takes one more bite of bulgogi and clips the half-empty container closed, pushes the fridge shut with his shoulder and shoves the chicken leg into his mouth.
He kinda stops at the living room again, eyeing up the spot in the floor where San sat all evening, then looks around the apartment as though to make sure he's not there, still gnawing nonchalantly on Hongjoong’s chicken leg. Then he steps carefully around the spot and makes back for the window without a single glance at Hongjoong.
Insulting, actually, and fucking bold. What, he struts into Hongjoong’s house and he's more concerned about San's smell? San doesn’t even live here!
The fear has kind of dimmed a little, considering all this guy did was sneak in the window and steal Hongjoong’s food, but the adrenaline for sure hasn't worn off at all, because quite suddenly Hongjoong finds himself sitting upright on the couch and snapping a sharp, irritated, "Hey!" at the guy slinking back through the window.
His head snaps around to look at Hongjoong, sharp and startled, and in a beat before Hongjoong can even draw in a breath to mark another word, the guy has skittered through the window and out onto the fire escape, the chicken leg still held in his mouth.
"He- hey!" Hongjoong calls, scrambling off the couch and lurching towards the open window, "Hey, can you chill out? What are you doing?" he demands, shoving his head and shoulders out the window to watch the guy crouch balanced on the railing of the cramped balcony, then jump - "HEY!" - and catch the edge of the next balcony up and away from Hongjoong’s, hoisting himself and scrambling up the supports of the fire escape, slipping away and disappearing from sight onto another balcony higher up.
What the fuck.
He hears another window slide open, and snaps his head around to see the next door neighbour he's barely met peering bleary and sleep-ruffled out at the commotion.
" 's goin on?" he mumbles, barely forming words, and Hongjoong admittedly feels chided that he's yelling and screaming in the middle of the night, and waking up his brand new neighbours.
"Did you see that?" he demands though rather than apologise, because like. Fuck if he doesn’t have every right to yell and scream right now. "Some fucking guy just crawled into my house and raided my fridge!"
He's sure he sounds insane, but there's no way his neighbour didn't also hear the clatter of the criminal's daring escape.
His neighbour - Yunjo? Junho? They only met for like two seconds and all Hongjoong got from him was 'handsome' and 'tall', never mind about names - just kind of blinks at him, and then goes, "Ohhhhhh," and then says, "you met Wooyoung then?"
Hongjoong stares at him. "What?"
"I dunno," Yunho - is it Yunho? - says, and gives a grand, sleepy shrug. "He lives around here. He comes by every night, but he's no trouble. If you don't want him around, you can just lock the window."
Hongjoong stares at him. "This is normal?"
Yunho shrugs again. "He's a good guy."
"He broke into my house," Hongjoong feels the need to repeat.
Yunho tilts his head. "Like I said," he suggests, "you can just lock the window at night."
Hongjoong looks up at the balcony where…where Wooyoung had disappeared, and then helplessly back at his neighbour. "No one's worried about this?"
"He's harmless," Yunho asserts. "I wouldn't complain to property management about it though, if I were you. He respects a locked door, but if they start hassling him again and he finds out who snitched, you won't get a good night's sleep again."
Hongjoong stares at him. "You're joking."
Yunho shrugs a third time. "Fuck around and find out," is his only advice. "I'm back to bed," he passes a friendly wave out the window. "He won't be back again tonight if you spooked him off, but you can lock your window to make sure. Goodnight!"
"Yeah," Hongjoong mutters, waving him back, "night."
Yunho disappears into his apartment and Hongjoong stares up at the distant balcony for a long moment before sighing and ducking his head back inside to slide the window closed.
He stares at the latch, and then vindictively locks it. His eyes settle on the small lump of off-white knit still sitting on the sill. It's definitely San’s beanie, and there's no way he didn't leave it on purpose.
He lifts it halfway to his face, and then scowls when he realises what he's doing. He's not a hybrid, it won't smell like anything to him. At that point he's just being a weird ass human.
He sighs and places it neatly back where San left it. Like a ward, of sorts. Like a little scent-note saying hey, I'd appreciate it if you didn't come in. He'd probably thought it would be enough to discourage the hybrid from sneaking into Hongjoong’s window. Even if the guy hadn't respected San’s request, Hongjoong appreciates his earnest and sincere attempt.
Wooyoung.
What the fuck. How long has he been sneaking into Hongjoong’s house?
Quite suddenly he remembers the empty container of overcooked dumplings he hadn't eaten, and thinks back over the past weeks to always somehow having less food than he expected despite knowing that he nearly always had none.
What the fuck. No seriously, like? This guy comes into Hongjoong’s house every night and sees the state of his fridge, and thinks eating half of it is fair? There's no way he can't know that Hongjoong is a useless mess at stocking food, why does he keep coming back? Just how hungry is he?
…Just how hungry is he?
Yunho kinda talked like it was normal, like he comes around every night. Is this…the only food he gets, then…?
Hongjoong…has never really encountered a stray hybrid. He's seen a couple here and there, but he's never… Is this just how he lives? There are plenty of fostering options out there, is he really happy with this?
What is he, a canine? A feline? It was nearly impossible to see in the dark, and his ears were tucked under his hood. He was quiet and slinky like a cat, and skittish too, and his thick tail could probably have belonged to something longhair.
Hongjoong huffs, aggrieved, and rubs his hands over his face before digging the heels of his palms against his eyes. This is none of his business. Why is it his problem? He'll just do what Yunho said and keep the window locked.
So he does. He keeps the window locked and goes to bed, and lets himself sleep in as long as his body needs, and when he drags himself out of bed at 10AM he's forgotten the whole thing entirely.
Until, that is, he opens his fridge to scrounge up some food and sees the bulgogi and the chicken, and is reminded quite suddenly of a stranger sneaking into his house and stuffing his face with Hongjoong’s food, and then pettily slams the fridge door shut.
And then opens it again, reluctant and childish, and gets out the leftover bulgogi for breakfast.
He spends his day steadily preparing materials for the shoots they have scheduled next week in between absentminded loads of laundry, doing his absolute best not to think about all the boxes he still has to unpack and the guy-breaking-into-his-house-for-food problem.
As a matter of workplace relations he probably should message Seonghwa and San and say thank you I'm fine, but he doesn't want to. So he doesn’t.
He is fine, he's always fine, and if they haven't figured that out yet then any worry and stress they accumulate is not his concern.
The beanie stays on the windowsill. Whenever Hongjoong finds his eyes lingering on it, thoughts unwittingly drifting to the fever dream hybrid that had snuck in past it in the night, he tuts at himself and draws his attention back to his work. It doesn’t seem such a big deal in the daylight, and maybe Yunho was right and there is nothing to worry about. But it's a matter of principle. The window stays locked.
He doesn't really realise how late it's gotten. He isn't meant to respond to inquiries outside of work hours - something about fostering healthy boundaries between him and his clients, shut up Seonghwa - but he's doing it anyway, because otherwise there goes half his Monday morning. And then there's a sound outside his window.
Heart pounding, Hongjoong snaps his head away from the bright glow of his laptop and stares out at the streetlight-washed balcony.
He's back.
His silhouette is kind of hunched beyond the window, fingers searching beneath the edge of the frame. It lifts a little, and then jolts nearly silently against the locked latch. He straightens a bit, sets his hands sure against the sides of the frame, and tries to raise it again.
Again, it jolts against the lock and stays in place.
Hongjoong swallows back his nerves and stares at him, on edge and waiting for…something.
Waiting for him to break the glass, or shake the window harshly in its frame to try and scare him.
The fact is, if Hongjoong hadn't been awake and right here in the lounge room - at what, two in the morning? - there's no way he even would have noticed the near-silent rattle of this hybrid testing the window's lock. Even last night, he'd just…walked straight past Hongjoong, and scattered off at the slightest hint of provocation. Beyond the context of the situation itself, there really…hasn't been any indication of this guy trying to cause any trouble.
He stays frozen on the lounge watching carefully as the man on the other side of the glass seems to decide for himself that the window is in fact locked, standing back with his hands planted on his hips, eyes darting around as though to evaluate the obstacle. It's only then, Hongjoong thinks, that he even notices that Hongjoong is inside and staring at him.
He can't see much in the silhouette of the dark, but he sees the guy's lips curl in a mocking sort of grin, sees the subtle glint of sharp teeth when he lifts a hand to his mouth and makes a gesture which Hongjoong knows instinctively must be terribly rude but is entirely too creative for Hongjoong to wrap his startled head around.
And then he just…
Leaves.
Just turns around and skips up to the edge of the balcony, makes a jump for the ledge of the apartment above Hongjoong’s, scrambles up, and disappears from sight, the flick of a bushy tail the last thing to go.
He's harmless.
Hongjoong lets out a tense breath he hadn't quite realised he'd been holding and slumps back into the lounge, staring blankly at his laptop screen. What the fuck.
Okay, so.
Okay so Hongjoong still hasn't quite gotten a good look at this guy. But aside from being a little rude - by human and hybrid standards, it seems, to San’s poor neglected beanie - at the very least he doesn’t seem to mean any harm.
He hadn't forced the long on Hongjoong’s window, or done anything to intimidate him really, and of all the times he's snuck into Hongjoong’s house he'd been so silent and clever about it (polite seems too strong a word, really) that Hongjoong really hadn't known he was there and likely would have continued not to know if San hadn’t come over and been so spooked about his scent.
And what had San thought about it? It's really hard to say. Something about 'it's none of my business' kind of makes Hongjoong think that somehow San thought that Hongjoong knew about all this. Maybe he thought Hongjoong was playing dumb, and tried to play dumb alongside him. Maybe the beanie wasn't a waring so much as an apology or something - like, hey, sorry I invaded your space, here's a sample of my scent so you know I'm not a threat, or something.
Hongjoong doesn't know. He doesn’t know shit about hybrids. Somehow he kind of gets the feeling that San only knows just about as much as he does, despite being one himself.
Maybe San had no idea what the beanie was meant to mean and was just acting on some inarticulate instinct that neither he nor Hongjoong could understand.
He thinks about messaging him like hey remember how u told me not to worry about the window? turns out some weird fucking cat has been breaking into my house and stealing my food for the past two weeks. But then, it is like two in the morning and it is a weekend and San is first and foremost his coworker and also this is Hongjoong’s business in Hongjoong’s home and has nothing at all to do with San.
So…what. Does he just let it go on like this? Keep his window locked and have some hybrid test it every night and pull faces at him through the glass?
That sounds horrible.
He should do something about it, right? Maybe they can, like. Talk, or something, and come to some sort of agreement where Hongjoong leaves him food every other night and he doesn’t come rattling windows every day. Maybe Hongjoong could get his phone number or something, so he can say hey I've got some dinner for you, or don't bother coming by tonight. It would save them both the trouble, right?
He lives on the fifth fucking floor for god’s sake, the last thing he should have to worry about is someone climbing in his window at night.
Oh, this is awful. Whatever. He's tired and pissed off and he's going to bed. He'll think about what to do in the morning.