Chapter 1: gravity in violet
Notes:
every symbol is on purpose (and a little unhinged)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
the studio floor was slick, dance tape fraying at the seams, mingi sliding across it sideways like he hadn’t learned consequences yet. somebody—probably yeosang—kept tapping the bluetooth, cycling the playlist between demos and unfinished choruses until hongjoong snapped, “stop, or i’m changing the wifi password again,” which earned him the usual fake outrage and a bottle cap bounced off his shoe.
jongho did his vocal scales behind, it was way too pure for the racket mingi and yunho were making over rock-paper-scissors. their clock on the wall was wrong, but so was everyone’s internal sense of time—choreography ran long, always did. the speakers spat static, then the sharp snap of a new demo track, and suddenly it was serious: eight bodies moving, sweat blurring edges, every arm line sharp, every laugh punched into breathless silence. “cleaner on the right,” yunho called out, and mingi cackled, nearly tripping over his own feet for the fifth time.
they burned through “in your fantasy” three times, four, until hongjoong waved them down, half-collapsed by the mirror, hair stuck to his cheek. “all right, wrap. i need you losers to think up solo concepts, actual soul-baring shit, not only ‘i want to look hot on stage.’ so, show me your damage,” he said, voice scraping along the bottom of a laugh. typical. he never asked for anything easy.
the others peeled away in packs: seonghwa glancing at wooyoung and san with a look that said, don’t burn the place down, and yeosang vanished, hoodie already pulled up, mumbling about insomnia and new anime drops.
and yunho shrugged on his windbreaker, keys jingling. “i’ll drop you off, if you want. saves you both from swimming home.”
san only shook his head, half a smile tugging at his mouth, “nah, we’ll survive.”
wooyoung flashed a grin, waving him off. “go ahead, get your taxi, prince. we like the rain.”
yunho rolled his eyes, flicking wooyoung on the ear on his way out, and the studio door thunked shut behind him, the world smaller, quieter, their problem now.
wooyoung stalled, dragging his towel over his neck, trying to decide if he was really sore or just looking for a reason to stay. san, as usual, seemed unrushed—rolling out his wrists, slow, watching the rain start to pool outside the glass doors. the last track on the playlist faded out, leaving them alone with the hum of the lights and the slick sound of wooyoung’s sneakers scuffing the mat.
san’s back caught the dying fluorescent glow as he dropped, half-rolling his shoulders out, towel slung in one fist, water bottle in the other. purple, always, for reasons nobody bothered to say out loud anymore.
“you spacing out again?” san’s voice carved through the quiet, roughened by hours of choreography, softer at the edges. he didn’t look up, “thought you were the one who wanted to run it extra.”
at that wooyoung bristled—his pulse always got petty when the studio emptied. “was waiting for you to stop pretending your legs don’t get tired,” he shot back, mouth twitching. the joke hovered, less sharp than it sounded, flung at the mirror instead of at san.
san smirked, pushing off from the barre. “nice. i’ll add it to your list of excuses,” he said, voice too even to land anywhere specific.
the thing about friendly banter was that it never felt as safe as it sounded. Wooyoung’s eyes tracked the way san’s hands flexed, catching glimpses of veins under sweat-damp skin, the hint of control always there, even when he was supposedly tired.
they started cleaning up, towels and bottles disappearing into duffels. it should have been nothing, routine—the same as every night when their group split for ramen or collapsed in ubers, everyone too wired or too exhausted to talk
only this time, wooyoung stalled, toeing the edge of the mat, pulse skipping for no reason he’d admit, making a game of trying to catch san’s eye in the mirror. didn’t work; san saw everything without having to look.
“you done making faces?” san asked, amusement lurking.
wooyoung shot a glare at the reflection, then at san directly, chin tilted. “depends. you planning to lose at Lost Ark again tonight or going to blame lag?”
the banter was old, but the way it came out—low, edged—left a shiver. san’s laugh was a huff, there and gone.
they both noticed the rain at the same time, the city going washed-out behind glass. thunder rattled a loose vent above the lockers, and sound of drops hammered the windows, turning the parking lot into a neon-lit puddle.
san didn’t rush. he dug in his bag to pull out something, “you coming or nah?” he finally asked, umbrella resting on his shoulder, gaze flicking up.
wooyoung grabbed his hoodie off the hooks, tugged it on, then drifted to san’s side, pretending not to care when their shoulders brushed as they stepped outside.
the rain hit hard, sheets of cold against the concrete, and the purple umbrella snapped open—san’s wrist flexing as he was holding it steady. “should’ve brought your own,” he murmured, glancing over, not quite an accusation.
san’s grip on the umbrella handle was steadier than wooyoung expected—veins standing out, knuckles gone pale where he held it too tight. for a second, wooyoung wanted to reach over and see if san would flinch, or if he’d let go. instead, he rolled his eyes. “then i’d miss out on you scowling every time i get too close.”
san’s lips barely twitched, but his gaze lingered, heavy. “yeah, can’t have that.”
they walked close, silent except for the static of rain above them, umbrella tilting ever so slightly until wooyoung realized, without having to think, that he was being steered—protected, but also claimed.
the streetlights made the purple glow above their heads look otherworldly, like they were cut out of the city, floating. wooyoung risked a glance sideways, heart tripping for a reason he’d never name.
they didn’t talk much on the way back, but that was normal for them. the umbrella was big enough for two if they both acted to like a little shoulder contact. wooyoung, for reasons he would take to his grave, kept sneaking glances at the purple fabric, as if it was some kind of secret code and not just san’s favorite color. symbolism, he thought. he was a sucker for it—had a whole notebook about various things, like “purple means obsession” and nobody else was allowed to judge. maybe san picked purple because it looked expensive, or maybe he really was that dramatic. maybe he just liked that nobody else in the group would ever dare to pull it off.
hongjoong’s words echoed—make it hurt, show me your damage—and wooyoung wondered, not for the first time, what san would put into a song if he ever let himself be seen for real. what he’d sound like if he let the damage show. probably something sharp, purple, the kind of thing that stung even after it was over?
honestly, he couldn’t decide if the umbrella was a shield, a warning, or just another excuse to stand close and not explain himself.
knowing his luck, it was all three.
the rain kept coming. nobody ever gets out dry, he also thought, but that was old news.
Notes:
tell me which member would absolutely steal the purple umbrella and why it’s mingi
next chapter: more damage, less dry
Chapter 2: the reason i dance better
Summary:
Wooyoung writes too many late-night notes he’ll never share. San keeps finding excuses to stay over. It’s not a love story, but it’s starting to look like one
Chapter Text
wooyoung’s notebook is full of questions nobody would let him ask out loud. what does purple mean, really? is it a symbol for influence, manipulation, or obsession—or all three, depending on who’s holding the umbrella?
sometimes he writes lists:
purple in psychology and culture—
power, ambition, the need to win;
royalty and luxury, rare as hell;
mystery, magic, a little drama;
and in some corners, obsession, that whole “keep what’s mine” thing.
if purple was obsession, then wooyoung was about three shades gone.
san always did like his metaphors with a side of plausible deniability.
san hovered in the doorway, acting like he was weighing his options, but wooyoung already knew how this went. it was too late for san to head back to his own dorm, or that’s what he always said, every night he wandered in with some new excuse. sometimes it was “hongjoong’s snoring again,” other times “mingi ate all the snacks,” and then times when he didn’t bother with a reason at all—just left his stuff on the floor and made himself at home.
tonight he went with the classic, tossing his bag on the chair. “jongho’s singing in the shower. opera this time.” he groaned, but there was a smile behind it. “figure you’d rather have me than a ghost at three a.m.”
“as long as you don’t leave your socks everywhere.”
“can’t make promises i won’t keep,” san grinned, kicking off one sock and aiming for the hamper. missed by a mile. “you’re lucky i’m low maintenance,” he mumbled.
wooyoung snorted, tossing a pillow across the room. “you’re as high maintenance as they come.”
as san crossed to the bed, he glanced down—caught wooyoung scribbling in the notebook, ink still fresh. “not planning world domination, are you?” his voice slid in, a little rough around the edges, eyes darting between the notebook and wooyoung’s guilty expression.
the barest hint of a smirk fighting through. “only if it gets me a solo faster,” wooyoung shot back, tucking the notebook farther under his thigh. the dorm room still smelled faintly of rain and laundry, those mundane things that should have calmed his nerves, but the other’s presence kept everything live-wire tense, in the worst and best way.
san just dragged an extra blanket off and tucked it under his chin with a grunt “that so?” he asked, but his tone was soft, amused, eyes partially lidded with that honest, easy tiredness wooyoung always envied.
“weeell,” wooyoung stretched, spine popping, blinking up at him back with the sort of challenge he reserved for offstage hours. “what would you write, if you had to write a song about yourself?”
san shrugged, gaze drifting to the posters taped on the wall. “i’d probably write about food, or sleep.”
wooyoung snorted, the sound low and close. “genius… truly the voice of a generation.”
san grinned, dimples flashing, then he flopped onto the other end of the bed, sending a small quake through the mattress that jolted wooyoung’s notebook loose, only a little. “what about you, huh? got any world-shattering ideas you wanna share with the class?”
wooyoung rolled the pen between his fingers, tapping it against his knee. “maybe, maybe not.”
san tipped his head back, laugh soft and throat-deep, a melody nobody else got to hear. “c’mon, woo. you get all weird when you’re tired. you know that?”
“do i?” he tried for mock offense, but his cheeks ached from holding back a smile.
san rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, expression open and easy in a way that made wooyoung’s heart ache a little. “yeah. you always get… philosophical.” he nudged wooyoung’s foot with his own.
wooyoung glanced away, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “i just think too much.”
“mm-mm,” san said softly. “i think you’re onto something.”
the silence settled, not awkward, then wooyoung’s breath came out, a smile tucked behind his teeth. “yeah, me too.”
san yawned, eyes crinkling, and mumbled, “don’t stay up too late, or you’ll turn into a metaphor.”
wooyoung found himself wishing he’d said something truer—anything at all.
“seriously,” san added, voice dropping lower, “if you start quoting poetry tomorrow, i’m telling hongjoong it’s your fault the concept gets weird.”
wooyoung snorted, but let the smile slip out anyway. “as if you could survive a weird concept.”
san shrugged, grin sharp in the low light. “i could. would look good doing it, too.” then he suddenly remembered. he sat up, blanket half-off, and jabbed a finger at the door. “tell me you’ve got something to eat. i skipped dinner for practice.”
wooyoung didn’t make him ask twice—he never did. “yea, if you count half a bag of chips and expired yakult.”
san grinned, all teeth, already kicking his way off the bed and trailing after, like he’d never known how to wait his turn. “sounds gourmet. you buying next time, though.”
the kitchen was dark except for the fridge glow. wooyoung rummaged inside, making a show of clattering jars and muttering, “remind me why you never eat at your own place again?”
san pressed a cold water bottle to the back of wooyoung’s neck, making him jolt. “your kitchen has better vibes and you let me borrow your oversized hoodies.”
“i don’t let you do anything,” wooyoung shot back, but he was already shoving a container toward san, their hands brushing—warmth flickering up his arm.
they ended up sitting on the counter, knees pressed, sharing the chips. crumbs everywhere, complaints louder than hunger and san nudged wooyoung with his shoulder.
“hey,” he said, voice soft but carrying a spark. “bet you’d be miserable if you had to eat snacks alone every night.”
wooyoung did not miss a beat. “please. the only thing i’ll miss is not stepping on your shoes in the dark.”
san leaned in, “sure, keep lying. watch you start crying when i go off to the army before you.”
wooyoung scoffed, kicking san’s ankle with his heel. “you wouldn’t last a day without someone folding your shirts.”
san gasped, hand pressed to his heart, fake-wounded. “wow. wow. like you’re not gonna beg to be my bunkmate— I’ll be stuck in some tiny room with strangers, i’m dragging you with me.”
wooyoung rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “right, you’d lose all your stuff in the first week.”
san nudged him, voice softer now. “not if i had you there.”
“bet i’d get sick of you in a week,” wooyoung managed, but the words were thin, half-joke, half-something else.
san grinned wider, eyes crinkling. “nah, tough luck. you’re stuck with me.”
wooyoung let out a shaky breath, tossing a chip at him, aiming for his forehead. “shut up and eat before i change my mind.”
san caught the chip, missed his mouth, and made a big show of trying again. “you’re lucky i’m cute.”
his eyes flicked toward the hallway. “bet jongho’s probably crushing water bottles in his sleep now.”
wooyoung’s lips curled. “last week i heard him scolding a dumbbell. like, actually telling it to ‘stay down.’”
san choked on a laugh, shaking his head. “god, imagine if he ever actually gets mad at us.”
“i’d fake my own death,” wooyoung declared, popping another chip in his mouth, then san wiped a crumb off. “makes sense. did you see mingi’s tiktok from earlier?”
“you mean the one with the hair mask? he looked like a wet poodle.. i almost screenshotted for blackmail.”
san’s laugh faded into something softer, and for a second the kitchen felt warmer. “at least nobody’s fighting tonight.”
wooyoung made a face. “give it ten minutes. hongjoong will find something to micro-manage.”
san grinned, nudging wooyoung’s knee again. “hm, i’ll take drama over boredom any day.” he swung his legs off the counter, stretching, hoodie riding up enough to show a strip of skin before he yanked it down again. “think they’ll let us sleep in tomorrow?”
wooyoung tilted his head, deadpan. “you think hongjoong sleeps?”
san’s grin flickered, eyes crinkling. “right. forgot we’re on the captain’s time,” and his gaze lingered, drifting down on wooyoung with a casual tone. “you gonna let me read your cult manifestos one day?”
wooyoung’s mouth twitched, feigning bravado. “keep dreaming.”
san bumped his shoulder, smirking, “one day i’m breaking in and reading whatever’s in there.”
“good luck—i’m pretty sure you’d quit before you hit the juicy stuff,” wooyoung muttered, then tilted his head with fake seriousness, “plus, you’d have to actually be able to read my handwriting.”
“nothing scares me anymore, good thing i’m persistent.”
he hopped off to shove him back to the bedroom, and san let himself be steered, still laughing under his breath.
wooyoung huffed, cheeks going pink anyway. “stubborn and nosy, that’s a dangerous combo.”
san grinned wider, trailing after without protest. “dangerous is my type.”
wooyoung tossed the last line over his shoulder, mostly to break the air between them before it got too charged.
“try surviving a night with hongjoong snoring first, then we’ll talk.”
the apartment settled around them, lights dimming, and they left the kitchen in low whispers and shoves, san dragging a blanket behind him. back in the bedroom, wooyoung flopped face-first onto his pillow, hiding a grin. san climbed in after, sighing so dramatically it could’ve been a joke.
they lay there, backs to each other, but not far apart. rain traced the window, and a minute ticked by before san muttered, voice muffled in the dark: “night, trouble.”
wooyoung only hummed, a sleepy smile pulling at his lips. “goodnight, sannie.”
neither of them moved. san lay staring at the ceiling, heartbeat louder than he wanted, realizing too late what he’d let slip. trouble, he thought, damn it, maybe he shouldn’t say shit like that before sleep.
✦ ✦ ✦
sunlight sliced through the blinds, and for a few seconds, san forgot where he was—right up until the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped over his waist, the heat of someone breathing against his neck. memory caught up, slow and embarrassing. sheets twisted, bodies too close. and then—panic. last night’s words echoed back, stupidly warm.
he shifted, careful, too careful, suddenly all-too-aware of how his body was reacting to… everything. his heart hammered, the ache in his lap stubborn, refusing to fade. of course, now. of course. he inched away, praying the covers wouldn’t give him up.
“you’re a menace,” san grumbled, hoping wooyoung was still asleep.
wooyoung’s voice, thick with sleep: “what did i do this time?”
san scowled at the ceiling. “… go back to sleep. bad dream.” a lie, but it landed softer than the truth.
wooyoung stirred, breath warm against his shoulder. “you up already?” croaky, barely awake.
“yeah…” san rolled a little further, desperate for composure, wishing his body would get the message. “just… need water. i’m thirsty.”
wooyoung huffed, face still buried in the pillow. “then go get some. or you need me to hold your hand for that too?”
san snorted, relief leaking out as he slid from the bed, hoodie dragged low, feet cold on the floor. behind him, the sound of wooyoung’s phone buzzing—a perfect distraction, and for a split second san thought, never say trouble before sleep. it always catches up by morning.
then wooyoung yelled something about making breakfast, but san barely heard over the tap running—cold water stinging his palms. by the time he padded back into the kitchen, the world had sharpened, sun slicing through the blinds and wooyoung already rattling pans like it was a competition.
“move, i’m making eggs,” san grumbled, reaching for the fridge before wooyoung could block him.
“you burn eggs,” wooyoung shot back, eyebrow raised, spatula in hand. “stick to ramen, chef.”
san shot him a look, already rummaging for the carton. “i burn them once and suddenly i’m blacklisted.”
wooyoung didn’t budge, anchoring himself at the stove. “once was enough. the fire alarm still has ptsd.”
counters scattered with mug rings from last night’s snack raid. san bumped hips, only as a warning. “bet i could do it better if you stopped hovering.”
wooyoung flicked a glance, caught the stubborn set of san’s jaw, that he held the pan with too much confidence and not enough technique. “sure. want me to call seonghwa in for backup?”
san scowled, pulling the fridge door open a bit extreme. “as if he’d be up before noon. seonghwa’s the king of last alarms. guy sleeps through, like, three before he moves. anyway, i got this.”
“famous last words.” wooyoung leaned against the counter, letting the spatula twirl between his fingers. “don’t break the yolks or i’m telling dad.”
“snitch,” san muttered, but he cracked two eggs with more care than necessary, brow furrowed in concentration.
the sizzle filled the room, steady and soothing. wooyoung watched, hiding his smile behind the mug he’d stolen (san’s, obviously). “if you mess this up,” he said, “i’m making you eat all of it.”
san’s tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth, totally absorbed. “bring it on. those threats? cute.”
wooyoung shrugged, pretending not to notice how close san had gotten, shoulder brushing his as he reached for the salt. “that’s what you said last time, and look what happened.”
“that was sabotage,” san insisted, “…you distracted me.”
“you mean i looked at you,” wooyoung shot back, grinning. “tragic.”
their hands bumped over the salt and neither moved, for a second, there was nothing but the hiss of eggs, the hum of morning outside, the closeness, ordinary and dangerous all at once.
“done!” san declared, too loud for the size of the kitchen, but the eggs were—miraculously—intact.
the phone vibrated against the counter, inching toward the edge with each buzz like it was itching to throw itself off. hongjoong’s reminder about practice buried under them, and neither moved to pick it up.
wooyoung flicked a crumb off the counter with his pinky, thumb catching on a sticky spot near the stove. san scraped the pan, pretending he didn’t see it, or pretending he wasn’t pretending, hard to tell with him sometimes.
“you gonna get that?” san nodded at the phone, shoulder tilting with the movement.
“pass,” wooyoung mumbled, too busy fishing a fork from the drawer and ignoring how quiet the kitchen got between buzzes.
san set the pan down, a little too hard, eggs sliding but holding. “hongjoong’s gonna kill us.”
“he’ll get over it.” wooyoung spun the fork between his fingers, catching san’s eye for half a second before looking down to arrange toast.
another buzz. jongho’s bears were now in rows, a tiny army waiting for orders.
san pressed a palm to the counter, steadying himself, while wooyoung scooped butter with the blunt edge of a butter knife, more than necessary, letting it smear thick around the toast without caring about the crumbs sticking back into the jar.
“messy,” san muttered, eyeing the jar, eyeing wooyoung’s fingers.
“live a little,” wooyoung replied, not looking up, using the tip of his thumb to wipe a streak off the edge of the knife and licking it clean without hesitation.
san made a face, grabbed the paper towel, wiped a ring of moisture off the counter that wooyoung’s mug had left behind. “you’re making it weird,” san said, no bite, just soft annoyance.
“you’re boring,” wooyoung countered, reaching for the bread, pressing another slice into the smear, thumb dragging peanut butter from the edges straight to his mouth, unbothered.
san shook his head, but his eyes kept catching on that smudge, the way wooyoung’s tongue darted out to swipe it away. “wipe your mouth,” he said, reaching for the peanut butter jar before wooyoung could double dip.
“what, you gonna teach me manners now?”
“it’ll ruin your idol image. someone’s gotta, you keep pulling crap like this.”
wooyoung’s grin cracked sharp. “you could do it for me.”
“no thanks,” he replied, holding it steady so it wouldn’t spin when he dipped the knife in and kept his focus on the slice he was prepping, ignoring how wooyoung’s foot was tapping against his ankle as if to prove he wasn’t going anywhere.
the phone buzzed again, jongho’s bear string replaced by hongjoong’s “answer before i come over,” and wooyoung laughed under his breath, mouth full, crumbs sticking to his fingers.
“you’re wiping that yourself,” san warned.
wooyoung popped the last bite in, “sure,” he said, then finger lingered at his lip before dropping. the kitchen was quiet except for the fridge hum and the occasional pop from the bread cooling. he caught himself watching san scrape peanut butter with unnecessary precision, knife dragging slow, shoulders set like he was handling something important.
too domestic. too much. it itched at the back of wooyoung’s molars, an ache that didn’t hurt but wouldn’t leave, settling low in his ribs until his breathing noticed.
“what?” san asked without looking up, knife still dragging, as if the shift in the air had tapped his shoulder.
wooyoung clicked his tongue, picking at a crumb on the counter. “nothing,” he muttered, then louder, “maybe you should move in if you’re gonna keep using my kitchen — see how long before you drive me insane.”
san’s head tilted, a blink, lips parting, but no comeback ready, not right away. “you wouldn’t survive,” he said finally, knife tapping against the jar rim, not looking over.
something in the corner of san’s mouth said he’d heard it for what it was, and wooyoung let out a small, breathy laugh. nothing really, but it cracked the quiet in the kitchen. he leaned forward and shoved san’s shoulder to shake him but not enough to spill the peanut butter. san barely rocked, knife pausing mid-drag, eyes flicking up.
“clean up when you’re done,” wooyoung muttered, already stepping back, wiping his hands on his shorts.
and san only hummed, finishing the toast before following.
✦ ✦ ✦
they slipped into the practice room ten minutes late and hongjoong’s stare found them immediately, arms crossed,the room folding in around the silence that dropped with them.
“you’re late.”
“breakfast,” san said quiet, eyes down and thumb pressing into his palm so he wouldn’t fidget.
“breakfast happens before call time.”
“man, you’re so lucky,” mingi groaned, ignoring the scolding as he pointed at wooyoung, “your solo’s out already, you just get to dance while we’re losing hair over lyrics.”
wooyoung didn’t bother hiding the small grin as he dropped his bag, straightening slow, eyes flicking around the room. “that head start wasn’t free,” he said, voice even.
yeosang was still stretching, “you’re acting like you’re not enjoying it.”
“better than acting like i’m suffering for the aesthetic,” wooyoung shot back, rolling his wrist, the bracelet there catching the light.
hongjoong cracked open a bottle, taking a sip. “don’t get soft just because you’re done early.”
“wasn’t planning on it,” wooyoung said, close to smiling.
mingi sank to the floor, dropping back onto his palms, legs stretched in front of him, sweatpants riding up over his ankles. he sighed, heavy, letting his head roll back. “if i hear one more ‘nah that line doesn’t fit the vibe,’ i’m leaving the country.”
yeosang raised an eyebrow, folding over his legs, reaching for his toes. “where would you even go?”
“anywhere that doesn’t have you arguing over whether ‘night’ or ‘moon’ sounds cooler,” mingi shot back, the exhaustion in his voice louder than the words.
“‘moon’ does sound cooler,” yeosang said.
“you literally bark in your solo sometimes,” yunho cut in, leaning against the speaker, arms crossed, watching with the calm of someone who’d seen this cycle too many times.
mingi flipped him off without lifting his head. “art."
yunho snorted. “sure.”
hongjoong’s eyes flicked up from his phone, landing on wooyoung. “try not to rub it in next time you post rehearsal clips. the rest of us have reputations to protect.”
wooyoung pressed a hand to his chest, bowing with exaggerated grace. “i’m doing you all a favor. raising the standard.”
san’s voice came from where he was adjusting his sleeve, quiet, “yeah, you are.”
hongjoong tossed his empty bottle into the bin, missing. “positions.”
the speaker clicked and bass hit low, thick through the practice room, rattling the water bottles lined next to the wall and they dropped into warm-up without waiting for a count. san’s shirt clung to his back, sweat rising fast under the heat of the lights, the cotton dampening, sticking, pulling each time he lifted his arms in a clean line. breath in, breath out, the scent of detergent and salt clinging to the warm air. he moved sharp, knees bending with every drop, spine rippling with control, body folding and unfolding like breath.
wooyoung started slow, a conscious drag in his movements, letting the music crawl under his skin before he let it take him fully. hips rolling with each slow measure, eyes half-lidded, lashes sticking with sweat, catching yunho’s reflection watching before looking away, dropping into the next roll with deliberate, obscene ease.
mingi joined the line, loose but clean, rolling his neck and yeosang stood, popping his shoulders into the rhythm, lips pressed thin as he tracked the mirror for corrections.
the track built, layered synth climbing over the bass, pushing the air thicker, the mirrors fogging lightly at the edges. wooyoung’s tongue dragged across his bottom lip, tasting the salt there before his mouth curved into a faint smirk, eyes catching san’s in the reflection, holding it, letting it drop.
san’s eyes flickered, breath hitching, but he moved closer, syncing up, shadows crossing on the floor, the space between them folding with the rhythm. yunho caught it, eyes tightening in the mirror, but he said nothing, dropping into the next beat.
“again,” hongjoong called, arms folded, voice calm but edged, a command that cut.
they dropped again, knees bending, bodies folding, wooyoung’s hand brushing over his stomach as he rolled up, shirt dragging high before dropping. his head tipped back, mouth open, breath slipping out soft enough to be swallowed by the bass. san mirrored, slower, precise, eyes on wooyoung, tracking the curve of his waist, the sweat sliding down his neck before it disappeared under fabric. every roll of wooyoung’s hips hit sharp before melting into the next move, tension thick, dripping between them.
yeosang’s eyes flicked up, catching the shift, catching yunho’s reflection catching it too, a small shake of his head, but he kept moving. and wooyoung stepped back, intentional, shoulder brushing san’s chest, contact brief but burning. san’s hand twitched, almost reaching and steadying, almost pulling him in before it dropped.
hongjoong’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t call it out.
the chorus hit, “in your fantasy” echoing in layered harmonies, the room humming with the bass. wooyoung’s hips dragged slow on the downbeat, lashes fluttering, mouth parting as the music thrummed through him, eyes locking onto san’s in the mirror, unblinking, heavy. san moved with him, breath shaking, chest rising too fast, matching, refusing to look away, not letting go.
“focus,” hongjoong’s voice cut in, closer now. his hand landed on wooyoung’s shoulder, pressing down lightly, correcting the line of his body. wooyoung froze under the touch, a flash of annoyance flickering before he smothered it, adjusting his stance, sinking lower into the movement.
hongjoong’s hand slid away, but the weight of it stayed, the imprint of control lingering in wooyoung’s mind as he moved again, cleaner, but the deliberate drag of his hips remained, a quiet defiance layered under compliance. san’s gaze flicked to hongjoong’s reflection, catching the pause in the leader’s eyes and how it lingered on wooyoung before moving away.
the bridge hit, softer, a breath in the track, and wooyoung closed his eyes, letting his body move on muscle memory and for the music to drag him under, every flex of his hands sensual that wasn’t for show but wasn’t hidden either. san moved with him, pace matching, control cracking at the edges, breath heaving, chest rising fast, the scent of adrenaline sharp between them.
the final note slipped out, leaving the air thick and wet, the room echoing with the sound of their breathing, the quiet hum of the speakers still vibrating low in the floorboards.
wooyoung’s hands dropped to his thighs, sweat dripping off his jaw, neck flushed, shirt clinging, dragging it up to wipe his face, revealing the hard lines of his waist, the soft give of his stomach, the sweat gleaming across skin before the fabric fell back down. his tongue pressed to his cheek, eyes flicking to san’s, catching that san’s gaze dropped to the sliver of skin before jerking back up, unreadable.
san’s chest lifted, breath caught in a slow exhale out of his mouth, fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach out, wanted to grab, wanted to hold something in place before it slipped.
yunho’s jaw flexed, eyes on the floor, moving to grab his water and not saying a word.
“water.”
hongjoong snapped, and the spell broke.
wooyoung pushed off the ground, steps heavy, crossing to the bottles and he popped the cap, tilting his head back, throat working as he drank, water spilling down the side of his mouth, catching on the sharp of his jaw before dripping onto his collarbone, sliding under his shirt in a streak that made him shiver, darkening it in streaks. san didn’t move at first, eyes pinned to the water sliding down wooyoung’s neck, following the trail until it disappeared.
“you’re pushing it,” hongjoong said, closer now, meant for wooyoung alone.
wooyoung’s head tilted, water bottle hanging from his fingers, mouth pulling into a slow, dangerous curve. “so stop me.”
hongjoong’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer, just held the gaze until wooyoung’s smirk slipped, lips parting around a quiet breath before he snapped the bottle shut, tossing it to the floor where it rolled against yunho’s foot where he stopped it. yeosang let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold, mingi cracked his knuckles, shifting where he stood.
hongjoong’s eyes swept the room, then turned away, “break’s over.”
the music clicked again, the bass returning low, heartbeat heavy, the lights buzzing, feet shifting on the floor as they moved back into position, tension coiling, breath syncing, ready to break.
it happens again.
another morning pinned under fluorescent lights, sweat crawling down collarbones, rhythm thudding in ribcages like a second heartbeat. limbs moving because they must, eyes dragging across mirrors catching glimpses of each other, a flicker, a stare that shouldn’t last as long as it does.
and there, pressed in the reflection, a boy who never learned how to soften. sweat darkening the fabric clinging to a spine curved in the downbeat, head tipping back, hair sticking, lashes damp. the quiet catch in a breath when fabric slides up, revealing a strip of skin that light hits and leaves glowing, just for a blink.
he likes the hush right after a chorus drops out, the way air thickens, how another body will shift closer acting it’s for sync. likes the sound of a swallow across the room, tongue darting out to gather salt off a lip, a near-quiet admission no one will ever speak out loud. that’s enough. that’s plenty. that’s the kind of intimacy that stays hidden under practice sweats and hoodies too big to be anyone’s but his.
it’s routine, it’s performance, the mirror memorizing every stumble, every flick of a wrist, every sin tucked under a roll of the hips. same as yesterday, same as tomorrow, but that’s the lie they all tell themselves.
hongjoong’s shadow crosses, silent, a sentence waiting. the leader’s eyes linger too long, move on, come back, heavy with things they will never say during daylight hours. water bottles press cold against the back of necks, plastic crinkles, nothing speaks, but everything says too much.
there’s the one who holds tension in the lines of shoulders, lets the music drag breath out until ribs hurt, who hates how much attention he pays, how every detail carves itself into memory: the flick of a thumb over a lower lip, a half-lidded stare into glass, the premeditated slowness of a drop that leaves nothing to guess.
and there’s the one who never asks permission, who smirks at the wrong moment, who lets the silence thicken until someone else cuts it, whose spine arches under stage lights like he knows the show isn’t for anyone but the one watching. who never says stop, who never says more, who lets the tension live in every step.
everyone else notices. the soft beat when yunho’s gaze snaps up before dropping, before he steps between them during formations that don’t require it, that funny pause where yeosang clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes without lifting his head, the way mingi coughs, loud, eyes everywhere but where they should be, airless laughter crumbling before it forms.
they will come back tomorrow, and they will lace up shoes, stretch until joints crack, all while waiting for the music to swallow them whole. they will watch each other in the mirror and pretend it’s practice, let sweat burn down spines and soak into the floor, let fingers twitch toward something they won’t reach for yet, let eyes say what mouths won’t.
this is how it goes.
every day.
and after, steam rolls off the showers, soft clouds clinging to cracked tiles, mirrors fogging until all that’s left is smudged outlines of tired bodies rinsing the sweat from skin. water drips from hair onto bare shoulders, sliding down spines, vanishing into towels clutched around hips.
wooyoung dries his hair too slow, towel dragging across strands already curling from the heat, droplets clinging to the ends before falling to his collarbones. he stands there, back turned, steam curling around him, water streaking down the ridge of his spine before slipping under the towel knotted low. the noise of the drain and mingi’s off-key hum a few stalls down do nothing to fill the heavy quiet that’s settled in.
it hangs between them, permission unspoken, a hush that says look, it’s fine, even as neither of them says it.
san lingers near the benches, towel around his neck, hair dripping cold against flushed skin, eyes darting up and down, catching on the way wooyoung’s shoulder blades flex when he moves. the humid air sticks to them, sweat washed away but the warmth still there, pulsing under skin.
and then, wooyoung steps past, towel brushing against san’s hip, a damp drag of fabric that leaves a chill in its wake.
a reflex—san’s hand shot out, fingers closing around wooyoung’s wrist before he could take another step. water dripped from both of them, hitting the tiles in soft taps.
a stillness, deepening.
wooyoung tilted his head, damp strands sliding over one eye. “what?” no emotion in it, but the way his mouth quirked said everything else, daring him to make it mean something.
san’s jaw tightened, eyes dropping to where his hand gripped wooyoung’s wrist, towel slipping off his own shoulder. he let go, stepping back, a sharp breath leaving him as he turned away, the moment snapping between them.
wooyoung’s laugh bounced off the tile, disappearing under the sound of a locker closing somewhere down the row.
he didn’t leave it alone. later, while san was digging for clean socks, wooyoung stepped in close again, crowding him near the lockers, hair still wet, dripping onto san’s forearm and soaking into the edge of the towel slung there.
“you keep staring,” wooyoung said.
san let out a breath, shoulders shifting as he looked up. “and you keep making it impossible not to.”
they were too close, the warm air between them tight, the smell of soap and wet fabric sticking to everything. san’s hand flexed around the locker door.
wooyoung lifted a hand, like he was going to touch san’s face, thumb hovering near his cheekbone, close enough for san to feel the heat of it.
instead, he flicked a droplet of water onto san’s jaw, smirk pulling at his mouth. “don’t get shy now.”
footsteps hit the tile, breaking it up, mingi’s voice coming from around the corner, “can you hurry up, i’m starving.”
hongjoong walked in right after, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp, eyes narrowing when he saw how close they were. he tossed a damp practice schedule onto the bench. “save it for home.”
wooyoung grinned, loud enough for it to carry, “you’re so hot when you’re mad, hyung!~”
san coughed before he could swallow it down, towel slipping from his hand as he looked away, and his ears went red.
yunho’s groan echoed from across the room, where he was tying his shoes. “i’m leaving before this turns into something.”
water still dripped onto the tile floor as they gathered their clothes, and the tension remained, tucked into the folds of shirts, clinging to skin, following them out the door.
should’ve kept it in, that cough. should’ve swallowed it down, like everything else.
and his eyes in the front, hands busy, mouth shut. but the towel slipped, and the heat crawled up his neck, settling in his ears until it felt like everyone could see it. san’s throat felt tight, pretending he hadn’t thought about pulling wooyoung closer, just to shut him up, to see if he’d still grin like that.
it was nothing.
only practice.
and the same as always.
except it wasn’t.
san was sitting now with his elbows on knees, scrolling something mindless on his phone, thumb hovering but not moving. he glanced up, down, up again, he couldn’t decide if he was about to say something or not.
“you dying, or just waiting for me to say it first?” wooyoung asked, pulling at the laces on his sneakers, voice easy.
san snorted, screen finally going dark in his hand. “say what?”
“that you look like shit.”
“good one,” san said, leaning back, phone tapping against his thigh. “you rehearsed that in the mirror?”
“don’t need to rehearse to roast you.”
san’s hair sticked up at odd angles, but he didn’t fix it. “funny,” he muttered, pushing himself to stand, the bench creaking as his weight shifted off it.
“you’re the reason i dance better, you know,” wooyoung said, voice lighter than it felt.
san’s brows pulled together before he scoffed, “okay, relax.”
wooyoung tilted his head, letting the towel fall into his bag, unbothered. “not taking it back.”
“you don’t have to say shit like that,” san muttered, bending to tie his sneaker, but the knot was already tight, fingers fumbling with nothing.
“it’s not shit,” wooyoung replied, tapping the locker behind him twice, a nervous habit he wouldn’t admit to. “it’s true.”
“you’re an idiot,” san muttered.
“yeah, you love it…”
wooyoung stepped closer, not touching, but close enough that san could feel the heat rolling off him, could see when his eyes flickered down to san’s lips before pulling back up, steady again.
“what are you doing,” san said, low, not a question.
wooyoung’s tongue clicked softly, like he was considering and wasn’t sure himself. “being honest.”
san huffed, air punching out of him, a dry, humorless laugh following it. “since when.”
“since now,” wooyoung said, voice barely above a whisper, but it didn’t shake.
“shit,” san muttered, a crooked grin cracking through despite the heat in his face, “maybe we should forget enlisting.”
wooyoung blinked, confusion flickering before he also let a small, disbelieving laugh. “what?”
“don’t tell me you never think about it. quitting this, let’s just run off together. be actors or something.”
wooyoung’s eyes glinted. “you’d fold the second a director raised their voice.”
san’s nervous laugh slipped out, quiet, shaky, like it cost him something. “maybe.”
wooyoung lifted a hand, hovering near san’s jaw before he let it drop again, fingers curling into a fist. “god, you’re such a pain in my ass,” he muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave san’s.
“yea,” san breathed, the word catching in his chest, “i know.”
✦ ✦ ✦
doors clicked behind, lights buzzing in the corridor. sneakers scuffed across tile, rubber soles squeaking. nobody said much on the walk back.
the handle clicked, a soft finality, lock turning without thought. one hand at the back of his neck, thumb pressing into a knot that hadn’t left since morning.
his morning wood.
yes, that. didn’t need to think about it, but the thought stuck, annoying, like a notification you couldn’t clear. it hadn’t happened before, not like that, not when he was crashing over at wooyoung’s, and definitely not in all those other mornings after late-night ramen and practice fights over playlists, in almost 7 years.
first time, and now it was ruining him.
should’ve blamed it on stress, late practice, too much soda, anything. but wooyoung had looked at him in the kitchen, eyeing him over that mug, hair still messy, skin warm from sleep, and san had to look away before something cracked.
pacing wasn’t helping. nothing was.
you’re the reason i dance better. that line had no business sticking, but it did, digging in, burrowing under his skin, rattling loose in ribs, somewhere small and warm and awful.
phone glow lit up the room, thumb scrolling just to keep his mind busy, but it didn’t help when purple showed up on the feed. should’ve been easy to ignore. wasn’t.
it was just his favorite color—had been since before he could afford anything branded. he’d said that on live, even, once or twice, because it was true. it wasn’t a secret, wasn’t deep—at least, not until atiny made it weird.
he didn’t mean to check the tags, but the algorithm knew him better than he liked. the top post was a blurry shot from yesterday of him and wooyoung, two silhouettes under the umbrella, city washed out, the purple bleeding like a secret nobody asked for.
the caption was even more of a disaster: “woosan = umbrella. did you know ‘woosan’ means umbrella in korean? also purple = love = gay!!”
san squinted, annoyance flickering. but the longer he stared, the more he started to wonder. maybe it wasn’t just a color… the replies were worse—threads of atiny arguing about purple meaning trust, or queer love, or “the softest confession color.” he should’ve kept moving, but the comments were a black hole.
“purple = royalty, devotion, gay panic, choose your fighter.”
“that’s the color of obsession, maybe san’s not hiding anything. woosan’s just real.”
san snorted, half-tempted to send the post to wooyoung as a joke with some dumb emoji, but didn’t. instead, he saved the picture. told himself it was for “concept research.”
nothing ever stayed private, not even inside his own head.
what if purple was his confession? an umbrella made it easy to pull him close, keep the world out, hide something in plain sight.
yet, atiny had given him an excuse.
insomnia probably, but the idea wouldn’t leave him alone. what if purple was his confession? what if he could turn a joke into a secret only one person would ever understand?
san stared at the screen a little longer, thumb tracing the edge of wooyoung’s shadow. now, looking more at the photo and seeing how wooyoung’s shoulder leaned in, how the light made everything private, the exposure bit down, leaving no room to laugh it off. he already knew how the next demo would sound, how the choreography would build like the whole world was watching and it didn’t matter if anyone ever figured out why.
back hit the mattress, arm slung over the eyes, breathing out, short. maybe we should forget enlisting, he’d said. couldn’t believe that slipped out. couldn’t believe wooyoung didn’t let it go, either. morning knocked it off course, and nothing since had fixed it.
couldn’t even remember what normal was.
san realized it then, he didn’t just want to match wooyoung on stage.
he wanted all of him.
wanted the glances that lingered too long.
wanted the soft smiles that slipped out before they were hidden again.
wanted wooyoung’s look when he thought no one else was watching.
wanted him to keep looking.
wanted him to look only at him.
he wanted wooyoung’s attention for himself.
not for the stage.
not for the cameras.
for him.
maybe they were right. maybe nobody ever got out dry.
Notes:
thanks for letting woosan be complicated here
Chapter 3: canon is what you make it
Summary:
san has a meltdown
Notes:
no atiny or walls were harmed in the making of this chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
seonghwa muttered something about “miracles” when there weren’t extra shoes in the entryway—second week running.
wooyoung shrugged, let a dry smile bite at the edge of his mouth, “maybe san’s finally sick of my sleep playlist.” he said it for the room, voice pitched to carry, but even he heard the hollowness.
nothing landed. not even mingi, who usually groaned and threatened to buy earplugs, took the bait—he just hummed, low and distracted, screen reflected in his glasses, and let the moment slide past.
he thought he’d hate the mess less. turns out, the silence got under his skin faster than any puma sneakers ever did. the quiet settled deep, itchy as insulation dust, humming in his ears when the fridge kicked on. there was so much room in the air, nowhere for his energy to bounce off. place too neat, no tangled charger cables to trip over by the outlet, mugs lined up along the windowsill, all washed and empty.
in the group chat, conversation spiked and died by the hour with memes and “u up?” stickers, but nothing real threaded through. every time san’s name blinked in the feed—always late, or a two-word answer—wooyoung’s thumb hovered over the reply. sometimes he sent a picture anyway, the sunset from the fire escape, captioned “boring, right?” because it was easier to play at being bored than admit the other thing. the phone buzzed back with “eat something” or “wear a jacket,” from san. never more, never less. dry as bone, regular as a tide.
most days, he played at being fine. in public, he cranked the brightness, filled every inch of the room, laughed too loud, made a show of not caring. in private, he counted the shoes in the entryway and tried to believe he liked it better this way. every time the door opened, he waited for the thud of san’s bag, for the scrape of boots half-kicked off, and it never came. he started leaving the hall light on, blaming it on bad wiring, never on hope.
no one bought it, not even himself.
mingi’s chair screeched against the floor as he stood up too fast, a can rolling off the table and skidding under the couch. “whose turn is it to buy ramen? i’m not eating hwa’s diet noodles again.”
wooyoung blinked, startled by the noise. “you mean my turn to buy—your turn to forget your wallet, right?”
mingi’s laugh was a short bark. “alright, bro, you love paying for me.”
wooyoung tossed a sock at him, fingers flexing, aiming for his ear—missed, but didn’t care. "i keep you fed, you keep me entertained, it’s the circle of life, idiot.”
seonghwa didn’t look up from folding clothes, stacking shirts into perfect squares. “as long as you two don’t wake me at 2 a.m. with mukbang again, do whatever you wish.”
“see, that’s why you should get a real boyfriend, hwa,” mingi smiled, but his eyes slid to wooyoung, voice dropping, “if you keep whining, i’ll start calling you jagiya. someone’s gotta keep the tradition alive.”
“yeah, try it, see what happens.”
mingi only stretched the word further, “come on, jagiyaah~” loud for the walls to remember it, mocking and sweet in equal measure.
wooyoung shot him a look, lips threatening a real smile, but all he said was, “at least you’re not calling me babe.” and mingi moved him toward the door.
he let himself be pushed along, knowing the joke hit harder for the shoes still missing by the door, but he laughed anyway, shoving mingi with his shoulder.
and across the building, another window burned blue.
san watched the streetlights move in the parking lot, too awake for sleep, too wired for anything but pacing. shoes thudded soft against linoleum, back and forth from desk to door, hands twisting at his hoodie cuffs until the seams stretched. sleep hadn’t come easy in a long while—not since that morning, too risky to crash at wooyoung’s, not again, not with everything in him raw and traitorous…
it wasn’t like he was hiding. he still answered in group chat, kept up with rehearsal, made every deadline. nobody could say he disappeared. he just… didn’t show up where he used to, or make up excuses to drag his bag into woo’s dorm. late nights, he sent clips instead, voice notes, an inside joke about yunho’s haircut. always something safe, never crossing a line. and woo answered, always with memes, always quick, always making it worse.
running helped, sometimes. he’d burn out every muscle in his legs, lap after lap around the practice field, breath coming rough and cold. sometimes he showered twice, water scalding, steam curling up the windows, but it never stuck. none of it washed the ache off.
every little thing pulled his mind sideways—everything pointed back at his wooyoung. he caught himself checking the group chat for his name, and it was easier to say he was busy. the word had teeth. “mixing,” he told jongho, “practice ran long,” he told hongjoong. most nights, he left his phone on silent, screen down, but he never turned it off. wouldn’t risk missing a ping, no matter how much he pretended it didn’t matter, that’s san for you.
sometimes, in the thick of the night, his phone would buzz—wooyoung again, sending a video captioned “kinda cold out.” and san would read it twice, three times, before answering with something clipped and dry.
safe. careful. routine.
sometimes, though, he caved. thumb swiping over the camera roll, looking for—no, looking at—the photo he’d saved from that atiny post and never deleted. it was stupid. it was embarrassing. san would stare anyway, screen dimming, until his own reflection stared back. annoyance flared every time he caught himself, but he’d look again the next night. couldn’t stop.
the old ache crawled up again, hot under the skin, irrational as a bruise that never faded.
he’d never admit it, not out loud. wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction, least of all himself.
still, some nights he scrolled too far, ended up knee-deep in tags he swore he wouldn’t touch. and now his thumb hovered over a fanart post—a bright cartoon, yunho’s jaw too sharp, wooyoung’s smile stretched wide, both of them caught in the split-second aftermath of that pepero game.
the artist had gotten every detail right: hair messy, crumbs at the edge of wooyoung’s mouth, yunho’s hand frozen mid-air, their faces so close the tension blurred into softness. wooyoung’s lips, barely parted, enough to count every pixel. the comment section was a minefield—“yunwoo is canon,” “they’re so cute, i knew wooyoung would go for it!”—and below that, edits, gifsets, memes. some posts looping the video, freeze-frame, zooming in until nothing else existed but the space between them.
if atiny had their way, he’d be shipped with a wall.
didn’t matter who it was, someone would always try to make it stick. didn’t matter how real anything was—once the fandom decided, it was canon.
san didn’t need to remember the sound in the room that day. he turned the sound off on the clips, couldn’t handle the cheers—only watched for the moment woo’s mouth curved, the second before someone else’s name trended with his. it had all been a game, but the internet never forgot, and atiny knew how to make it sting.
he shouldn’t care. but seeing wooyoung’s laugh rendered in someone else’s lines, mouth open, eyes shining, all for yunho—something twisted in san’s ribcage.
it was bad enough in cartoon form. it got worse the further he scrolled. yunwoo edits, yunwoo banners, yunwoo hands knotted in hair, legs thrown over thighs, fangirl anatomy lessons in soft brushstrokes and neon light. a whole gallery, hundreds of likes. yunho’s hand braced on the small of wooyoung’s back, mouth pressed to the shell of his ear. another where woo straddled his lap, smiling around a candy stick, yunho’s tongue drawn with crazy attention to detail. there was even one with a red censor bar slashed over the bottom half, a warning that couldn’t hide everything. san’s skin crawled—horrified, electrified, humiliated, hungry for something he couldn’t name. he’d laugh if it didn’t sting, laugh if it didn’t make his knuckles white on the phone. he’d never let anyone see it, not even in daylight.
another drawing had the type of lighting you’d see in a club, hips rolling, hands sliding under the hem of a shirt, the caption: ‘this is what real chemistry looks like.’ san’s thumb hovered, pulse spiking, lips parted in something that wasn’t a laugh.
he scrolled faster, chest hot, fingers slick with sweat. atiny had no shame. neither did the artists. the more he tried to look away, the worse it got. comment threads went feral—“wish they’d do this on instagram live,” “i’d pay for yunwoo cam,” “san who?”
he almost threw the phone.
instead, he screenshot the worst one—tongue and teeth, hands and hips and cartoon sweat beading on the backs of knees—and, reckless, so reckless of him, sent it straight to wooyoung.
you letting him win, huh?
san didn’t wait for the reply. didn’t want to see it. locked the phone, pressed it to his chest, heartbeat rattling through the t-shirt. his pulse counted out the seconds, brain buzzing with what ifs—what if woo never answered, what if he did, what if it meant something, finally.
maybe he’d regret it in the morning. maybe not. obsession didn’t care about tomorrow.
the next day, san would ask for a purple umbrella in the music video concept meeting and fight anyone who called it cliché.
it was desperate, the first time anything actually slipped, proof his control was as thin as the glass his thumb pressed. this was the kind of spiral that never read obvious at first—some late-night meme, an impulsive screenshot, a line sent out of nowhere. but in the right hands, it was a loaded gun.
later, when the nerves were still fried and sleep wouldn’t stick, the phone buzzed again. new sticker: big eyes, blush on the cheeks, a speech bubble that read, come home.
it glowed against the darkness, too cute for the pain behind his ribs. he could almost hear wooyoung’s voice in it, teasing and serious at once, a dare only meant for him.
It could’ve meant anything, but after last night’s message, it was obvious. a reply, a dare, an invitation that sounded casual and wasn’t, not with wooyoung.
san stared, jaw tight, thumb hovering over the keyboard. he had nothing to say—nothing honest, anyway.
anything he typed now would give too much away, so he closed the chat, deleted the sticker from wooyoung and didn’t reply.
couldn’t.
the others noticed, but nobody pressed—at first.
hongjoong caught him by the kitchen window, late, lights off, only city spill painting his profile. “trouble in paradise?” the question was light, a nudge more than a demand.
san’s answer came low, head tipped forward, not bothering to play along. “just busy, hyung.”
jongho, always more direct, piped up from the hall, “you get lost on your way to woo’s or what?”
san didn’t flinch, didn’t look up. “nah,” voice caught on habit, rough at the edges, “mixing’s hell.”
no one bought it either, but everyone let it lie.
and just like that, he watched the city lights until the ache dulled, phone facedown on the desk behind him, waiting for a message he’d sworn he wouldn’t answer right away.
the silence held, thin as glass, until a voice cut straight through.
“i’m sick of you both moping. get over yourselves.”
jongho leaned in the doorframe, arms folded, attention flicking between san and the hallway, boredom and annoyance sharing space on his face. he didn’t bother raising his voice when the truth already stung.
san’s finger traced the chipped edge of his desk. “wasn’t aware you cared, jongho.”
a scoff. “i don’t. i care about not living with two ghosts who pretend texting each other is the same as being normal.”
he kept his tone flat, letting the words hang, daring san to react. but san didn’t, maybe his grip tightened on the phone, but he wouldn’t give jongho the satisfaction. outside, the streetlights flickered, someone’s laughter echoing up through the stairwell, but it faded fast.
jongho’s footsteps receded, the door clicking shut that made the room colder. san stared at the demo file still open on the laptop screen, cursor blinking, waiting for him to fill the empty bar. the ache didn’t leave, not with jongho’s words digging into skin, itching for action. he almost closed the file, but his hands didn’t move.
san replayed the bridge, an empty stretch where a voice should go. nobody else would hit the phrasing right, he thought.
tapped out a quick message and tried for casual:
you around? need a harmony for this demo. can you record something tonight?
the reply came faster than he wanted.
you only ask when you’re desperate, you know that?
he almost smiled, but caught himself, fingers hovering over the keyboard too long.
just do it. i need it to sound right.
a pause. three dots blinking, then vanishing.
yeah, okay. send the track
the file sent, san waited, nerves shot thin, head full of what ifs. he’d made the line sharp on purpose, a half-step higher than wooyoung ever sang in practice, right where the voice cracked and wavered, where breath ran out before the note was done. he told himself it was for the track. really, it was for him. nobody sounded better than wooyoung pushing raw.
minutes ticked. maybe wooyoung had headphones in already, squinting at the demo, and he’d curse san out for making it a challenge.
another buzz.
this isn’t my key, you know that, right?
…
stop making me sound like a goose
san leaned back, lips twitching.
you’ll sound raw, fits the mood
the reply landed a minute later, short and unamused.
next time you need a bridge, i’m singing it flat on purpose
he watched the message blink, watched it vanish, and kinda hoped for another—something less guarded. nothing came. he listened to the demo once more, heard the gap where wooyoung’s voice would sit, the spot designed for tension, for grit. for want.
ten more minutes, then a new file appeared in the chat, no comment.
he clicked play.
static at first, then the line—breath punched out, voice stretched tight, a ragged edge where polish usually lived. wooyoung gritted his way through the harmony, not perfect or smooth, all friction and pride and the undercurrent of “fuck you for making me try.” it sounded exactly right. better than perfect.
he looped it. again. and again. each take bled new color, every flaw an admission. san traced every note, every slip, until the ache in his chest turned electric. there was no reason for it to hit so hard—except that nobody else could ever sound like this, not for him.
his phone buzzed with another message:
don’t make it a habit… my throat hurts
san let himself smile, unseen in the dark, thumb hovering over the reply.
worth it, fits you.
no answer, but he didn’t need one.
he isolated the track, layering wooyoung’s voice into the mix and each replay grinding the want deeper, every syllable a secret only he would hear right. he didn’t bother naming the file—he’d know it anywhere. san listened until the world faded, all that was left being raw harmony and the knowledge that he’d pushed wooyoung exactly where he wanted him.
and that wooyoung, for all his protest, gave in every single time.
he dragged the chair closer to the window, headphones still tight, world outside blurring into nothing. his hands found the rhythm, tapping out the measure on the sill, thumb pressed hard enough to sting. every loop layered want on top of want, something under his skin pulling tight each time the harmony snapped.
some things weren’t meant to be measured—how much space one person could take up, how the ache would crowd out every thought. a single harmony could unspool a day’s worth of restraint, and his body was on edge for no reason except he’d dreamed of that sound, that struggle for the note, the everything that didn’t fit anywhere but this.
san caught himself, once, whispering the lyric before sleep, tongue searching for the vowel, trying to match the breath. it was stupid, obsessive, something he would mock anyone else for. nobody would know, not unless he let it show, or if he were to start slipping.
In the mean time, wooyoung stared at the too-brief “thanks”, thumb hovering, resisting the urge to send back something obnoxious.
it was classic san. never asked for easy, never let up, always made a game out of everything. wooyoung wanted to be annoyed, truly, but the way the line sat in his chest—tight, hot, something trying to burn a hole—wouldn’t let him.
he flopped backward onto his bed, arm flung over his eyes, phone clattering somewhere in the blankets. every time he replayed the take, the memory of san’s dry “you’ll sound raw, fits the mood” replayed too, voice in his head, cocky and matter-of-fact, as if it wasn’t a dare.
he muttered, “asshole,” to the ceiling, just for himself.
the place was quiet, only mingi snoring in the other room and the distant click of seonghwa moving around the kitchen. wooyoung stretched, legs tangled in sheets, neck prickling where his hair stuck to skin. he wasn’t tired, not really, the adrenaline of getting the take right—or wrong, who knew with san—still buzzed in his fingers.
he wondered, for a second, if he should’ve tried less hard. made it flat, mailed it in, proved a point. but he never could. not when san was listening.
wooyoung scrubbed a palm over his face, rolling onto his side, pillow cool under his cheek. he could smell the faintest trace of san’s cologne, still soaked into the pillowcase from 2 weeks ago. he hadn’t washed it out. he should. he wouldn’t.
the ache in his throat was annoying. the ache in his chest, more so.
he debated sending another voice note, something stupid, maybe an insult or a fake cough, but stopped there.
morning was going to suck. he already knew he’d do it all again.
✦ ✦ ✦
the track spun for the third time, bass rattling the floorboards, sweat slicking skin.
somewhere in the corner, mingi counted under his breath, a low metronome that barely held the group together. bodies folded and snapped in the mirrors—san’s lines sharp, cuts so clean the sound nearly broke on bone. yet the room still felt out of focus, air thick with yesterday’s leftovers. hongjoong shouted counts and yeosang bent double to retie a shoe, only wooyoung seemed steady, breath drawn slow, arms loose at his sides, watching everything and nothing at once.
halfway through the song, san’s brain skipped. legs didn’t listen, heel catching too late, left foot coming down off-beat. a half-second slip, enough to break the line and for hongjoong to call out—“again, from the top.” nobody groaned, too tired for drama.
san reset his stance, wiped sweat from his temple, eyes flickering to wooyoung—who caught him, every single time, his look was a question never asked out loud.
they hit the chorus and the error came back, sharper this time. san’s shoulders bunched, muscles too tight, the spin too wide. before he could blink, hands closed around his wrist—wooyoung, right from the back, breath warm, with a steady grip. “left, sannie, c’mon, you’re behind!” low enough for only them. it stayed there a heartbeat too long. san counted it—could’ve sworn his pulse shifted just from the contact, a print burned into skin he’d chase all week. the correction wasn’t rough, only fingers coaxed him into place, the heat of skin through cotton. san’s heart thudded, not from exertion. every neuron lit up, tracking each inch of contact. the hand stayed too long, thumb tracing a shape he’d remember later, until hongjoong’s count pulled them apart.
no one mentioned it, but the silence went dense, mirrors fogging with more than humidity. even yeosang paused mid-stretch, gaze darting between them. mingi wiped his face, tossed a bottle, let the cap skid past jongho’s foot. “cut it out, woo, you’re not his mom,” mingi teased, voice trying for casual, failing. wooyoung’s lips curled, but the reply caught behind his teeth.
they started again. sweat stung eyes, shirts clinging, music punching holes in the quiet. san moved sharp now, precision carved into muscle, but his mind was somewhere else—heat pooled behind ribs, skin prickling where wooyoung’s hand had landed, where it could land again.
there was nothing to blame—no sleep deprivation, no hunger, not even nerves. he wanted it, and that was the problem. wanted wooyoung’s hand, wanted the correction, wanted everything to blur until the difference between mistake and desire dissolved.
by the sixth run, nobody pretended not to notice. yeosang called out, “get a room or get in sync,” tone too flat to be a joke.
break hit late, bodies puddled on the floor, limbs heavy, air sweet with juice bottles and thickened with the sweat and sugar from juice bottles, but san kept catching the hint of laundry soap, and something that could’ve been cinnamon from wooyoung’s hair.
then wooyoung flopped backward, arms overhead, hair fanned out, lips parted. he shot a look across the mat—“you look like a creep right now.”
sweat cooled on skin, the taste of orange juice tart on his tongue, floor hard under shoulder blades. the room buzzed, fans spinning, sneakers squeaking at the far end, but all he saw was the smirk across from him.
san, breath still ragged, let the words sink in and just said, “funny.”
he told himself it was nothing, an accident, a slip.
truth was, he’d do it again.
san had faked it.
let himself slip, body not failing but surrendering, because he needed that touch, that pretext.
he wanted any excuse—for wooyoung’s hands, wooyoung’s voice, hearing his name as a correction, a prayer, a dare.
every run-through, he’d invent a new mistake if he had to.
“you good, san? or are you training for the drama line instead of dance?” yeosang called out, one eyebrow up.
wooyoung’s foot pressed to san’s ankle, quick nudge—territorial in a way nobody called out then eyes cutting over, voice bright but edged. “he’s only dramatic for me, sang. find your own partner.”
yeosang’s mouth twitched, holding back a real laugh. “jeez, possessive much? i’ll stick with mingi—less risk of broken ankles.”
mingi, flopped out on the mat, chimed in, “don’t drag me into your custody battle...”
san bit the inside of his cheek, head ducked, not trusting his face. the heat in his face was almost worth it—almost.
embarrassment always hit sharp, but it wasn’t a bad sting. not when it was wooyoung mouthing off, making a show of it, and letting everyone hear who he wanted close.
Notes:
please roast me in the comments for any missed opportunity to make san more unhinged.
(the future chapters will start to get darker)
Chapter 4: symptoms include: you
Summary:
this chapter is about losing sleep, fighting the internet, and hoping nobody else notices you wrote “mine” three times in your lyric draft
Notes:
all coincidences are on purpose, all jokes are a cry for help. if you thought this fic was about dance, you were only half right—most of it is about losing the plot in private and calling it canon.
dead dove: don’t ship topaz
also horny on main, haunted in the subtext
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
hands pinned his wrists above his head.
knuckles bruised into softness, mattress or maybe air, it didn’t matter, not with the heat building under skin. his own breathing was too loud, echo chamber in his skull, all pulse, no sense. vision blurred at the edges—san’s hair shadowed his face, bangs hanging low, eyes blacked out by the light behind him, not a demon but close enough.
“hold still.” the order landed at his jaw, mouth hovering just out of reach, lips barely grazed the corner of his mouth as a threat. san’s thumb traced his throat, idle and unhurried, to find every single spot that made him twitch. nails skimmed the skin, never breaking, just enough to mark—he was certain if he ever got up, there’d be fingerprints, the ghost of a grip lingering days after.
it was stupid, how much he wanted this. wanted to crack, to push back, but every time he tried to move, san tightened his grip, a warning without a word. the control was careful, surgical, meant for him alone. every inch that ached for touch got denied. legs tangled, knees bracketed between san’s thighs, his hips squirmed, helpless. the whole world squeezed down to two bodies, sweat slicking their skin, air hot, hard to breathe.
a laugh broke the moment—soft, mean, private. “always fighting, aren’t you?” tongue caught his pulse point, slow drag, and wooyoung’s lungs stopped. his own voice didn’t work, sound caught somewhere raw. he tried to throw a joke, anything, but the words melted. it was humiliating.
san rolled his hips down, slow grind, no friction, just heat, everything between them pressing, pressing, never relief. “look at you,” he said, not really to him, more to the spot where their bodies aligned, low and tense, sweat pooling in the hollow of wooyoung’s throat, and teeth grazed collarbone, a threat that made his skin spark. if he got out of this, he’d kill him for it. or thank him. he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
the bed (or whatever held them up) dipped, lurching under san’s weight. wrists flexed, wooyoung wanted to drag his nails down the other’s arms, and rip him open. no dice. his hands were pinned, all tension feeding back into his chest, pulsing with every breath he couldn’t take deep enough.
san’s breath ghosted over his mouth until wooyoung’s heart started to hammer in his ears, for his lips to part on instinct, ready to say anything, everything, nothing, whatever would break the standoff. then, san bit down on his lower lip, light, barely a graze. no blood, the type of bite that says, “i could.”
heat skittered down his spine, legs twitching. a hand slid down his side, rough palm dragging across ribs, stomach, stopping right at the line of his waistband. his muscles tensed, anticipation crackling, not fear, never fear—need, pure and simple, like breathing.
hips shifted, back arching into the touch without meaning to, every inch alive and pleading for pressure. the hand at his waistband never pressed down, didn’t move further, fingers just splayed there, warm and maddening, heavy enough to leave a print in his nerves but not his skin. a thumb stroked over his hip bone, mindlessly.
his own hands were free now but wouldn’t move, nails digging into his own palm, keeping him grounded, or maybe just keeping him from giving in first. san’s mouth hovered over his cheek, so close he could feel the shape of the smile in the dark, the heat of it ghosting over skin, never quite landing.
the mattress dipped as san shifted his weight again, thighs bracketing his hips, trapping. “why do you always make me work for it?” san’s voice was all quiet muscle, words curling slow and smug.
wooyoung's answer died before it could get out, mouth dry, tongue tangled with want. every nerve screamed for relief, for anything, for a single sign that he was allowed to want this out loud.
his own voice finally broke free, a whisper, frayed but still sharp at the edges: “if you want something, take it.”
san’s laugh was more air than sound, lips tracing the shell of his ear, breath hot enough to burn. “you think i don’t?” and a hand skimmed his ribs, thumb pressing a bruise into his side, the line between pain and relief vanishing.
he arched, chasing that touch, gasping when san’s teeth closed, gentle but intended, at the space where his neck met his shoulder. fingers tightened at his waistband, still not giving in.
wooyoung let a noise slip, half threat, half plea. “don’t tease.”
“not teasing,” san breathed, lips curling into his skin, “just waiting for you to ask.”
the challenge hung between them, thick and sweet, more than either of them would ever name. one of san’s hands moved, up to his chest, palm splayed over his heart, feeling the beat wild and reckless. it made him self-conscious, that someone could feel how much he cared, how much he needed, how little control he had left.
his own hands rose, shaky, catching san’s wrist to just hold him. “fine,” he whispered, “i’m asking.” embarrassment scorched his cheeks, humiliation and pride swirling, but san didn’t gloat, only pressed their foreheads together.
the hand at his waistband finally slid lower, slow as sunrise, still on top of the fabric, enough pressure to make him shake and keep him on edge. teeth grazed his jaw, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling in san’s chest. “good..”
fingers drifted, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin just above his hip, every touch drawn out, savoring, as if they had all the time. the slow, sweet torture of being wanted and known, of being held captive in the space where desire and shame collide. eyes fluttered shut, every muscle tight with anticipation, nerves buzzing, skin hypersensitive.
when he finally let himself move, it wasn’t to chase the hand but to drag san’s mouth down to his, lips crashing together, hot and desperate and imperfect, need overriding coordination. san tasted like want, like sweat and nerves, as every fight they’d ever had and every moment they’d almost broken. wooyoung clung to him, fingers tangling in hair, dragging him closer, needing more, always more.
“greedy,” san muttered, breathless, and wooyoung smirked into the kiss. “you make me that way.”
san’s body pressed down, heavy and certain while grinding a little, hips aligning, friction blooming. not enough, never enough, but more than nothing, more than anything he’d let himself ever have.
sweat pooled at his lower back, sticky, his shirt pushed up by wandering hands. teeth grazed his collarbone, tongue following the sting with a soothing sweep, pulling a gasp out of him—too loud, too sharp, but no one was there to shush him, nobody except san.
“slow down,” came the murmur, voice rough, warm against his ear, words dragging along the edges of reason. “we’ve got time.” the hand at his waist squeezed, thumb brushing over bone, every inch claimed.
wooyoung’s head tipped back, eyes fluttering, mouth open to every sound, every shudder, every soft curse. san’s lips ghosted over his jaw, down his throat, always moving, never settling, he needed to memorize everything by touch. it was a bit embarrassing—how easily he gave in, how badly he wanted to be taken apart and rebuilt by these hands.
“fuck, you’re—” wooyoung bit the word off, caught by the low sound of san’s laugh, breath hot against the hollow of his throat.
“yeah?” san’s voice was a taunt, but gentle, almost loving. “use your words, pretty.”
wooyoung cursed again, softer, twisting his hips up for friction, not above begging if it meant more. hands scrambled at san’s shoulders, nails raking skin, leaving little half-moons behind, wanting them to sting in the morning, wanting proof. wanting, wanting, wanting—never knowing how to stop.
san bit at his ear, softer this time, mumbling, “so loud for me. you don’t even know.” wooyoung’s laugh cracked, edges blurring with need, sound swallowed up by a kiss that shut him up for good.
and then san’s mouth pressed to his temple, softer now, something like pleading caught in his voice, “woo, listen…”
he barely registered it, too busy chasing another kiss, another hit of that friction, but the words kept bleeding through.
“I need you,” san whispered, voice thick, a half-groan in his throat. “need you so, so bad.”
wooyoung whimpered, tried to drag him closer, but every time he reached, san pulled just out of reach, teasing, demanding, desperate.
san bit at his ear, voice breaking now, “please. i need you, wooyoung.”
it wavered, started to splinter at the edges. wooyoung tried to hold on, but the voice got louder, more urgent, gentle and unyielding—“now.. please, my woo…”
a hand cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing soft circles under his eye.
the voice came, impossibly gentle, sliding through the haze: “wooyoung… wake up for me.”
the room was wrong. the air, too cold, his mouth, too dry, the bed, empty. his own voice echoing dumbly into the nothing, “..san?”
his chest still heaved, lungs refusing to calm down, the ache crawling up his spine as if the dream was slow to let go. wooyoung shoved the pillow aside, trying to force air in, still tasting the ghost of a kiss he’d never actually had.
he swore he heard a soft hum outside the door, the muffled edge of a voice so familiar it prickled along the back of his neck. his fingers curled tight in the blanket, straining to listen. nothing. nothing but the buzz of the old fridge, mingi’s heavy breathing from the next room, and the city breathing out a long, tired sigh.
rubbed his eyes, blinked hard, vision blurry. the scent in the room made it worse. of course it’d linger. san’s cologne was always too much, wood and heat and some faintly sweet note that clung to everything, especially the pillowcase wooyoung should have washed weeks ago. idiot, he scolded himself. you’re going feral over laundry now?
it all felt off—skin tingling, nerves raw, mind spinning. the silence in the apartment pressed against his chest, heavy and thin at once. outside, some car alarm chirped, dragging him half back to reality. half, because some part of him kept waiting for a laugh, a click of the tongue, the dry tease he’d always get after a nightmare. nobody here but his own shadow on the wall, cut sharp by the blue spill of dawn through the curtains.
the dumbass thing was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be haunted.
the line between memory and dream blurred, stitched together by longing and the need for something to fill the gap san left behind. had san really been here last night? was he ever? maybe the body memory stuck harder than sense—maybe this was how you lost your grip, one cologne-soaked pillowcase at a time.
he groaned again, punching the mattress for good measure, embarrassment flaring hot as the flush on his cheeks. “seriously. peak dumbass hours. congratulations, jung wooyoung, you’ve gone full ghost-hunter mode. next up: actually talking to your pillow.”
somewhere in the hallway, a door creaked. he stilled, he held his breath, heartbeat in his throat, waiting for a voice, a shadow, something to tell him he hadn’t lost it completely. silence pressed in again, thick as fog.
the urge to check his phone warred with the urge to launch it out the window. in the end, he settled for glaring at the ceiling, telling himself it was the cologne’s fault, not his heart.
when he shuffled into the bathroom, hair wild and pillow-creased, the post-it was waiting, the same shade of yellow as old bruises from practice, stuck right where he left it.
reasons to avoid choi san: three blank lines stared back. every morning, he told himself he’d fill them in, list out something real— never lets me win at mario kart, the time he finished the milk and put the empty carton back. he’d write, then scrawl them out, the corners curling with humidity, each attempt a little messier than the last.
sometimes, when he was annoyed, he’d add a sticky note underneath
“#1: eats all my snacks, never apologizes,”
or
“#2: hogs the blanket, talks in his sleep.”
by noon, they’d be in the trash, crumpled and forgotten, replaced by nothing but the original accusation, stubborn as hell.
nobody else ever saw the edits—certainly not san. the whole ritual belonged to the quiet hours, those stupid, private battles against admitting anything real. whenever san crashed overnight (before the sudden distance, before all this mess), the post-it went ignored. he’d think about writing something, even reach for the pen after san finally rolled out the door, but he never managed it in front of him.
there was something humiliating about wanting someone so bad you had to write yourself reminders to keep them at arm’s length.
so the post-it stayed blank, day after day. a dare, an open wound, a running joke san never caught.
the truth: when san was around, it was impossible to care about yellow sticky notes or lists or anything but the chaos they made together. late-night ramen, playlists looped into eternity, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder, or fighting over blankets and nothing at all—there was no room for pretending to keep distance. half the evidence of wanting was invisible, right out in the open, but neither of them looked close enough to ruin the game.
and when san did see the post-it (he must have, once or twice), it was always empty. he probably thought it was a joke, maybe he didn’t even notice—he never asked.
wooyoung was pretty sure that was for the best.
the blank space felt more honest than any confession he could manage with words.
the reflection in the mirror looked back at him, unimpressed. he spat toothpaste, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to ignore the way his own eyes flickered to the yellow square every time. some mornings he’d reach for it, threaten to tear it down. he never did.
back in his room, he reached for the battered journal shoved under the pillow. pages folded, edges soft from too many rereads, lines starting to blur from being pressed too hard. the list—reasons i let him in anyway—started out as a joke, too. a flex, a way to prove he wasn’t bothered. it grew without his permission. whole lines about san’s laugh, how it crumpled at the edges, the fact that he remembered wooyoung’s coffee order without asking, or always charged his phone for him. awkward stuff.
some days, he added real reasons: “lets me steal his hoodie, pretends to mind,” “always stays up when i can’t sleep, even if he won’t say why,” “puts the heat on in the dorm when my hands are cold.” he filled margins with tiny sketches, the bracelets jangling around san’s wrist.
on nights when the ache got too big, wooyoung would reread the whole list, cringe at how soft he’d gotten, then scribble one more line—just in case.
that was the scariest part.
how he couldn’t stop letting san in, even when he was gone.
✦ ✦ ✦
wooyoung clocked every arrival. doors swung open, trainers shuffled in—mingi laughing with jongho, yeosang arguing with hongjoong about tempo again. each time, his head snapped up, hope flaring for a heartbeat before logic smothered it. the one he waited for was always last.
hongjoong started warmups, barking semi-teasing insults, but wooyoung’s limbs worked on autopilot. someone asked if he was sick. “tired,” he lied, voice too smooth, but the worry in mingi’s glance said he wasn’t fooling anyone.
the air thickened the longer he waited. every missed count, every off-beat, he glanced at the door—dumb, obvious, kinda pitiful. at one point, yeosang caught his gaze, brows twitching up in a look that said, seriously? he looked away, cheeks burning, then spent the next set trying not to look back.
when the handle finally rattled, conversation died out of habit. san stepped in, hair still wet from a quick shower, gym bag slung loose on one shoulder, expression unreadable. then dropped his stuff by the wall, shot wooyoung a look so brief it could’ve been nothing. the static in wooyoung’s bones quieted. he felt like an idiot for that.
warmups restarted. san’s form was sharper than usual, as if he was punishing himself for being late. their bodies fell into old choreography, but wooyoung’s head was still buzzing, mind flipping through everything before.
it got worse in formation. whenever san’s body swept past his, the heat spiked under his skin. contact was minimal, choreo tight—yet each near-miss was its own kind of tension. wooyoung knew he should look away—let his mind settle, find something else to fixate on—but san’s gravity was a losing game. he’d catch the faintest brush of fabric, the ripple of muscle under damp cotton, the pulse in his own wrists thrumming.
they reset, hongjoong clapping twice to drag everyone back to center.
“let’s get the transitions tighter! san, you’re off by half a count.”
san didn’t argue, eyes flicking to wooyoung, then away. there was something simmering under the cool, the kind of focus that burned from the inside. on the next run, he moved closer, simply shifted the spacing, so that wooyoung’s shoulder and his nearly grazed each reset. the others fell into line, but the rhythm changed.
by the third take, it was san who stopped them, hand up, words even but pitched to carry. “we’re not hitting the sync on the mirror set. it’s off.”
yeosang snorted, “since when do you care about mirrors? you hate formation drills.”
san’s jaw worked, slow. “not about the mirror. it’s the flow.” he glanced at wooyoung, too quick for anyone to call it out, not short enough to hide.
“what are you getting at?” hongjoong pressed, already tired.
san rolled his neck, wiped sweat off his brow with the edge of his sleeve, then faced the group. “let’s switch it. partner up. woo and i—mirror section. everyone else stacks behind, staggered, then follow us on the break.”
“we’re making changes now?” yunho asked, partly laughing. “next thing you’ll have us holding hands for the encore.”
“no complaints here. choreography’s getting stale anyway,” said mingi, from the floor.
hongjoong, skeptical, “you serious, san? this is too much for a rehearsal. we’re on a clock.”
san shrugged one shoulder. “it works for the concept.”
wooyoung felt everyone’s eyes skate between the two of them, group tension thick as steam in the old practice room. san was unmoved, calm like a fire waiting to be fed. hongjoong let out a long, annoyed sigh.
“fine. one run. if it’s a mess, we’re going back.”
san’s mouth twitched, a smirk or just relief. he reset the lineup, made a show of squaring his stance opposite wooyoung. their eyes locked in the mirror, close enough for details, sweat beading at each temple.
“on your count,” san said quietly, only for wooyoung.
the music started. they moved—one following, one leading, then the lines blurred and it wasn’t clear who was chasing who. each reach, each spin, hands skimming but not quite catching, mapped out tension you didn’t choreograph, only uncovered. then at the crescendo, their hands finally touched, palm to palm and neither of them broke character—least of all san, whose grip lingered a second too long.
when the track cut out, silence rolled through the room. mingi clapped, laughing, “next you’ll want costumes. matching ones.”
wooyoung, a beat late, dropped san’s hand and rolled his eyes, “shut up, you’d wear a dog collar if yunho asked.”
“okay but you two in sync, it’s almost scary. did you practice this behind our backs?”, seonghwa's voice came.
hongjoong, softer now, almost grudging, “alright. again from the top, but keep it tight.”
the group fell in. wooyoung didn’t trust himself to look at san, but the mirror caught the edge of a smile— satisfied and maybe a little too smug.
as they reset for the next round, wooyoung’s thoughts ran wild. not about the routine, or the group, or even the music, but about the weight of a hand he couldn’t shake, the dare buried in every movement, and the way san’s eyes never wandered when they were this close.
this wasn’t practice anymore. it hadn’t been for a while.
the room blurred at the edges, bodies turning liquid in the mirror—except for one shape. wooyoung. always the anchor, always impossible to ignore.
he could hear the group shuffling in the background—mingi swearing softly about sore thighs, yunho laughing at nothing, and none of it stuck. san’s world had narrowed, collapsed to a radius about as wide as wooyoung’s reach.
practice had never felt this loud inside his own head. every cue was sharper, every mistake more calculated. that wasn’t shameful—he could rationalize anything. he needed to, or the edges of his restraint would curl up and burn. that fake fumble? planned. the brushed hand? memorized, frame by frame, for later. he would study it tonight, lying in the dark, counting heartbeats against the inside of his wrist, wishing it was someone else’s.
someone else’s. no, that was the wrong word. not someone else’s—his, his wooyoung.
nobody understood how sick he was of sharing the air, the jokes, the spotlight, the easy familiarity that made every move group property. he wanted the routines to be private, not staged; wanted to erase the group from the mirror until it was only two bodies left, learning each other by necessity.
san flexed his fingers behind his back, pulse kicking at the memory of how wooyoung’s thumb had grazed bone, not by accident. He had designed that—planned the entire escalation. nobody called him out earlier because nobody saw it. not really. not the way he did, anyway. his mind replayed every sync, every delayed step, like a secret kept in plain sight.
the more he got, the worse it became. having wooyoung close enough to touch and not allowed to cross that last inch? torture.
every flicker of eye contact burned long after the track ended. he wanted more—no, needed. the hunger wasn’t rational, it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t even about the dance anymore.
“reset, san,” hongjoong called, pulling him out of it. he blinked, nodded, let the discipline slide over him like armor. on the outside, he was calm. inside, nothing but riot.
wooyoung’s voice floated from the corner, joking, but all san heard was the subtext—every taunt, every jab, the challenge of being watched. he let the group talk, gave a lazy smirk, and kept his gaze trained on the mirror. all that mattered was the shape moving opposite his, keeping pace, and never letting him go.
he was going to escalate even more, it was inevitable. if choreography was all he had, then he’d make it an obsession. make it so the only way wooyoung could ever get free was to pull away first—and that, san knew, would never happen.
✦ ✦ ✦
night crawled in, and san couldn’t settle after practice. the others scattered—hongjoong off to a meeting, mingi and yunho bickering about ramen, jongho threatening to quit for the fifth time this week.
his bed looked wrong, too neat, so he avoided it. dropped his bag on the floor, laptop already open by the window, half a dozen tabs cluttered with demos, lyric docs, and a cursed scroll of atiny blogs he kept meaning to ignore.
san told himself he was searching for choreography references. that was a lie. he was chasing something sharper and hungrier. anything to kill the static in his chest.
in a moment of weakness, he clicked through to a fanfic tagged “topaz endgame” and “slowburn rivals to lovers,” thumbnail a tacky graphic of hongjoong and wooyoung, faces close, surrounded by neon pink hearts. he’d seen it trending all week—topaz, the ship name the fandom gave them, because hongjoong’s eyes sparkled in every stage shot, and wooyoung grinned like a problem waiting to happen.
he started reading, at first out of morbid curiosity, then deeper, jaw tightening with every paragraph. the writer had them down too well: hongjoong all knowing glances and veiled lines, wooyoung orbiting, always drawn back, banter heavy as a chain.
san couldn’t stand it. not the way they described wooyoung’s laugh—“bright, reckless, only ever real when hongjoong’s the cause”. hongjoong always knew what to say, what to take, how to make the crowd dissolve.
none of it was true. or if it was, san didn’t want to see it.
the screen blurred for a second, a headache pressing at the inside of his skull. he scrolled harder, skin itching with irritation, then hit a line that snapped him straight: hongjoong’s hand in wooyoung’s hair, wooyoung softening and letting himself be seen.
san’s jaw ached. he realized he’d been grinding his teeth.
the real horror wasn’t what they wrote—it was that nobody ever got it right. you could throw a thousand words at a screen, shuffle the names around, claim this one loves that one, but it never added up to the mess that was real. if anyone was going to make wooyoung beg, it’d be him, not some tumblr user with a black-and-white icon and too much time on their hands.
and anyway, nobody on the internet deserved to see wooyoung that vulnerable, except him. it was a point of pride, a sick little secret—his own canon, building itself out of spite.
as if you could package two people and make something precious out of it. if you squinted, maybe you’d see it: both always locked in a rhythm nobody else could touch, hongjoong letting wooyoung tease him in a way he never let anyone else. every interview, there was some fan edit in the comments, some timestamp, a hundred threads of “topaz supremacy” dissecting nothing into lore.
the fic on his screen started off innocent, playful—wooyoung showing up at the studio late, hongjoong waiting, two idiots sharing a midnight snack and talking dreams. it was sweet. it was soft. it made his teeth itch.
he should’ve closed it there, but he kept reading. blame it on masochism, or a sick need to see what people wanted that he could never give.
three more paragraphs and the tension spiked: wooyoung in hongjoong’s lap, laughter melting into something weightier, a thumb pressed under his chin, a line about “being claimed.” san rolled his eyes, a bark of laughter escaping. he didn’t know if he was mocking them or himself.
then the tags shifted. suddenly, wooyoung’s name was threaded through with groans, the author getting bolder, making the kiss slow, sticky, drawn-out. hongjoong’s hand moved lower, then the screen went full fever-dream. someone had annotated: “they’re meant to ruin each other <3.”
his fingers clenched. nobody ruins wooyoung, he thought, not unless he lets them. not unless it’s me.
if he was sane, he’d shut the tab. he wasn’t. every time the fic twisted darker, and someone else got to see wooyoung unguarded, some part of him wanted to punch through the screen.
the comment section was worse:
“sorry woosan fans”
“wooyoung’s always belonged to hongjoong, they just make sense”
“not to be delulu but i’d pay to see this in real life”
he almost snapped his laptop closed, but some sick part of him needed to see how far it would go. he skimmed. the lines got filthier. words he didn’t want to imagine put in wooyoung’s mouth, or worse—someone else’s hands on his hips, lips at his neck, every boundary blurred, a thousand “what ifs” rendered in sticky pink prose.
when it went full god-knows-what-level, bodies tangled and everything breathless, he finally slammed the lid shut. jaw aching, a headache blooming sharp behind his eyes.
some people liked topaz, he guessed, because it was easy. safe. a leader and his favorite, always performing for the crowd, always ready to make it about the group. it was digestible. shippable. people loved a ship that fit in a hashtag, that’s all it took.
but san didn’t want the public. didn’t want easy, or safe, or “meant to ruin each other.”
he wanted the version of wooyoung that nobody else wrote about—the one who texted at 3am, who bit his own tongue when the jokes landed too close to home, who shoved his feet under san’s thigh and pretended it was because the dorm was cold.
all of it felt ugly and unfixable now. he looked at his hands, realized they were shaking.
the world could have topaz. he’d keep what was left.
“fuck off,” he muttered at nobody, voice too low for the walls to bother remembering.
then, because he was himself, he laughed again—unhinged, dark, something wild flickering behind his eyes. opened a blank doc.
typed:
keep it on repeat
let them try to analyze that.
petty, yeah. pathetic, probably. he let the laptop be, still pressed shut, and stalked to the desk. if they’re going to write fanfic, at least let them get the names right. demo files blinked up from his phone, waiting. he dragged open the notes app, thumb shaking, and started hammering out more and more lyrics for his solo, every line heavy with claws, every metaphor a warning, a lock.
if no one could see what this was, maybe he’d force it into existence. maybe he’d write it so loud even wooyoung couldn’t miss the point, even if it killed him.
the words poured out—touch, need, move, ride, stay, overheat, every motif a knife. every new bar was a refusal. topaz? laughable. if anyone thought wooyoung belonged to someone else, they could choke on it.
san pressed his fist to the desk, head down, breathing hard. the lyrics in his phone glowed: “mine, even when you don’t know it. mine, until the lights cut out.” he deleted and rewrote the lines three times, cursing under his breath, trying to make the meaning both hidden and radioactive.
midway through, his brain caught up with itself, and the absurdity of it all hit him sideways—here he was, fighting a battle with imaginary versions of himself and his friends, jealous of words written by strangers who would never get close enough to see the truth.
he started laughing, the sound muffled by his sleeve. deranged, maybe, but the catharsis felt good, sharp as it was.
san would never admit it, but the madness was almost a comfort now…
Notes:
i refuse to call this a “silly fic” even if jongho would. i know this reads unhinged, but i swear there’s a plan. the angst is with full intent, the jokes are a coping mechanism, and wooyoung probably deserves therapy (but don’t we all)
psychological horror at its best
if you made it this far, congratulations, you survived the fever dream !!
Chapter 5: blur this far
Summary:
bratty escalation, hands where they shouldn’t be, and the world’s sleepiest slowburn
Notes:
for legal reasons, this chapter does not exist.
if you recognize yourself, no you don’t.
sleepovers are dangerous, cravings are worse.
this is your last chance to back out.this chapter contains pillow talk and inappropriate cravings, tags are your only warning. this is still a love story. (sort of.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
he was not supposed to be here. that’s the whole bit, isn’t it? stand outside until you believe the lie yourself. ran through the reasons: he had left something in san’s fridge, something with his name scrawled on the lid. there was that t-shirt san lent him, buried somewhere at the back of his closet, definitely not worth the trip but it sounded decent in his head. maybe he could claim he had news, some urgent gossip, or just play it off. every one tasted thin on the tongue. the real reason circled anyway, stubborn, demanding—missed him, stupid, full stop.
knocking used to be a joke, three taps and a code phrase—“open up, it’s the police”—but tonight, the knuckles hit soft, a bare hello. the door opened right away, and san stood in track pants and a shirt.
for a second, neither of them filled the doorway. wooyoung let the cold from the hall wrap around his ankles, fighting off the urge to stammer out a speech about notes or anything that made this less obvious. he shifted his weight, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting everywhere but the face he’d come for.
“i thought you’d be asleep,” he managed, but he was already stepping past san, and let himself in. the hallway behind snapped shut, lock clicking into place.
san blinked, or maybe just adjusted to the new quiet. “wasn’t tired.” he was already moving to the kitchen, back turned, shoulders rolling a little, acting casual. “you want tea?”
wooyoung dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes. “if you’re making it.” a little braver now, wandering into the apartment’s warmth. everything inside looked scrubbed, the kind of neat that only happens when someone’s had too much time alone. even the stack of mugs by the sink had been lined up with more care than necessary. he wondered if san had started cleaning up because there was nothing else to do with his hands, or if the quiet was only the new normal.
the kettle clattered against the burner, louder than needed. “it’s not the good tea,” san warned, voice even, but the sound carried a little further than usual, filling the space. he didn’t meet wooyoung’s eyes, busying himself with the tiny rituals—opening the cupboard, shaking out a teabag, setting two mugs side by side.
wooyoung hovered near the kitchen door, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie, pulse settling into a strange rhythm. “i’m not picky,” he said softly. “long as you don’t poison me.”
then eyes traced the seams where ceiling met wall. “you ever notice how it sounds different in here at night?” he said suddenly, voice bouncing off the cabinets. “your voice actually echoes. echo off these walls and all that.”
san just shook his head, filling both mugs. “could be your guilt finally catching up.”
he watched the water swirl, steam curling upward, “sorry for showing up,” wooyoung said.
“you never have to be sorry,” san answered, already sliding one mug toward him, not letting it hang. the sweetness in the gesture hovered somewhere between welcome and warning—nobody else made room for him like this, not even in his own space.
he took the mug, let the heat sink in, watched san pour the rest for himself, sleeve hiked up enough to show the bruise he’d caught at practice, faint yellow beneath the skin, almost faded. he wanted to ask if it still hurt, but the question got swallowed up in the next heartbeat.
they drifted into the living room to the low table and wooyoung set his mug down, sat cross-legged on the couch, elbows on his knees, blinking at the shadows on the wall. san dropped onto the far side of the couch, leaving a safe strip of upholstery between them. he reached for the throw blanket, flipping it over the back of the couch in a lazy arc, then drummed his fingers along the armrest, looking everywhere except at wooyoung.
“did you eat?” san asked, too quickly, the kind of fussing that only made sense when you missed someone enough to worry about their stomach.
“stole seonghwa’s last snack cake,” he replied, lips twitching. “don’t tell him.”
“he’ll survive.” san glanced over, eyes softer than the line of his jaw. “you could crash here—” paused, a little stutter, “—if you’re too tired to head back.”
wooyoung dragged the blanket closer, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “yeah, nobody needs to know if i crash here. i’ll be gone before anyone wakes up.”
san rolled his eyes, “right. invisible as always.”
wooyoung let his shoulder tip against the couch, half-turned toward him, letting the suggestion settle. “you want me to?”
san’s fingers stilled on the blanket, eyes fixed on a spot near his own knee. “only if you want,” and he nudged the blanket closer, a silent offer.
wooyoung watched his hand, the careful way san avoided eye contact, as if there was something dangerous on his face. he picked at the seam of the cushion, thumb worrying a thread until it curled.
he tried for light but his voice stuck in the back of his throat, “you used to come over all the time,” a small laugh, soft and hopeful. “now i’ve got to show up here just to get you to look at me.”
san exhaled, slow, “i got busy.” the words felt practiced. “needed to finish the project. the longer it sat, the worse it sounded in my head. couldn’t get the verses to land. you know how it gets.”
wooyoung huffed, pulling the blanket into his lap, folding it once, then again, letting the edge run through his fingers. “that’s a new one.. usually you show up and steal my food, say it helps you think.”
san, still not quite facing him. “guess i was annoying you.”
wooyoung made a face, lips twisting. “if that annoyed me, i would’ve locked the door ages ago. besides, mingi’s the one who raids my ramen stash. you’re subtle—always leave a wrapper, like it’s a calling card.”
the corner of san’s mouth twitched, but he pressed it down, then leaned back, shoulder hitting the couch, “felt like i was showing up too much, maybe. sometimes i don’t know how to stop. figured if i finished the song, i’d be less—” he faltered, scratching at his jaw, “—restless, or whatever.”
wooyoung rolled his eyes, kicking at the low table with his socked foot. “restless is your natural state, you sit still for five seconds and start rearranging furniture in your head.” he looked over, searching san’s profile, letting the question hang. “so what, you hide here and hope i forget?”
san glanced at him, expression unreadable. “didn’t want you to think i was, clingy?” the word landed like an apology. “I don’t know, i thought you needed space.”
wooyoung’s jaw worked, unsatisfied, then sat forward, elbows digging into his knees. “if i wanted space, i’d have told you. or moved to the moon.” he let that hang, then added, “i keep waiting for you to walk in, the room goes quiet without you, it’s weird.”
san blinked, letting the words settle. he turned, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, honest for once. “i missed it too, you know. all of it.” he watched wooyoung’s face, searching for a reason to pull back, but finding none.
“okay, don’t get sappy on me. makes it hard to roast you.”
a little smile forming. “not stopping you.”
“good,” wooyoung replied, pulling the blanket higher. “because i’ve been saving material. mingi says your demo sounds like you’re possessed.”
san let out a weary sigh, flopping back in defeat. “he listened through the wall, didn’t he.”
“you’re not subtle,” wooyoung shot back, “but i like it.” he let the silence hang, eyes flicking toward san’s phone left face-down between them.
“so, this new song,” he started, “did you write it about anyone?”
san started fussing with the string on his sweatpants, making a show of tying and untying it. “nah. it’s just a track. nothing special.”
he squinted, nose wrinkling, not buying it. “come on. you never waste three weeks on ‘just a track.’ you name every demo after weird stuff, who is it?”
san shrugged, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, then let them flop back down. “it’s really not—i mean, there’s nobody. i just wanted to get the sound right.”
wooyoung eyed him, lips pressing together. “so you’re telling me i’ve got nothing to clown you for? not even one tragic muse? boring, san. you’re getting soft.”
san tipped his head back, hiding the beginnings of a grin. “there’s… no. not anyone you know.”
wooyoung clicked his tongue, “not anyone i know, huh? that’s original. what’s next, you gonna say it’s about the weather?”
“sure,” san fired back, quick now, “wrote it for this rainy season. thunder and heartbreak, you know the drill.”
wooyoung kicked san’s ankle, lips twitching. “yeah, heartbreak. because you’re a real expert on that lately, aren’t you?”
san flicked his eyes up, but didn’t rise to it. “guess i’ll have to check the forecast. see how bad it gets.”
“you don’t even check your texts,” wooyoung shot back, folding his arms and slouching harder into the couch. “don’t pretend you’re tracking weather.”
“that’s what you’re for,” san deadpanned. “you’d call me if the building was flooding. or on fire.”
wooyoung rolled his eyes, refusing to let him off easy. “pretty sure you’d sleep through it.”
San’s hands found the hem of the blanket again, twisting it once, letting it go. “maybe i just trust you to be loud enough.”
wooyoung raised a brow, a grin threatening, too reckless to stop. “yeah? well, i’m not your emotional umbrella, if that’s what you’re after. go write a song about someone who answers your calls.”
“that’s rough,” san said, almost smiling, but there was a flicker behind his eyes. “who would i write it for, then?”
wooyoung shrugged, tossing his head back against the couch cushion, voice teasing to the point of trouble. “should’ve picked someone less stubborn. that way your lyrics wouldn’t sound so guilty.”
san snorted, muffling it behind his hand. “wasn’t planning on a confession, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“nice,” wooyoung fired back, grinning wide now, “because if you ever wrote a song about me, it’d have to go platinum or i’d never let you live it down.”
san didn’t argue, only let the pause sit between them, both of them pretending not to notice how close their knees had drifted by now.
wooyoung nudged his foot again, softer this time, just because he could. “seriously. don’t write a song about me. i wouldn’t survive the comments section.”
“yea, wouldn’t want that. your ego’s bad enough.”
wooyoung grinned, “my ego’s bulletproof. you’d need three comebacks and a studio ban to dent it.”
he slid his foot up san’s shin, testing boundaries he had no business testing, sock catching on the seam of san’s sweatpants, drawing a slow line from ankle to knee. “anyway, you don’t have the guts.”
san went still, eyes snapping down to the contact, then flicking up to wooyoung’s face, measuring. “woo—”
“what?” wooyoung shot back, all bravado and no brakes now, voice tipping into a dare. “nervous?”
san shifted, knee pulling back a few inches, but didn’t break the contact. “don’t be an idiot.”
“since when do you call me out for that?” wooyoung pressed, still nudging, blanket bunched up between them now
san caught his foot this time, hand warm and unyielding around his ankle, not rough but definite. “since you decided to act out on my couch.”
wooyoung raised both brows, refusing to look away. “acting out? you think this is bad?”
“i think you should chill,” san said, quieter, thumb pressing once against the bone of wooyoung’s ankle before he let go. his ears were pink, mouth set, but he held the stare for a heartbeat longer than usual.
wooyoung didn’t back down. “maybe i don’t want to.”
san exhaled, shaky, hands retreating, anything but wooyoung. “can’t stop you from being stupid, just don’t blame me when you regret it.”
wooyoung hummed, low and lazy, foot settling against san’s leg anyway, refusing to retreat. “no regrets,” he promised, voice light but eyes saying everything else.
then let his head tip back against the couch, stretching his arms overhead, all drama and feigned boredom now. “fine. i’m a model guest now, see? super well-behaved.”
he shot san an angelic look, but it was ruined by the smirk curling up as soon as san turned away. two seconds of peace—san reaching for his mug, taking a slow sip, probably thinking he’d won—and then wooyoung struck, fast as ever: grabbed a throw pillow, wound up, and thumped it squarely at san’s ribs.
the noise echoed, and wooyoung immediately followed up with another, grinning wide. “bet you regret inviting me now.”
san didn’t flinch, just caught the pillow mid-air on the second swing, one eyebrow climbing in challenge. “oh, we’re doing this?” he sounded tired, but he was already squaring up, both hands on the pillow, tugging back hard enough to almost yank wooyoung sideways.
wooyoung fought for it, bracing a heel against the coffee table, arms locked. “thought you could use a little cardio. old man’s losing his edge.”
san let out a sharp laugh, sudden and honest, then twisted the pillow right out of his grip, and dropped it behind his own back, out of play. “keep talking, see where it gets you.”
“right here, obviously.” wooyoung lunged for another pillow, this time aiming lower, catching san behind the knee.
san hooked a foot behind wooyoung’s ankle, sending him sliding halfway down the couch. “you’re not even trying.”
“maybe i want you to win,” wooyoung grinned, breathless now, “build your confidence.”
“doesn’t count if you make it easy,” san muttered and caught wooyoung by the arm and tried to pin him, failing because wooyoung squirmed out, tangled in the blanket laughing.
“i’ll make it hard, then,” wooyoung shot back, triumphant as he wrenched the other pillow free and tossed it out of reach, hands now empty but victorious.
san gave up, flopping back, chest heaving. “if i wanted a fight, i’d have called jongho.”
wooyoung wriggled himself upright, hair all over the place, blanket askew. “you’re just scared to lose.”
san’s eyes squinted up at him, fond in a way he’d never admit. “no, i’m saving my energy for when you actually say something worth fighting over.”
wooyoung settled, breath slowing, legs still draped over san’s, zero intention of giving him any space back. “don’t wait too long. might catch you off guard.”
“hasn’t happened yet,” san fired back, but his hand didn’t move away, resting easy on wooyoung’s knee as he’d forgotten it was there.
for a long minute, the only sound was their breathing, the radiator, the city humming outside. wooyoung let himself feel it—the mess, their closeness, the fact that neither of them was looking for an exit. he tipped his head back, voice airy, careless: “next time you wish me to behave, you better come up with some better rules.”
san scoffed, “not possible. you break every one anyway.”
“just keeping you on your toes,” he replied, all teeth.
san let him have the moment, just for the quiet. then, out of nowhere, he clapped once, loud enough to make wooyoung jump. “get up. before you pass out right there and drool on the cushions.”
wooyoung blinked, feigning offense. “rude. i was literally considering nap time.”
san didn’t dignify it with a reply—already up, tugging at wooyoung’s ankle until he slid off the couch, a lazy tangle of limbs and fake complaints.
“bedroom, now. movie before sleep, you get one pick. don’t waste it on whatever horror series you were interested in last month,” san said, leading the way down the short hall, not checking if wooyoung was following.
the other stumbled after, rubbing his knee where san’s grip had been too rough on purpose.
san flopped onto the bed, grabbing the remote and patting the space next to him. “one minute. or i pick a nature doc and narrate it in my sleep voice.”
wooyoung sprawled on the bed and thumbed through the list, scrolling far too slow on purpose, half-watching san’s reflection in the laptop screen instead of the titles. “what’s the sleepiest thing you own? i’m doing everyone a favor.”
san didn’t bother to hide his impatience. “pick whatever. if you stall, i’m switching.”
wooyoung was still scrolling at a snail’s pace, just to watch san’s jaw tense and relax. “you act like it matters, you’re gonna fall asleep in ten.”
one hand flopped over san’s face, but he was still peeking through his fingers. “five, if you pick anything with subtitles.”
“maybe i’m trying to learn,” wooyoung said, then landed on a movie he liked, pretending to consider it, letting his finger hover.
san reached over, made a lazy grab for the laptop, but wooyoung twisted out of reach, laughing under his breath. “patience is a virtue, oppa.”
san froze.
a beat, the most ridiculous silence, then he burst out laughing, for real, all surprise and disbelief, flinging one arm over his eyes.
“what the hell did you just call me?” it came out choked, but the smile wrecked his whole voice.
wooyoung reached past him to drop it onto the nightstand. “you heard me,” he said, settling back into the covers.
“that’s a hate crime,” san wheezed, pillow falling to the floor. “oppa. you lost your mind.”
wooyoung shrugged, shameless. “thought you’d like it. you’re the one who gets weird when people use hyung, anyway.”
“different vibe,” san muttered, eyes squinting at him, “don’t do that again.”
“maybe i will. you look cute when you panic.”
“give me the laptop.”
“say please, oppa,” wooyoung sing-songed, the words sweet and deadly.
san lunged, but the blanket tangled his knees and he went nowhere, just ended up nose to nose with wooyoung, both of them laughing now, way too loud for the hour.
wooyoung held his ground, eyes shining, breathless. “seriously, try it.”
san huffed, leaning in until their foreheads bumped, voice low and flat. “don’t push it.”
neither of them moved away. the game had ended but no one wanted to call it. wooyoung lay there, daring san to try something else, and san—still catching his breath—just watched him, hand fisted in the blanket, letting the chaos die down, refusing to blink first.
wooyoung finally spoke, voice quieter now, something real edging in at the end of the joke. “all that muscle and you still fold when i mess with you.”
san raised an eyebrow, mouth curling, refusing to look rattled. “i don’t fold, i conserve energy.”
wooyoung rolled onto his back to stretch, foot jabbing san’s thigh for punctuation. “big ‘pacifist’ energy.”
san pinched his knee. “i’ll show you pacifist.”
wooyoung yelped, half squirming, blanket tangling at his waist. “that’s abuse. you can’t silence me.”
“bet,” san shot back, flat and unbothered, but his hand was already drifting dangerously close to ticklish territory.
wooyoung bared his teeth in a grin, hips twisted so he could kick san again. “can’t take a joke? sad, really.”
san just squeezed his knee a little harder, “you’re getting brave.”
wooyoung wriggled, refusing to look even a little bit sorry, cheeks pink from laughing. “someone has to keep you honest.”
san’s eyes went down, still close enough to share breath, the blanket a tangle at their waists, hand steady on wooyoung’s leg. “and you picked yourself for the job?”
“nobody else volunteers,” wooyoung said, less mocking.
san let his hand fall away, but his gaze lingered, mouth going soft around the edges. “shut up,” he said, low and tired, but there was nothing real behind it.
wooyoung’s answer was automatic, bold: “make me.”
san’s mouth twitched, “brat.”
wooyoung rolled the word in his mouth, never dropping his gaze. “oppa.”
san doesn’t rise to it, not at first. the word hovers, stupid and sharp, way too loud for the hour. the blanket’s a mess. san’s hand slides free and he swings his leg over, crowding closer, knee pressed to wooyoung’s hip.
“i should kick you out for that.”
wooyoung huffs, not moving an inch. “yeah? then do it.”
san leans over, lets his hair fall into his eyes, eyes bright and unblinking. “careful,” he says, softer than before. “you keep running your mouth, i’ll actually win.”
wooyoung’s face splits in a lazy grin, too pleased with himself to bother moving. “you always say that, but you never follow through.”
san tilts his head, pretending to weigh his options, but his hand doesn’t leave the mess of covers, fingers close enough to wooyoung’s hip that it almost counts as a threat.
wooyoung breathes out, lets it fill the small space between them. “what, losing your edge?” he says, but the words come quieter, checking to see if san will blink.
san’s answer was a shrug, “or maybe i’m just waiting you out.”
the tension fizzled, and wooyoung’s eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. he flicked san in the ribs, testing for weakness.
san jerked sideways, his hand darting to catch wooyoung’s wrist, but he missed on purpose, letting wooyoung get away with it for a second. “you’re asking for it,” san warned, voice dry, but his grin betrayed him.
wooyoung pressed his luck and poked again, quick, fingers darting over san’s side—right where he knew it would sting. “can’t catch me.”
“watch me,” san fired back, rolling into him, the blanket twisting, both of them scrabbling for leverage that never arrived. wooyoung shoved a knee into the mattress, but san was quicker, flipping them so the world tilted and the pillow slipped to the floor with a thud. wooyoung laughed, sharp and reckless, breath coming short from the effort, neither willing to surrender first.
they tangled, arms and legs a blur, all elbows and knees, the blanket bunching between them. somewhere in the mess, san managed to trap wooyoung’s wrist, pinning it above his head for half a heartbeat.
“who’s folding now?” san taunted, breath brushing wooyoung’s ear.
wooyoung huffed, twisted, nearly headbutted san in the chin, but couldn’t stop laughing. “this is why nobody lets you pick the movie.”
“your taste is worse than your wrestling,” san shot back, but he was out of steam, his grip slipping as exhaustion finally caught up.
wooyoung wriggled free and collapsed half across san’s chest, breath hitching from laughter. “you’re a terrible pillow.”
san didn’t answer, but his hand found wooyoung’s waist, fingers splayed and loose. he let his head drop back onto the mattress, not caring that wooyoung’s knee was digging into his thigh, weight warming through the covers.
they breathed together, the room slowing to a hush. san let his thumb trace a lazy line at wooyoung’s hip, not thinking too hard about why he didn’t want to let go.
the brat, still smiling, shifted just enough to nestle in closer, cheek pressed against san’s shoulder, eyes falling shut. “you ever wish we had a bigger bed?”
san’s mouth twitched, eyes not opening. “wouldn’t make you smaller.”
wooyoung’s hand fumbled at his side, fingers catching the hem of san’s shirt. “or you quieter.”
san hummed, low, letting the silence fill in the cracks.
wooyoung, barely awake: “can hear your heart. it’s annoying.”
“don’t listen, then.”
“not my fault you’re loud.”
“can’t feel my arm, san.”
“cut it off.”
“that’s your solution for everything.”
wooyoung shifted, burrowing deeper, pressing all his weight down like dead ballast. “can i have your kidneys if you go first?”
san sighed, long-suffering. “only the left one, the right’s cursed.”
“knew it…” wooyoung’s voice faded, the words tumbling out anyway. “do you think if we both died right now, hwa would keep our bones for the aesthetic?”
san finally cracked an eye, staring at the ceiling as if it might beam him out of the conversation. “you’re actually sick. go to bed.”
wooyoung made a whiny, high-pitched noise, socked toes hooking under san’s shin. “nah. promise you’ll haunt me?”
san rolled, smushing wooyoung’s face into his chest with one rough arm, pinning him. “i’ll haunt you forever if you don’t shut up.”
wooyoung, muffled and unrepentant: “that’s all i ever wanted, oppa…”
san groaned, but didn’t let go, voice rumbling against wooyoung’s hair. “brat. you know there’s a limit, right?”
voice sticky with sleep and nonsense. “yea, you’d probably hate me if i did this every night,” wooyoung mumbled.
san considered acting to be asleep, but didn’t. “you do this every night,” he said, thumb idling at the seam of wooyoung’s shirt. “i’m still alive.”
wooyoung huffed a tired laugh, “guess you’re stronger than you look.”
“guess so.”
wooyoung pressed in, heavier, as if trying to flatten himself right through san’s ribs, no apology anywhere in his bones. “you say that to all the guys you let drool on your t-shirt.”
san’s hand slipped higher, finding a spot between wooyoung’s shoulder blades, palm broad. “wouldn’t know. you never let anyone else get this close.”
wooyoung made a little sound—maybe a complaint, maybe a win. his breath tickled san’s neck, lazy and uneven.
san closed his eyes, let his thumb move in slow, circling lines. “just sleep, woo.”
“i’m trying,” wooyoung muttered.
san let the silence pool, then said, voice low: “try counting backwards or think of something boring. like… mingi explaining microphone specs.”
wooyoung snorted, “that would give me nightmares.”
san huffed, turned his head to murmur right into the tangle of wooyoung’s hair. “you want a bedtime story?”
wooyoung’s answer was a groan, all drama, “if you say once upon a time, i’m leaving.”
san’s mouth curved, thumb drifting slow at wooyoung’s side. “no fairytales. i’ll make it real.” he let the words settle, voice dropping to that steady, almost hypnotic rhythm reserved for midnight confessions.
“there’s this… thing.” he began, finger tracing idle spirals at wooyoung’s hip. “lives in my apartment. used to be human, probably. now it’s a gremlin that sneaks in after midnight, blames the ghosts when my snacks go missing and turns the lights on just to forget to turn them off.”
wooyoung made a sound, almost offended, but it faded into a yawn before he could get a real protest out.
san pressed on, voice dry. “sometimes it stares at me from the hallway like it’s deciding whether to bite me or make food. sometimes it does both, its eyes glow in the dark. i keep expecting it to crawl across the ceiling and start reciting conspiracy theories about tap water.”
wooyoung’s laugh got lost somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “you’re actually insane.”
“no, listen,” san insisted gently, “the creature thinks it’s subtle. thinks i don’t notice it that my charger cable’s always missing, or how my favorite mug migrates from shelf to sink like it’s got legs.”
he paused, thumb slowing. “sometimes… it gets real quiet. sits on my couch, not moving, just… looking at me. like it’s waiting for me to say something that’ll let it stay.”
wooyoung’s fingers curled in san’s shirt. “sounds like a dumb creature. you should’ve exorcised it.”
“tried salt. didn’t work. tried holy water—ran up my water bill, nothing else. tried locking the door, but it turns out the thing’s got a key. or claws. or mind control, not sure.”
wooyoung, sleepy and smug: “guess you’re just weak. let yourself get possessed.”
san grinned in the dark, letting the last words come out quieter, almost true. “probably.. or i just got used to it. can’t sleep if i don’t hear it breathing. keep thinking if it left, i’d wake up and the walls would be too quiet, the lights too off..”
a beat, san’s finger brushed the inside of wooyoung’s wrist, casual but careful. “that’s the horror part, isn’t it? living with something that wrecks your routine, trashes your kitchen, never apologizes. and one night you realize you don’t want it gone at all. that’s the real scary story.”
wooyoung let out a soft, evil giggle, brain already sliding sideways into sleep. “damn, sounds like you’re obsessed.”
san snorted, voice soft and mean. “who’s telling the story, creature?”
“whatever, victim.”
he squirmed under san’s arm, never one to back down from a dare, even half-asleep. “can’t believe you called me a creature.. you’re projecting.”
san didn’t answer right away, thumb still idling slow over wooyoung’s skin. the air felt thick again, all their earlier chaos distilled into a hush that belonged to neither of them. “projection’s healthy,” he deadpanned. “you should try it.”
wooyoung’s lashes fluttered, mouth curving up at the edge, but his voice came out slow, words catching on sleep. “i already do, that’s why you’re so annoying. i keep seeing my bad habits on your face.”
san’s own voice drifted lower, words so quiet they might’ve been thoughts. “oh? tell me which ones.”
wooyoung hummed, soft and smug, letting his finger draw lazy shapes over the fabric bunched at san’s side. “that thing you do when you want attention but act like it’s my fault for looking at you. or how you say you hate sharing a bed, but the second i try to leave, you act wounded and steal my pillow.”
he shifted, fingers tightening in san’s shirt, voice a little more awake. “you behave like you’re any better. it’s like arguing with a mirror, except the mirror never admits he’s wrong, keeps making faces back at me.”
san’s smile was only a ghost in the dark. “pot. meet kettle.”
wooyoung didn’t slow down. “you’re the one breathing all heavy and dramatic,” wooyoung murmured, but his own chest hitched, traitor to the bit. “and you always pretend you’re asleep first so i have to be the one to move, but your foot’s always hooked around my ankle like a seatbelt—”
san’s hand slid up, palm pressing firm and sudden over wooyoung’s mouth, not rough, just done. “enough,” he muttered, thumb gentle at his cheek. “you’re exhausting.”
wooyoung squirmed, eyes shining, but didn’t pull away. when san let go, he bit his wrist, a flash of teeth and warmth, grinning all the way. “see? that’s another one.. you wait till i’m almost asleep for you to act tough.”
san let his thumb linger, tracing the line of wooyoung’s jaw before moving back to the dip of his waist. “your fault for crowding my bed when you get bored.”
he yawned, foot nudging san’s ankle under the covers. “nobody else lets me. you’re easy.”
“you’re impossible,” san muttered, half meaning it.
wooyoung burrowed in, mouth at san’s shoulder, the rest of him already going slack. “you love it.”
“delusional.”
“self-inflicted,” wooyoung slurred, the word mangled by sleep, too tired to make it stick. “blame yourself.”
san closed his eyes, head tipping back, fingers anchored at wooyoung’s hip. “i do,” he said.
wooyoung’s grip loosened at san’s shirt but never fully released, knuckles resting over san’s ribs like a final act of defiance and the room caved in around them. the street outside was a memory now, neon leaking through the blinds in broken stripes, city hum blunted by glass and the heaviness of rain.
the idea of moving—even an inch—felt impossible. wooyoung shifted in his sleep, knee bumping san’s thigh, foot hooked just above his ankle. it would have been easy to pull away, to reclaim some scrap of space for himself, but san didn’t bother. his hand slid lower instead, palm splayed across the dip of wooyoung’s back, the fabric of his shirt caught between his fingers. he told himself it was about comfort—easier to fall asleep if he could track every twitch and breath, if he knew wooyoung wouldn’t disappear the second he drifted off.
there was always a risk to sleeping this close too easy to start counting things that shouldn’t matter. the way his lips parted on the exhale and the faint pulse flickering at his throat, san let himself trace the shapes in the half-light, giving his brain a task besides spiraling.
wooyoung made a sleepy sound then burrowed in deeper, face pressed to the crook of san’s neck, and the other tried to move, careful, reaching over to adjust a pillow. he worked it under the boy’s head with clumsy fingers, a gentleness he’d never own up to in daylight.
for a minute, san let himself look—really look. the shape of wooyoung’s nose in profile, the small scar at the corner of his eyebrow, the way his eyelashes tangled at the corners. his lips were parted, damp from sleep, so close that san could count the breaths slipping out, slow and open.
possessive, he thought. that’s what this was. wanting more space, more time, more contact, wanting to keep this idiot right here where nothing could get to him. it would be so easy to reach up, brush the hair out of his eyes, trace the line of his cheekbone, gather all that softness into his palm and claim it for himself.
but san lay there too long, pinned under the weight of his own thoughts—and wooyoung’s arm, still fisted in his shirt. every small movement made it worse. the heat at his waist, the steady tide of breath at his neck, the ghost of wooyoung’s lips a few centimeters from his collar. it was either get up and run or melt into the mattress and pray for amnesia.
san felt the heat creep up the back of his neck and how his breath snagged, sharp and embarrassing, as he realized what staring at wooyoung’s mouth was doing to him. no good could come of this, not when every thought in his head had started to feel reckless and hungry.
before he could betray himself any further, san turned—slow, desperate for relief—rolling onto his other side, his back now to wooyoung, eyes locked on the dark curve of the wall instead of all that softness and pulled the blanket higher.
now he could breathe. or so he told himself.
the room felt bigger, colder, but at least his face wasn’t six inches from disaster. he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the chill at his back, every muscle tight. the urge under his skin hadn’t faded. if anything, it got worse: now he was hyperaware of everything—his own pulse, the scratch of fabric, and the leftover shape of wooyoung’s thigh pressed to his.
mattress dipped, a rustle, then the unmistakable gravity of trouble. wooyoung made a vague sound, maybe chasing the warmth san left behind. then, without warning, an arm looped around san’s middle, a knee wedged into the back of his thigh. wooyoung spooned up behind him, face pressed into the crook of san’s neck.
san froze. if he was breathing before, he wasn’t now. wooyoung’s hand splayed open over his stomach, finger catching the hem of his shirt, the heat of him soaking straight through to bone. the urge to jump, to run, to flip back over and bury his face in the pillow, was immediate and enormous, almost a joke—how quick the reaction was, how badly he wanted to laugh or cry or just combust on the spot.
wooyoung’s arm tightened, his entire body fitting perfectly into san’s, like he’d done it a hundred times and expected san to tolerate it a hundred more.
he tried to steady himself and focus on anything but the fact that he was very awake now, pressed tight into the warmth, the hard line of wooyoung’s thigh bracketed behind his own.
breath ghosted against the back of his ear, half a sigh, half a mumble. “warm over here,” he slurred, like it was an accusation. the words vibrated all the way down san’s spine.
that was it. his body made the decision for him—painfully, traitorously obvious under the covers, hips pressing forward before he could catch himself. perfect. exactly what he needed: stuck in his own bed, half-hard, with wooyoung’s entire sleep-dazed body draped over him and no hope of pretending it was the blanket’s fault.
the most humiliating part? wooyoung’s leg hooking over san’s calf, securing him in place like some sort of sleep-deprived octopus. san’s breath shuddered out, chest tight with the effort of not making a sound.
he squeezed his eyes shut, praying to whatever god handled cosmic embarrassment that wooyoung would stay asleep and not start narrating things. of course, the universe had other plans.
wooyoung shifted again, nuzzling the back of san’s neck, nose cold against skin, another sleepy mumble dissolving into the dark. “quit squirming… you’re comfy.”
san gritted his teeth, every nerve lit up and nothing to do with it. “wooyoung, please sleep,” he muttered, voice pitched low and rough, hoping it would come off bored instead of desperate.
wooyoung only made a pleased, greedy sound—so smug it was almost criminal—and pressed even closer, as if to prove he could. his fingers crept lower, right at the edge of dangerous, but not crossing any lines.
san did not move. he could not move. it was like being hunted by a very affectionate ghost who somehow had worse boundaries than a cat.
somewhere in the silence, wooyoung’s breathing slowed, everything about him heavy and warm and horribly innocent.
san glared at the wall, a thousand thoughts burning under his skin, every one of them more incriminating than the last. his body would not listen. his heart had lost its mind. all he could do was lie there, held hostage by the world’s sleepiest spoon, hoping he survived the night without giving himself away.
if the universe had any mercy, he’d wake up first, untangle himself, and pretend this never happened.
of course, that wasn’t likely, not with wooyoung’s hand fisted in his shirt and his thigh pinning san’s leg like a threat.
the blanket moved again—wooyoung, never satisfied, pressed in even closer, one leg sliding between san’s. his hand dipped lower, thumb dragging a lazy, absentminded line across san’s stomach. it might’ve been affectionate, if it wasn’t so criminally distracting. still, san refused to flinch. he swallowed the urge to twist away, to grab that wandering hand and pin it, to show wooyoung he wasn’t as harmless as he played. he breathed through his teeth, “last warning, jung.”
wooyoung let out a broken, giggly sigh—so fake it hurt—then, without ceremony, bit san’s shoulder. not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make san jerk, every nerve lit up. “stop moving,” wooyoung mumbled dreamy.
san stifled a groan, trying for calm. “if you break my ribs…”
wooyoung, half-gone, giggled right into the back of san’s neck, “your ribs are fine. stop being dramatic, you sleep as a corpse.”
“you sleep like a rotisserie chicken,” san grumbled, trying and failing to move wooyoung’s thigh with an elbow. it did nothing, wooyoung’s grip only tightened.
a sleepy snort. “you’re warm. don’t whine. you always whine at night.”
“says the guy who bit me for moving an inch.”
wooyoung’s voice dropped, dopey and mean, “shouldn’t squirm if you can’t handle consequences, you always lose at bedtime.”
san swallowed, not trusting himself to answer. every line from wooyoung hit harder than it should, the bratty pressure at his back, the warm palm still splayed over his stomach like ownership. his whole body burned with it—want and humiliation, the ache low and impossible to hide.
he tried to shift, subtle and slow, but wooyoung just hummed, fingers curling tighter in san’s shirt, thumb drifting even lower, skimming the line of his waistband, dangerous and lazy. “don’t squirm. makes it worse.”
san bit the inside of his cheek, and forced himself still, praying wooyoung would pass out for real—let him breathe, let him hide the mess this was making of him.
but wooyoung didn’t let go, in the heavy dark, san could feel his own pulse everywhere—between his legs, under his skin, in the sharp edge of his breath. every part of him was begging for relief, but every part of him knew he was being watched, even if wooyoung’s eyes were closed.
he waited, hoping. the minutes dragged. outside, a car horn blared, then faded. the room was all heat, hands, and the sick electric feeling of being wanted and trapped at the same time.
then wooyoung’s hand slipped, fingers fanning wide, then squeezing—like testing if he could get away with it. san’s hips jerked forward, a stifled gasp stuck in his throat.
wooyoung’s breath hitched, mouth too close to san’s ear.
then, so quiet it could’ve been a dream, wooyoung dragged his nails in a slow, deliberate arc across san’s stomach—right at the hem of his shirt, just above the waistband.
for a heartbeat, san stopped breathing.
he thought he heard his own name, whispered in a hush so low it could’ve been the wind—san…—but by the time he tried to process it, wooyoung was already going motionless, no proof he’d ever meant anything at all.
wooyoung made a soft, smug sound, not quite awake, not quite asleep.
and san snapped—couldn’t take it. with one hand, he slipped under the blanket, palm pressed hard over his own bulge, needy for relief. he barely moved, just held himself, heartbeat sick and heavy, face burning, every muscle locked tight so he wouldn’t grind back into wooyoung’s hold. he stared at the dark, wrecked, biting down on every sound.
next thing, his heel caught the edge of the blanket, yanking it halfway off them both.
cold air slapped his skin. panic shot up his spine. the mattress creaked—a betrayal loud as thunder in the dark.
he went dead still, heart hammering so hard it hurt, if wooyoung would stir, would open his eyes, would know.
no way. no way. if wooyoung woke up now—
he pictured it: those bleary eyes, confused, then sharp, so sharp, a smirk crawling over his mouth.
caught with your hand down your pants, sannie?~
he’d play it cool, roll away and never mention it. or maybe he’d laugh—mean, giddy, unforgiving, tell the others, destroy san in the group chat forever.
worst of all… he’d do nothing. stay close, stare too long, ask innocently if san needed “help sleeping.”
panic had san frozen, hand still and breath locked in his chest. three seconds passed, then four, an eternity where shame sat like a hand on the back of his neck.
he didn’t dare move. not even to breathe.
if wooyoung twitched, if he so much as sighed a different way, san knew he’d come apart—caught, ruined, exposed under all this heat and want.
he waited, body prickling, half wanting to be discovered, half terrified.
only when wooyoung just grunted, face pressed deeper into san’s shoulder, his thigh tightening over san’s hip like nothing had happened—only then did san let his lungs open, a shaky breath rattling out, relief hitting so hard it made him lightheaded.
san almost laughed, but it would’ve sounded wild.
his mind kept spinning—what if wooyoung was awake? what if he was pretending, to see how far san would go?
for a second, san wanted to risk it, to move his hand again, to see what would happen if he was caught for real.
he hated himself for that. hated how the risk made it worse, made it better, made him want until wanting was a sickness.
he grabbed blindly for the edge of the blanket, knuckles aching, and dragged it up to cover them both again. the fabric caught at his waist, heavy and cold from the draft, but he clung to it, cocooning himself and wooyoung in the dark—shield or shroud, he couldn’t tell.
invisible as always. if only.
if he really wanted to hide, he would’ve locked the door, never let wooyoung crawl up into his ribs and get this close.
it took ages for his pulse to settle, the sound of it still thrumming at his ears. every time he closed his eyes, the panic replayed in brutal, embarrassing detail—blanket half-off, cold air, the creak of the bed, wooyoung’s grip.
never again, he promised himself, jaw clenched tight.
next time, he’d move first. keep control.
never again..
except he already knew he was lying.
for now, he lay perfectly still, hand fisted in the blanket, body burning, a secret stitched into his bones.
if atiny could see this, they would report them both.
Notes:
if you think nothing happened, you might be the one in denial
and if you felt safe, you weren’t paying attentionthank you for reading and surviving whatever just got unsaid in that room !!
Chapter 6: under this skin, another name
Summary:
color theory for the damned
you can’t blame the devil for showing up when you keep leaving the door open
Notes:
*(Formal prose = mask on. Lowercase was for the messy stuff. Don’t trust the surface; replay is encouraged.)
It will make more sense if you read with one eye open.Hi atiny! At the start, this chapter uses non-linear narration. (just a little)
Meaning, the story doesn’t move in a straight line from past to present. Instead, you’ll jump between moments. If it feels like you’re piecing things together out of order, that’s intentional. I want you to feel as disoriented and haunted as the characters. Pay attention to details, and you’ll start to see how each moment reframes what came before—and after!Also, you’ll notice this chapter switches to capitalization. The formal, “public-facing” prose here is meant to feel like the whole world is watching, even in moments that seem private.
In past chapters, the lowercase, intimate narration let you crawl inside the characters’ heads, all masks off (pun), everything soft and raw. Here, even their isolation is “on camera.”(and yes, lowercase will be back)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before anyone speaks, the world gets the first word.
Headlines roll in quick succession, faster than anyone could read them out loud.
KQ’s Darkest Era Yet? ‘In Your Fantasy’ Album Sparks Debate Over Morality and Desire
Fans Theorize About Masks, Lucifer , and the Fine Line Between Good & Evil in ATEEZ’s Latest Concept
Industry Analysts: “Never Seen a K-pop Group Lean This Hard Into Collapse and Temptation”
“Purple Is the New Red”: Why San’s Solo Stage Stole the Comeback
Tweets, music blogs, industry takes—everyone’s got an opinion. Half of them think it’s just a concept. The rest aren’t so sure.
The world is chattering, dissecting, already outpacing itself. If you look too long at the scrolling text, it starts to feel like a warning or a dare, not a recap. What is everyone so sure they’re watching? The fever breaking, or the moment before it catches for good?
And then the set lights up—chairs in a neat line, moderator smiling like they haven’t already read every theory. Light, soft as velvet, leaks into the next frame.
A door opens somewhere offscreen, polite shoes on gloss. Here comes the line-up: eight bodies, each one more disciplined than the last. They bow at the threshold—eight different ways to apologize for what they might do, or what the world thinks they’ve done. Every inch of them looks calm, respectful, scrubbed up for the occasion. You wouldn’t know most of them were running on three hours of sleep, evidence buried under foundation and caffeine.
The host welcomed them, all handshakes and practiced warmth. “Thank you all for being here. Congratulations on the comeback—what a response! The critics are already calling it your boldest album yet.”
Their captain answered first, steady and warm, “Thank you for having us. We’re really grateful to share this project with everyone.”
Seonghwa nodded, his voice pitched a touch gentler, “We worked hard on every detail, so it meant a lot to see the response.”
Yunho, quick to grin and always easygoing, chimed in, “Honestly, we were surprised how many theories started before the album even dropped! Even just off the teasers, everyone already had a whole storyline figured out.”
“Some of us were more surprised than others,” Mingi added, laughter caught in his throat, “I read the comments at midnight and thought I was hallucinating.”
Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. “I told you not to search your own name.”
Jongho’s voice cut in, calm but firm, “He never listens.”
Someone coughed—maybe San, tucked behind the others, gaze unreadable. Wooyoung managed a perfectly innocent smile, his hands clasped in his lap.
“Do you think fans really catch what you’re hiding, or do they just make up stories?”
“Genuinely, they catch things we missed. I wonder if they’re writing the real version,” Hongjoong responded. “ATINY are better at theories than our staff.”
“At least they never spoil the ending,” Yeosang offered.
Mingi, offhand, “They make better memes than we do.”
The program's anchor smiled wider. “It’s clear you all put a lot of yourselves into this comeback. Let’s talk about that—whose idea was it to make things so dark this time?”
Hongjoong tipped his head, half-embarrassed, “We all had input. It felt honest, maybe too honest…”
Seonghwa agreed, “It’s a side people didn’t always expect from us.” And Mingi shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “We wanted to try something real.”
Jongho added, “Real’s one way to put it. Seonghwa-hyung said the demo sounded possessed.”
Yeosang, fingers drumming lightly on his knee, cut in dry, “If anyone got possessed, it was San. He lived in the studio.”
Hongjoong gave San a sideways look, amused, “He does that. You lock him in there and forget where he is until sunrise.”
San blinked, refusing to play along, but Yunho jumped in, “At least we remembered to feed him this time.”
Wooyoung finally broke, a smirk pulling at his mouth, “Barely, he almost ate my ramen stash. That’s the real horror concept.”
The laughter that followed was quieter, more genuine. The host leaned in again, “With all that chaos, was there ever a moment you thought this comeback was too risky?”
Wooyoung’s smile shifted, something honest beneath. “Risk makes it real. If you’re not a little nervous, what’s the point?”
Seonghwa added, “You have to be willing to embarrass yourself, sometimes the best ideas come from nowhere.”
“How does that honesty make it into the music?”
Yunho said, “You can’t fake what you’re not feeling, the ugly parts are the best bits.”
Mingi nodded, “Exactly. Heaven is in the stare, but you won’t get there.”
The interviewer's eyes sparkled. “Oh, if every comeback needs a risk, whose fantasy are we living in with this one?”
There was a beat as everyone seemed to look at everyone else, grins threatening to break composure.
Yeosang was the first to speak, deadpan but with a glint, “Collective delusion. That’s how we get anything done.”
“Hongjoong’s, on paper. But in practice, whoever gets there first,” Jongho said.
Seonghwa, smiling, “We are all living in different dreams, that’s why it works.”
Wooyoung, under his breath, almost lost in the noise:
“Or maybe we’re all in someone else’s.”
Their moderator, almost conspiratorial, “Do you worry that fans might take it too literally? The devil, the chase?”
Jongho shrugged. “If they do, we’ll blame Yunho.”
Yunho made a show of holding up both hands. “I only wrote one verse. If anything’s too tempting, talk to the production team.”
Seonghwa, ever the mediator, “We all contributed. If there’s a villain, it’s the schedule.”
San, like a joke that isn’t: “Devil’s in the details, right?”
Wooyoung, barely audible over the others:
“Careful, or someone’s gonna start pointing fingers.”
A few voices talking at once, none of them willing to take full credit, all of them a little too proud.
Yeosang leaned forward, thoughtful: “The concept only works if you’re willing to get a little lost. Temptation, fantasy, all of that—it’s about not knowing what happens next.”
“You sing, ‘I’ll set you free from your sanity.’ Is that about losing yourself, or making someone else lose it?” the host asked.
Hongjoong pretended to ponder, “I think that’s up to the listener, the devil always lets you pick your poison.”
San, finally breaking his silence, voice flat. “Some things are clearer if you replay them.”
Seonghwa clucked his tongue, “Replay responsibly.”
Wooyoung added, mock-serious, “We’re not liable for any breakdowns.”
The main mic-holder chuckled, glancing between them. “You’re all too good at avoiding a straight answer. Is there a tempter in the group, or is everyone guilty?”
Jongho stated, “If there’s temptation, blame the guy with purple scented candles in our apartment. San, that’s on you.”
San raised an eyebrow, “If you believe them, you’ve already lost.”
Wooyoung, picking at a thread on his sleeve, mused, “The best concepts make you wonder if you’re in the dream or watching someone else have it. And if we’re talking tempters… Have you seen Yunho’s arms lately?”
“I have no comment except that my fantasy is eight hours of sleep,” Yunho said.
Hongjoong threw up his hands, “He’s immune to temptation. That’s why he’s dangerous.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room, cameras clicking. The staff lead watched, amused and a little overwhelmed by the volley of answers, how they finished each other’s sentences, cut each other off, even as the conversation kept circling back to the same themes.
For a moment, the noise hung in the air—then the host turned, smile going sly, and let the focus settle on the one member who’d said the least.
“San-ssi,” their on-set babysitter began, “your solo’s been called obsessive. Was that intentional?”
The others went quiet, attention folding around him, equal parts support and anticipation.
He shrugged, voice mild. “Isn’t every solo a little obsessive? You have to get lost in it, or it won’t sound right.”
The questioner pressed, “But ‘Creep’ feels different. The purple, the mood—some say it’s a symbol of obsession. Any comment?”
San’s lips twitched, a flash of stage confidence showing through the calm. “I think it suits the song. And.. that color’s always been my favorite.” He ducked his head, hiding a smile.
Hongjoong piped up, mock whispering, “That’s the first time he’s ever admitted to owning all those pastel purple sweatshirts.”
San groaned quietly, “Please don’t start, hyung,” but he was already caught between flustered and smug, the exact line that kept fans guessing. For a second, his gaze flicked up—defiant, soft. “Obsession’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes it means you care enough to make something real.”
The host, sensing the shift, eased back, “So you’re saying there’s a story there, but you’re not giving it away?”
San met the camera, steady now. “Isn’t that the fun of it?”
“You mention ‘girl’ in the lyrics—real, or just for the rhyme?”
San hesitated, “Everyone hears what they want, right? Some things aren’t meant to be easy to name.”
The broadcast anchor glanced at the cue cards, then looked back at San, softer this time. “But really… who is it about?”
“Someone I can’t let go of,” he said quietly, “no matter what.”
Host, joking, but a lyric lands in the silence:
“A devil in disguise? Is it the one you know—or the one you want to meet?”
San’s mouth twitches, almost a smirk. “You’d be surprised who’s really pulling the strings. Guess you’ll have to read between the lines.”
There was a murmur, chairs shifting. The host pressed on, tone lighter, “So is it a love song, then?”
San’s head tipped, one corner of his mouth twitching—caught between a laugh and something sharper. “Not really. More like…” He glanced at the others, searching for backup, then finished, “A challenge. Or maybe a dare.”
The moderator's smile widened, reading the tension.
“A dare?”
San’s eyes flickered, the briefest stutter before the showman returned. “Sometimes you dare yourself to go further than you thought you could. That’s what makes it worth it.”
Hongjoong broke in, eyes dancing. “And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a hit song out of it. Or a thousand fanfics.”
Jongho, deadpan, “He’ll start writing another one right now.”
A ripple of laughter, San ducking his head, hiding that slow-burning grin. For a second, the “idol” fell away—just a boy caught with a secret, and a group who knew exactly how to tease him for it.
Wooyoung piped up, voice honey-sweet, “He keeps us guessing, too. Not even the group chat gets spoilers.”
Yeosang was feigning innocence, “We all have theories. None of us have proof, it’s terrifying.”
Even the interviewer looked delighted, letting the banter run its course. “Alright, last chance,” the host tried, smiling, “If you could pick any member to write your next solo, who would it be?”
Yunho said, “Hongjoong. He gives good pep talks.”
Seonghwa: “Yeosang—he’d make me sound ethereal and pays attention to all the details I miss.”
San, after thinking too long, “Wooyoung, he’s got the best taste.”
A chorus of groans and fake protests, everyone trying to shout over each other.
Then, as the laughter was dying down, Mingi lunged for the mic, voice booming, “STREAM CREEP ! IT SAVED MY SKINCARE ROUTINE!”
The staff burst out laughing, and someone—probably Wooyoung—yelled, “Cut his mic!!”
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✧ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
It’s easier to work alone, or so he told everyone who asked. In reality, silence sharpened every noise. The monitors pulsed blue into white, splintering shadows across the desk, humming louder than nerves ever could. Sweat lingered at his collar, dried to salt, pressed flat where someone’s fingers had slipped underneath. Don’t think about that now.
A pencil rolled, skittered, stopped near the mixer. His thumb caught, tapped. Nothing in the room behaved—wires, chair, memory. He could still feel that one night: the ghost of a mouth, that sick and funny ache in his wrist, the echo of his own voice cracking on a lyric he hadn’t written alone.
He tried for work, waveform lit up with every bad decision. He played the bridge. Scrubbed the track. Breathed shallow, each playback spat back a half-ruined vocal—nobody needs to know—and something behind his ribs unraveled, not enough to kill the feeling, only to remind him who truly was in charge. That was the line he kept deleting and putting back, Woo’s voice echoing it for him. Now the phrase looked at him from the lyric sheet, stubborn, refusing to fade no matter how many times he changed the rhyme.
A jacket slumped in the corner, crumpled, black, stupidly soft. He glanced away. The pencil snapped in two. No point fixing it. The night stuck to him, every scent and shift of denim over thigh, the low grind of hunger at the stomach’s edge. Memory replayed in fractured, almost dreamlike shards—hot skin under his hand, voice in his ear, not words but the shape of them. The sound of a stuttered breath against his shoulder, the touch that meant more than it had any right to. He remembered the weight of a hand, callused, restless, settling on his stomach that night. Nerves jolted through him, how hard he had to fight to keep still. It flickered in and out, vivid to make his chest hurt. In the studio, it echoed in the way he moved, the lines he re-recorded, the mistakes he left unedited.
There was rawness in his throat, tongue tripping on lines that had never really belonged to him. He stopped, rewound, left a phrase—echo off these walls—not even sure why. It fit, so it stayed. Maybe it wasn’t even his idea anymore; difficult to tell where boundaries went.
The room felt too small, or his skin too tight. Shoulder blades itched under the hoodie (not his), and he stood, paced, circled the chair twice, sat again. He tried to type lyrics, but ended up with gibberish.
His hand found the mic stand, adjusted. Breathing slowed. The air in here tasted chemical, bright, familiar. Not clean—never clean enough.
A voice, too real, under everything: the real devil is closer than you think.
He had laughed, hours ago, brushed it off. Now it landed and stuck.
Fingers tapped the keys, once, twice—delete. Instinct told him to leave it; he did. Every word on the screen was stolen, borrowed, or begged for, none of it safe. Each line he wrote twisted back toward the same shadow. At times it felt like punishment, or ritual. The bad side was how much he loved it. The want wasn’t a secret, but he still kept it locked behind every fake version of perfection.
He stared at the project file, hated the form of it.
Wanted to take the risk.
This wasn’t a song anymore—it was a fever. Nobody needs to know. He left it once more.
San imagined how it would sound when someone else listened—when he listened, the one who had put this idea in his mouth to begin with. The hunger under his skin, the ache nobody would ever see onstage.
He started to sing again, lower, eyes half-lidded, headphones slipping off one ear. Every word bled. Every word was stolen. He kept writing, rewriting, searching for the phrase that would finally exorcise the ghost pressed behind his teeth. Midnight didn’t care. The clock blinked, endless, purple-glow digital, and if he blinked hard enough, the only thing left was wanting.
He let himself get weird with it—let shame bleed into need, let need sound like hope, then hunger, then denial. The voice in his headphones sounded nothing like the one in his dreams. The one he wanted was always closer, and further away, than the track would allow.
It was always easier to put it in the music, make a beat stutter where his mouth would have, let the reverb swallow what he couldn’t name. Lyrics said things you’d never survive saying face-to-face, and he could blame the mix, the night, the pressure, anything except the truth that pulsed with every clipped breath he caught replaying that bridge. Fingers drummed a syncopation along the table edge, knuckles aching. Thumb pressed hard to the waveform—his own and someone else’s, stacked, colliding, never clean. He deleted, restored, deleted again. The “raw” take played back, vocals so exposed it felt criminal. In his ears, it echoed and frayed, the ghost of another voice layered behind his own, distant. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to forget it. The world was full of that kind of contradiction.
The crispness had surprised him the first time—a type of reckless, unguarded sound he only got when Wooyoung forgot he was being watched. He wanted to bottle that, live in it, wear it like a second skin. Tried to double the track, but all it did was make him lonelier.
Sometimes the ache peaked in the palm of his hand, in the sick, lonely grip on the edge of the desk, the choke of air he held too long. He hovered over the contact—almost called, nearly sent a voice memo, finger ghosting over the button.
Wanting was a sickness, and denial never cured it for long.
There were worse things to be called than a creep, right? Worse ways to want. The shame didn’t matter, not compared to the hunger it left in the pit of his stomach. He fantasized about more than music, about the weight of someone else’s body behind every lyric, phrases that never made the final cut. And he could taste it—like copper on his tongue, sometimes the song was only an excuse. Desire and shame blurred until he forgot which was worse. If this was obsession, he’d take it, let it eat whatever else was left.
He was supposed to be chasing perfect, but all he could think about was how much it stung to chase nothing but the echo of a body that wasn’t here. Haunted, that was the word. Every object had its story. There were nights when he’d wake up at the desk, fingers stiff, a phantom ache wrapped around his waist. He’d been slipping in and out of consciousness, never fully here or there, the click of a door, the sound of footsteps stopping just short of his chair. Other times, the memory was making his stomach clench, heat rising uninvited. There were nights when he wanted to be caught, and there were nights he wanted to be left alone with the ache forever.
And in the silence, San smiled, fingers ghosting the final lyric as if it were skin.
Somewhere else, the sun caught on the edge of a marker Wooyoung didn’t remember buying.
He shook it off. The world had been full of purple lately, or maybe he was full of it. Color bled through the day: a phone notification with a lavender dot, someone’s top was tossed across the back of a chair. It followed him. He’d try not to notice, but that only made it worse.
It was background noise, Yunho’s laugh bouncing off tile, Hongjoong cursing softly at the printer. And yet, every time he let his focus drift, a chill settled on his spine. He tried to laugh along, drag himself into the present—games, group chat, meme wars—but every sound blurred. As if San’s hands had left a mark invisible to everyone but him, the color purple kept cropping up in new places, mocking, everywhere at once.
Sometimes, he’d look up and swear the lights shifted a shade cooler, like the world wanted to see if he’d flinch. Wooyoung had started to resent that color.
It didn’t stop after rehearsal. In the kitchen, a bruised grape rolled off the table and came to rest against his foot—useless, stupid, a non-event, but the skin flashed amethyst where the sunlight hit. Wooyoung nudged it away, then found himself scowling at the open fridge: three cans of energy drink lined in a row, all in shades of ultraviolet and berry. He didn’t remember buying those, either.
Wooyoung told himself it was a coincidence, didn’t everyone have days where color haunted them? Still, he avoided the couch, not wanting to see if Mingi’s sweatshirt was the same washed lilac San wore last week.
Now tried joining the others for a late movie—dumb, high-volume, forgettable. It helped, until a scene flickered across the TV: neon cityscape, a girl in a purple jacket leaping off a curb. It wasn’t important, not at all, but Wooyoung’s stomach flipped. He excused himself with a yawn, waving off Yunho’s concerned look. In the bathroom, he ran the tap, watched the lavender label on the soap bottle catch the light. Silly. Paranoid. Nothing.
Maybe… maybe—it wasn’t even San. The color appeared everywhere, all at once, pressing in at the edges of his vision. He blinked hard, but even with his eyes closed, he swore he saw it: a smudge of lilac behind his eyelids, clinging.
The worst part was how easily he started to doubt himself. Every time a bottle cap or hair tie or light beam went purple, his skin prickled. Was this a sign? Was he being stalked by his own guilt, or by someone else’s delight? Was it supposed to scare him, or was it a dare?
He went back to the bedroom, shut the door. The duvet cover had a pattern he had never really noticed, but now—pale shapes, not quite lavender, not quite blue, crawling like a fingerprint over his knees. He kicked it off, heart thumping loudly.
Wooyoung told himself again, quietly, that it was nothing. He would have laughed, any other night. Instead, he lay back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered who was haunting whom. Every time he tried to find the exit, the shade got deeper, closer, more impossible to ignore.
He closed his eyes again and waited for the purple to fade. It didn’t.
There were moments—quick, mean, gone as soon as they started—when he wanted to smash every violet thing in the apartment. Toss the energy drinks, bleach the duvet, tear up the marker that started all of this. He imagined pulling every hint of color out by the roots, wanted to watch the room go cold and blank, let the world see how easy it would be to burn it all down, if he wanted.
The thought made his pulse stutter. He blinked hard, tried to laugh, but the urge lingered at the back of his mind, hot and guilty. Who even was he, getting mad at a color?
His phone lit up. The notification nearly startled him out of his skin—a single ping in the dead quiet. For a moment, he expected it to be a system glitch, some cruel joke from the universe, a purple emoji from a spam bot. But it was worse.
[sannie: hey, you up? need your ear on this. final mix. studio]
The message sat there, aggressive in its normalcy. Wooyoung stared at it, pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. The hour blinked back at him—too late for homework, too early for regrets.
He sat up, feet swinging over the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of every creak in the floorboards and shadows pooling under the door.
Shoes on, phone pocketed, he moved through the apartment like he was trespassing in his own life. His reflection caught in the lobby window: pale, mouth pressed tight, then rolled his shoulders, tried to look casual. He failed.
By the time he reached the studio, he was caught between relief and dread. Not about San’s judgment, but what might be waiting for him there at this hour.
The devil you know, and the one you dream of. Sometimes, they’re the same.
Notes:
this is your invitation to overthink everything !!
still not sure who’s haunting who? good, neither are theyblame the next chapter for what’s about to happen, it will be full throttle
go touch grass, I’ll be here when you get back. nobody’s innocent in the next one, not even you!
Chapter 7: the part you play
Summary:
studio walls, rain, a demo track
temptation is a two-way mirror
Notes:
when you reach the image in this chapter, click it! it’s the base layer for this entire fic ^^ (takes you to a video)
for the atiny theorists: threads + breakdowns will be in the end notes💜 umbrella discourse is alive and unwell 💜
see you on the other side
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
he had spent a lifetime building excuses out of nothing, fingers twisting white fabric in the dark, counting down the seconds until something—someone—broke the silence. he’d always been good at it: lying on his back, eyes closed, pretending the touch against his stomach belonged to a dream instead of a body he ached to turn and face.
nobody ever tells you how easy it is to fake sleep if you want it badly enough.
it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. never would be the last. that night, breath synced to san’s, thumb brushing a forbidden line lower than common sense, wooyoung pressed into that liminal space—not fully conscious, almost bold, all intent. if he rolled his hips even a fraction, the whole illusion would shatter. he didn’t. better to watch, to wait, to let san risk something first.
safety lived in the shadows, danger in the pretense, and he wore both like a second skin.
blame exhaustion, a headache, nothing more. if san confronted him—hard to imagine, but not impossible—he’d smirk, play it off, probably laugh like it was an accident. easier to haunt than to confess he’d set the trap himself. every challenge needed a witness, and wooyoung never did anything halfway.
the studio’s walls were padded, lights dialed so low it could’ve been any hour but this, painting the space blue. he hung back in the doorway a moment longer, eyes tracing cables snaking under desks, and the tangle of headphones. neither spoke, tension pooled thick as resin between them.
san finally glanced up, posture loose. “hey, you hungry?” the words were so normal it almost undid him. “i found some cookies in the break room, i’ll split the risk with you.”
wooyoung laughed, easier than he meant to, and dropped his bag in the nearest seat. “my will says you get nothing if i die… but i’ll take the first bite”
he drifted over, settling into the other rolling chair, the one always slightly lower. the seat creaked, some wire snapping underneath—he acted not to notice. outside, rain started to tap the windows, nearly drowned out by the insulation, and in here, the quiet was total, every sound theirs alone.
for a few minutes, it was all ordinary: san fussing over faders, tapping a beat out on the desk and wooyoung listened, nodded, answered with shrugs and noncommittal noise, their bodies angled just close enough for a knee to brush when they leaned.
“it’s so much quieter at night,” san said at last, gaze fixed on the board. “can actually think.”
wooyoung stretched, head tipped back, “bet it’s why you call me so late. you’d never get anything done if the others showed up.”
“yeah.. thanks for coming, by the way. knew you’d still be awake.”
“insomnia’s my only real talent,” wooyoung muttered, lips quirking. “what am i listening to tonight—disstrack, or something i’ll regret forever?”
san’s hands paused above the keys, uncertain. “bit of everything, promise you won’t roast me too hard?”
he rolled his eyes. “you say that like i have any power here.”
“you’ve got more than you think.” san’s voice dipped, easy to miss if you weren’t looking.hunge
wooyoung, covering the prick of unease. “oh yeah? my power to make you redo takes until your ears bleed?”
san almost smiled—part of it honest, the rest hidden away somewhere private. “you have no idea.”
the mood twisted—banter skating the rim of something denser. san’s fingers tapped at the keyboard, searching. “want to hear something funny?”
wooyoung tilted his head, wary.
the mouse clicked. a folder opened, screen awash with lines of pale text. each file name a weird inside joke, “woo_nov26”, “woo_laughfail5”, “sleepy_wooyoungie.wav”.
and at this time, he wondered if anyone else knew this san. not the loud one or the sly one the cameras loved, but the collector. a hoarder of things never meant for daylight. the kind of person who built a cathedral out of someone else’s voice, played it back in the dark, turned music into confession and confession into something hungrier.
wooyoung used to think the scariest thing was being wanted too little. now, it might be being wanted exactly enough.
his mind stuttered, heat crowding his throat. it had always been a game: he plays at being the chased one, the prey, the boy who doesn’t want too much. san—unbothered, cool, the hunter only if you squinted, never acting first.
but if san had folders of him… who was really running? there was a strange safety in thinking you were prey—at least you knew your role, and your lines. be startled, react, keep your secrets. the prey doesn’t have to admit wanting to be caught, and prey never has to make the first move, never risks being too much, because too much gets you devoured.
their loop, push and pull, was that all it ever was? both of them afraid of how close they were to the line. seeing his name multiplied over the screen, evidence that he was wanted enough to haunt someone else’s nights, shredded what was left of his script. suddenly, he was the one exposed, out in the open.
he caught the edge of something dangerous in san.
a thing he had never noticed, or never let himself see. maybe he’d misunderstood the game from the start.
for all his running, he’d never wondered what it would feel like to be caught—and kept.
he tried for annoyed, but mostly heard nerves. “you saved all those?”
san’s mouth pulled at the corner, refusing full humor. “you always said i was desperate for your voice.”
“i was joking. generally.”
he scrolled, picking at random, hit play. speakers filled with fragments—wooyoung’s voice, layered and unguarded, laughing into a harmony that trailed off, a breathy falsetto mangled by a cough, then the oldest—“is this on? are you recording, pervert—” fuzzy, too late at night.
san didn’t laugh. “i keep them because they’re honest.”
retort stuck, tangled behind wooyoung’s teeth. the air changed. san hovered over another, the mouse trembling with indecision.
“this one…” he hesitated, and the date was years back, summer thick in the vowels of wooyoung’s sleepy confession. “august third, 4:05 am. you probably don’t remember.”
the recording wasn’t singing—just a voice, stripped of gloss, losing its way through a string of thoughts that barely qualified as a take.
words fumbled out, awkward, honest, pathetic in their sweetness, like he never meant anyone to hear.
okay, this is dumb, you can cut this out— don’t. not yet
i mean, you’re probably going to anyway, which is fine, because this is nothing?
if you ever use it, i’ll haunt you
…
no, wait, i mean… you don’t have to. it sounds stupid but..
if you’re listening, or, whatever, if it’s just you—
…
seriously, why do i always sound so… i don’t know, look— how we sound in our own heads? i always sound worse.
(long silence, a cough, nervous laugh)
it’s weird… singing’s supposed to be easier when it’s just us, but sometimes i get more nervous, ‘cause i think you’ll hear every stupid mistake
…
if you cut this out, i’ll know you’re a coward
…
san, i hope you don’t hate my voice. or, like, if you do, lie to me a bit
…
(exhale)
…
back then, you asked for this because you want references or whatever, but…
you don’t have to pretend it’s for the song every time. i like when you ask, actually
…
uh, anyway, you’re the one person who can make me sound less like a loser
so, congrats, or condolences
…
making it feel like it’s safe to mess up, most of the time i’m only funny when i’m hiding, but with you it doesn’t always feel like hiding
…
sorry. i’m rambling.
you’re the only one who makes the song feel right, even when i’m off key
god, delete this after, please
…
you’ make things too easy sometimes. it’s kind of dangerous
…
not that i mind.
(another long pause)
unless…
…
nah, it’d be too much if i said thank you for keeping me around, eh?
…
(softly)
you’re the only one who makes the whole thing feel like music, not work
…
don’t let it get to your head
the playback ended with a faint static, a hiccup of silence where laughter should have been. wooyoung’s face flamed, heat prickling under his ears. there was nowhere to look—san’s hands, screen glowing dark indigo on his jaw from the program background.
“it’s the one i listen to when i can’t sleep,” san admitted, soft.
“i said delete that,” he muttered, aiming for dry but it landed wounded.
san shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “never was good at letting things go.”
something caved in wooyoung’s chest, air going dense.
“it’s not for blackmail.” san didn’t offer shame or explanation. the honesty in that admission did more damage than any lie.
he thumbed through more files, kept his voice breezy and normal—“relax, i’m not putting any of those on the album.”
wooyoung snorted, rolling his shoulders. “good, or i’d have to sue.”
san’s finger hovered, deliberate, over a file at the bottom. “what if i did, though?”
the question wavered—joking, but not, eyes darting.
and san looked up to him in the end, face wiped clean, the tiniest smile curving his mouth.
“this one’s different.”
cursor slid to the highlighted track.
[creep_final_405.wav]
wooyoung didn’t ask. his stomach twisted anyway.
“yours, too.”
his tone was gentle, fatal.
wooyoung braced, every part of him hyperaware. the world outside might have vanished—rain drumming in some other timeline, all that mattered now was the thick anticipation in his own bloodstream.
the song didn’t start right away. san fiddled with the mouse, double-checking the input, acting busy. wooyoung’s gaze drifted to the desk—at his coffee cup, two stray guitar picks, the hoodie bunched at san’s elbow. silence drew out until he was almost tempted to break it, tease, anything.
“ready?” san asked, finally.
“hit me.”
san pressed play.
first notes leaked out, all velvet guitar.
the song unfurled slow as molasses, a low slither of sound curling into the dark, drums beating in a steady stride, bassline thick and sticky at the back of his teeth. wooyoung stilled, every nerve awake, and san’s voice slid in—sultry, simmering, too unguarded for public hours, riding that groove so smooth it hurt. the sound built slow, layering synths and sharp-edged guitar, rising and retreating like someone working up the nerve to confess. vocals started—low, smooth, a confidence bordering on threat. he recognized the inflection, a drawl san only used when the stakes were personal.
wooyoung’s body tensed, then settled as the rhythm dragged him under, each pulse a reminder to keep breathing. he let himself fall into it, lids heavy, breathing shallow. it was sexy, undeniably so—nothing about it hid. but there was something darker underneath, an ache he recognized in the way san clung to certain notes, as if he meant to leave bruises on every word. the beat shifted, subtle at first, then snapped wide, the chorus punching through—bold, anthemic, the drums and guitar leaping together. a lyric landed, dangerous in how it sounded: “echo off these walls.”
his own words, from a kitchen night, thrown back at him. a shiver crawled his spine. had san really kept that? or a trick of the headphones? he listened closer, searching, heart thumping in time with the kick drum.
wooyoung tried to listen like a professional, tracking how the layers bled together, but every new bar exposed something else. the drums kicked up, sharp, insistent, and the guitar in the second verse flared, electrified, a hook that caught under the skin.
was that…? no, couldn’t be, not his own voice, not that exposed. but he did record his take, just didn’t expect for it to be used like that. the bridge stung, too honest, and suddenly every word was a dare. his voice, raw and unpolished, stitched in at the part—there was no mistaking it now, not with the way it cut through the mix. it was like being seen from the inside out, every flaw on display. the room got smaller, and heat crawled up his throat.
san was silent, hands folded in his lap, but his eyes never left the screen. every so often he’d reach for a knob, not really changing anything, just moving for the sake of it. the song carried on, wooyoung humming along, not meaning to, echoing in the space between breaths. the guitar solo soared—wailing, electric, almost desperate—then tumbled back into the groove, like a secret being buried and dug up at the same time.
their knees touched again, a point of heat under the table. he didn’t risk a glance, afraid his face might give something away. sound bounced off every panel, next lyric surfacing—“nobody needs to know our secrets”, and he wondered if he was still in his bed, dreaming this too.
a secret reshaped for the song and nobody else. either it was nothing, or san had twisted his own words into this music, hoping someone would notice. pulse jittered, throat tight—wooyoung bit down the urge to laugh or call him out, settled for sitting back in the chair, acting unbothered.
every line blurred boundaries. was this still a song, or was it a confession? the seat under him felt wrong, too small, too warm, every inch of skin suddenly obvious.
he kept his gaze away, focused on the audio wave scrolling by, but every single time san’s hand twitched near the keyboard, his heart jumped.
silence broke for a moment as the chorus hit again, that slow, sick climb of chords, and he realized he was gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles ached.
then san nudged the volume lower. “so.. what do you think?”
wooyoung kept it light, tongue too dry. “sounds good, you always go this hard on your work?”
san’s laugh was soft, shoulder brushing his. “only when it’s worth it.”
wooyoung’s mind spun—was that about the song, or about him? he didn’t dare ask. “i like it,” he offered instead, softer, “i… actually like it a lot.”
san drummed his fingers once, eyes still on the monitor. “not everything needs to go public, right?” the corners of his mouth barely moved, the words tossed out too light to pin down.
wooyoung’s lips pulled into a smirk, finally finding air. “if you’re gonna steal my lines, at least send me a cut of the royalties.”
a huff of a laugh, but san kept his gaze on the screen. “who says i’m stealing?”
his answer was a hum, throat tight. “i know my own echo.”
san was only partway facing away now, but there was a ghost of a smile at his mouth. “i left it in there on purpose, makes the track less lonely.”
he cleared his throat, searching for neutral, “so what’s the story? you always this sentimental in the booth, or did you finally get dumped?”
san snorted, “you think i’d write all this for some poor girl?”
“maybe,” wooyoung shrugged, letting the joke hit soft, “wouldn’t be the first time.”
a pause—something behind san’s eyes, gone too quick to name. “it’s not.”
the answer hung there, a pulse in the dark. wooyoung looked away, skin crawling, suddenly hyperaware of every point where they might have touched, or almost. the chair felt too small, air full of song and static and nerves.
glanced at the time, digits blurring. “shit—look at the time.” he fumbled for his bag, breath stalling, “don’t stay up all night mixing my voice in, you freak.”
he made for the door, pulse hammering in his ears. the hinges creaked as he pulled it open, cool hallway light cutting in.
“wait,” san said, voice low but firm, carrying enough to pin him to the spot.
wooyoung froze, fingers tight on the handle. he didn’t turn around right away.
“there’s… one more thing i wanted you to see,” san continued, quieter now. “if you’ve got time.”
the door swung shut again, silent on its frame.
he tried for control now, masking the heat crawling up his neck and sat back down. “if this is where you show me some deepfake of my face on mingi’s body, i’m calling dispatch.”
san’s mouth twitched—almost a smirk, almost nothing. “it’s a work in progress. but no, you’re safe for now.”
he nodded toward the screen, the studio monitor now glowing with a new project window, video thumbnails stacked in a column along the edge, all blacked out.
san rolled closer, chair wheels bumping into wooyoung’s, a soft collision neither commented on. “director wanted color,” he specified, eyes not meeting wooyoung’s. “kept pushing for something that could read as devotion, secrecy, intimacy. i said, why not make it simple.”
wooyoung’s jaw worked, tried to keep his shoulders loose, but his chair was boxed between the table and the wall—cornered. every instinct said move, but san’s voice was too steady, his posture casual enough to pass for boredom if you weren’t looking at the hands, flexing tight on the edge of the desk.
that same cornered feeling he’d had weeks ago, pressed into san’s side beneath nylon, rain sheeting down, everything blurred to violet. outside, the world got washed away. inside, all the rules bent a little.
his eyes drifted across the blank thumbnails. “what’d you give him, a rainbow filter? please tell me it’s not that yearbook aesthetic again.”
san hummed, low, a fake thoughtfulness, fingers still drumming out tension he wouldn’t name. “no rainbows. just something real, you know how it is—sometimes the easiest answer is the one you don’t want to say out loud.”
wooyoung’s gaze landed on the dark preview window, attention dragging slow over san’s hands. “what color, then? blue for the whole brooding thing?”
it was always purple—never said outright, but the answer felt predestined. purple for ambition, purple for secrecy, purple for wanting what no one else got to see. he didn’t say it, but the memory of that umbrella ghosted through the air, the same way it had over their heads that rainy night.
for san, purple had always been about influence, control—his stage color.
san shook his head, meeting his eyes, unreadable. “something that reads both ways. not too bright, not too safe. had to pick my favorite.”
the lie was smooth, but wooyoung felt the static underneath. he’d known san long enough to hear what wasn’t said—he always blamed someone else for the dangerous ideas, how eyes flickered when he handed over a secret disguised as a chore.
if the color had really been the director’s choice, san wouldn’t look so tense. his hands wouldn’t keep flexing at the desk, counting beats only he could hear. it was the same move he pulled during interviews—deflect, redirect, make everyone think he was following orders when he’d already decided the outcome.
so he played along.
wooyoung’s lips quirked, meeting him partway in the game. “how very you.”
a long silence. then san added, “you’re the only one i asked to come see this. manager gets his cut in the morning, but you get the first look.”
he leaned over, shoulder brushing wooyoung’s, reaching for a dial that didn’t really need adjusting. up close, wooyoung caught the faint scent of something sharp on san’s collar—a cologne too clean for the hour, it made his own nerves snap.
“let’s not drag it out,” san murmured, voice lower, flickering sideways. he clicked the first file. video loaded in the preview: a stage, lights cut low, everything shadowed except a single color—impossible to name unless you’d stood on that stage.
umbrellas spun in the background, dark shapes pooling under them, the set arranged to hide as much as it revealed. the color that meant ours before it ever meant stage.
fandom would break down every frame, every hue, but to wooyoung, it was the world shrinking again—like the city that evening, like the studio now.
and in the center, san—alone, his face carved by shadow, the rest lit up in that not-quite-safe hue. this was the real confession, more loaded than any lyric, more obvious than any touch. it was a territory, a shield, a claim nobody else could read unless they’d been inside it.
but he let it pass. san hit play, and the video jerked to life: san moving with precise violence, sharp lines broken by the spin of the umbrella. and every move felt coded, when san glanced at the camera, there was nothing soft there.
wooyoung tried not to squirm. “looks expensive,” he managed, voice thin.
san’s mouth twitched, betraying nothing.
this time, the details came sharper. how san’s hand curled around the handle, the way the umbrella shielded, then exposed, the flash of color in every turn. as the dance reached its turning point—san staggered, umbrella dropped.
wooyoung caught the reflection of his own eyes in the monitor, and he forced out a joke. “are you trying to tell me something?”
“they said it was about hiding things, keeping them close.” his tone was flat, but his body was rigid, every muscle held too tight.
san never hid well—he just layered his obsessions under plausible deniability. in plain sight, call it aesthetic, watch if anyone ever figured out what he was protecting.
wooyoung’s tongue thick against his teeth. “well, subtlety isn’t dead.”
the air in the studio thinned, soundless but for the soft clatter of rain at the window.
he tried not to fidget. “you do know the fans call us woosan? and the lyrics… if you’re trying to get me killed, just say it.”
“are you seeing this?” san’s words came out as a whisper, barely aimed at wooyoung. “people like consistency.”
wooyoung stared. “yeah. they do.”
his chest hurt.
swallowed, throat aching. “you really had to sing girl in the lyrics?”
san didn’t blink. “would’ve been too obvious otherwise.”
“you’re not slick.”
“did it work?”
wooyoung let out a brittle laugh, hands fidgeting at his sleeves. “i’m gonna hear woo every time. you’re not fooling anyone.”
san didn’t answer. the screen flickered, color bleeding across his face.
“okay,” wooyoung breathed, the joke already crumbling. “..did you just make me your muse, or am i hallucinating?”
san’s eyes met his, everything unsaid hanging raw between them. “that.. varies. are you going to sue?”
the laughter that escaped was thin, close to a sob. “i rather settle for royalties.”
san leaned in, the space between them shrinking to nothing, hand finding the back of wooyoung’s neck with a gentleness that trembled. “i’d pay. every time.”
the moment hovered, thick, electric. wooyoung’s whole body buzzed with it—fear, thrill, the bone-deep realization that maybe he hadn’t been prey at all. probably neither of them were.
“do you get me?” san’s voice was a whisper now, not quite daring, not quite pleading. “i could’ve picked any color, any prop. i didn’t. it’s always the same thing.”
wooyoung let his gaze slip sideways, found san’s profile backlit and beautiful in a way he’d never say aloud. “i get it,” he said, quiet, the words raw enough that his chest hurt. “you know i do.”
obsession disguised as shelter.
he didn’t move for a second. san’s hand was still at the back of his neck, light as a thought, and for once wooyoung didn’t try to wriggle out of it. he could see the way san’s sweatshirt had ridden up on one side, collarbone showing. wooyoung’s own jacket was unzipped over a black tank, jeans loose at the waist. between them: maybe four inches of air, and none of it safe.
san didn’t seem in a hurry, thumb drawing lazy circles at the base of wooyoung’s skull. “so,” he said, not heavy, “think you can sit still for another four minutes? i promise there’s no jump scare, unless you’re afraid of my footwork.”
wooyoung let himself laugh, sharp, more relief than humor. “is this the part where you make me critique your dancing on camera so you can send the footage to hongjoong?”
“i’d never give him this kind of ammo.” san’s grin was crooked, eyes half-lidded, fingers still working at a nerve nobody else had found. “besides, i want your undivided attention. can you handle that?”
“you planning to stay this close the whole time?”
san just hummed, not letting go, and turned back to the monitor. the program loaded a new clip—longer, unedited, then the bassline crawled in, that first wicked chord, and san’s figure moved in the video.
it wasn’t pretty. not at first—every line in his body snapped and twisted, steps stuttering across the dark like he was dodging bullets. wooyoung’s own breath caught at the violence of it, the way san threw himself into the space—each kick and slide a threat, an invitation.
san’s body moving in a way that was—god, there was no other word—predatory. not hungry for applause, but for something in the crowd he could pull apart. wooyoung watched the shadows muscle under his shirt, mesh catching the light in a net, sweat streaking down one temple.
“you realize people are gonna lose their minds over this,” wooyoung said, but it came out soft, not like a joke at all.
san’s shoulder brushed his. “let ‘em. you’re the one here, not them.”
wooyoung didn’t answer, staring at the monitor as the track hit the bridge, san sinking low to the ground, body bent nearly double, then snapping upright in one pulse.
and in the room, san’s hand dropped to wooyoung’s shoulder, palm spread broad over the collar of his jacket, thumb hooking under the edge, tracing bare skin where the tank didn’t quite meet denim. wooyoung’s pulse fluttered, dizzy at how casual san’s grip stayed, how nothing about his tone changed.
“keep watching,” san said, soft as static. “this is the part i like best.”
on screen, the lighting narrowed, spotlight hard on san’s face—eyes lifted to the ceiling, mouth open like he was about to confess or break. then the drop: he jerked back to his feet, body rolling through every muscle. one hand splayed across his chest, the other curled tight at his throat.
wooyoung’s breath came short. “you’re not gonna pull a muscle doing that, are you?”
“could,” san replied, leaning in, breath warm against the curve of wooyoung’s ear. “think you’d come spot me?”
wooyoung didn’t move away. “only if you pay overtime.”
“so demanding,” san teased, sliding his hand up to cup the side of wooyoung’s neck. his thumb pressed into the hinge of jaw, almost rough, not quite. “don’t look away yet.”
the song built, climax in motion—on screen, san hit the chorus, body whipping side to side, each movement threw sparks. wooyoung realized too late his mouth was open, caught between laughing and something hungrier. his jacket slid low on one arm, tank gaping at the side. san’s hand drifted down, pressing at his waist, slow and careful. wooyoung forced himself to breathe. he tried to act unbothered, but the scene on the screen betrayed him first. san’s body didn’t move like he was trying to impress anyone.
he moved like the stage owed him pain and he was here to collect.
the sharp swing of his hips, the whipcrack snap of his neck, all of it threaded with that impossible confidence—the same energy that filled a room before he spoke, made strangers turn just to check their own pulse. there was just san in black, mesh tight across his shoulders, shirt riding up as he spun, every muscle flexing like a secret let loose.
wooyoung told himself he’d seen it all before—rehearsals, soundchecks, how san stretched in the mirror with no music playing—but this was different. here, it was just them and the studio dark, every light blue-washed and too personal, nothing to drown out the sound but each other’s breath.
san’s hand hovered at his waist, fingers fanning wide, palm warm through cotton, thumb brushing under the hem of wooyoung’s tank. the contact felt casual, nothing he couldn’t shake off, but it branded him anyway. he let the jacket slip further, hoping it would look like comfort, not nerves.
on the monitor, san’s video-self lunged forward, chest heaving. sweat striped down his temple, caught at the edge of his jaw, lips parted as if he was swallowing back something mean. the camera tracked every move—one violent, one soft, a hand in his hair, a knee hitting the ground so hard it looked reckless.
wooyoung watched, head cocked like he was studying technique, but every so often his eyes would dart sideways, catching the edge of san’s smile reflected in the glass. it was a private thing, not meant for the crowd, and wooyoung hated how much he wanted to earn it. his knees jostled under the desk, bumping san’s thigh. he didn’t pull away.
“if you think about it… most people don’t film their breakdowns,” he said, too fast, letting humor mask the flush creeping up his neck.
san’s hand, idling at his hip, pressed in just a little. “i’m not most people,” he replied with a murmur. wooyoung’s breath hitched and he let it out in a cough that sounded like a laugh, rolling his shoulders back to feign more space than he had.
“keep saying it, maybe i’ll believe you,” he muttered, gaze sliding away, pulse buzzing wild under his skin.
on the monitor, san’s body whipped through another chorus, and wooyoung tried to count how many times he’d seen san do this move in rehearsal, how many times he’d called it “overkill,” but every repetition now landed new—dangerous. the second chorus built, sound swelling, and san’s hand moved up, palm skating beneath the loose edge of wooyoung’s tank, the tips of his fingers skimming across bare ribs.
he jerked, more in reflex than protest, and the motion dragged his knee harder into san’s. the chair rolled, closing the distance.
wooyoung’s chin tipped up, baring his throat as if this was still about pride. he licked his lips, stared hard at the video, but his jacket was sliding off, tank gaping wide at the side.
he forced his voice light, but it cracked: “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“you always said i should have an audience,” san teased, sliding his hand up to cup the side of wooyoung’s neck. his thumb pressed into the hinge of jaw, almost rough, not quite.
“not me,” wooyoung said, meaning to sound annoyed, but it landed breathless, wrong. “not like this.”
on the monitor, san collapsed to one knee, hair wild, face all sharp angles and shadow. real san’s hand found the dip at wooyoung’s waist, thumb sliding under the band of his jeans. every touch was measured like a dance step, as if he’d practiced it in private. wooyoung let the sensation wash over him, a slow, humiliating burn, the heat rolling up his side and pooling at his ears.
for a few delusional seconds, wooyoung told himself this was still nothing. teammates, that was all. skinship, a tired kind. nothing new.
wooyoung squirmed, tried to laugh it off, but it came out broken. “clingy much? you get sentimental now?”
san’s grip flexed. “who says i’m the sentimental one?”
wooyoung didn’t bite. he watched the video, tried to fixate on the choreography—san’s spins, the snap of his arm, at how each muscle in his back worked under that light—but his own pulse wouldn’t settle. it hammered at his wrists, his throat, everywhere san’s hand touched.
he forced another joke, nerves making him sound almost bratty. “if this ends up in some behind-the-scenes footage…”
san’s laughter was nearly fond, voice dropping as his thumb slid higher, pressing just below the edge of wooyoung’s ribs. “nobody’s filming this.” then, softer, “you trust me, right?”
he meant to say yes, meant to laugh it off—of course he did, hadn’t he always?—but the word stuck. trust felt suddenly like surrender. so he made a joke instead, twisting in the chair. “trust you?.. how crazy are you feeling tonight?”
san’s smile flickered in the monitor’s reflection. “crazy enough,” he said, leaning in. his voice vibrated right against wooyoung’s pulse.
the silence snapped, taut and intimate. wooyoung went still, jacket slouching lower, his tank pulled awkwardly at the collar where san’s knuckles pressed in.
one last time to crawl out of his own skin. “you’re so fucked up,” he noted, a soft chuckle, voice pitched higher unintentionally.
“for you? always.”
“we’re both sleep deprived,” wooyoung muttered, as if that was enough to explain away the hour, the trembling in his hands, the heat at his cheeks. “you’re going to regret this in the morning.”
san’s reply was too gentle for the threat it carried, a smile that barely curved. “are you?”
the rain hadn’t let up—if anything, it sounded louder, like the weather was in on the joke. wooyoung stared at the door, pretending escape was possible. the room had shrunk; he could feel it in the way his back grazed the wall, the vinyl cool against his shoulder blades, and how san, for all his stillness, was an orbit collapsing.
wooyoung forced out a laugh, dry, scraping. “next time you write a song about me, give me a heads up. or a sleeping pill.”
let me sleep through your confessions, so i don’t have to process how much this means to me.
san hummed, noncommittal. “it wouldn’t sound half as good.”
for a moment, they both lingered—caught on the edge, neither trusting the themselves. he didn’t move closer, but his shadow seemed to. wooyoung caught the real cost in san’s eyes, like he’d been carrying the confession all night and still wasn’t sure how to set it down entirely.
there was a world where san would change the subject and pretend nothing happened. this wasn’t that world. not anymore.
wooyoung shifted, breath catching. the rain, relentless now, filled every silence they didn’t dare break.
san’s next words were almost lost to it. “if you slept through it, i’d have to start all over.”
wooyoung didn’t answer, a brittle sound he had perfected over the years for interviews and afterparties, the kind that said, see? nothing to look at here, nothing happening, just two idiots in a studio at an hour where only ghosts should be awake.
stretched out his legs beneath the table, then made a show of glancing at his phone, the ritual of acting he could leave at any second.
he pushed his chair back, slow. “all right, maestro. i’ll see you at soundcheck, unless you’ve used up all your favors for the year.”
“doubt it,” san replied softly.
wooyoung rolled his eyes, more for himself than for san, but the heat at his ears betrayed him. “yeah, well, let me know when you get bored of using me for adlibs. i’ll start charging by the minute.”
it was an old joke, a familiar one, and san laughed, the type of sound wooyoung wanted to bottle, store somewhere private if he ever needed to remember how being wanted could feel.
he got up, shoving his phone and looping his jacket over one shoulder. as he moved toward the door, his footsteps scuffed along the rug, careful not to leave marks. he glanced back, eyes tracing the mess.
“don’t stay up too late mixing, okay?” wooyoung called over his shoulder, aiming for light, failing. “your eyesight’s already crap.”
“yeah,” san affirmed.
wooyoung wrapped his hand around the door handle, felt the chill of metal bite through his palm. he pulled, expecting the hinge to give, for the world outside to flood in and break the spell. he twisted, intent on wrenching the door open with his right hand
but it wouldn’t budge.
san’s hand landed over his, hard and sudden, palm flattening against the wood just above the handle. the door didn’t so much as rattle.
wooyoung hadn’t even heard him cross the floor—one heartbeat there was empty space, the next, san’s arm had bracketed his, their hands tangled at the threshold, all exit quietly erased.
wooyoung froze, pulse lurching up his throat. san’s body blocked the door, chest pressed almost to his back, the heat of him radiating through every layer of fabric.
san’s voice was a thread, pulled taut. “you always leave too soon.”
“i mean, gotta keep you hungry. makes for better songs.”
he meant it as a joke, an escape hatch, but the words tangled between them.
“don’t go yet,” san said.
wooyoung’s grip tightened on the handle, instinct screaming at him to bolt, to brush it off, to say something biting or cruel. instead, he found himself leaning back, letting the weight of san’s body keep him.
“san, it’s late,” he managed, voice cracking at the edge. “we’ll both be wrecked tomorrow.”
his hand slid from the handle to wooyoung’s wrist, holding—not hard, not gentle, just enough to be felt. “that’s not what you’re worried about.”
wooyoung’s laugh was a puff of air, helpless. “are you my therapist?”
“no,” san said, and this time, there was nothing but thirst in his tone, the truth he’d been trying to bury since the first file played. “just someone who listens, you should try it.”
wooyoung stared at the door, heart pounding loud. his own hands dropped to his sides, surrendering the idea of flight.
“i’m not—” he started, but the words evaporated.
san’s fingers tightened, thumb tracing the bone of his wrist. “tell me you actually want to leave, and i’ll let go.”
the silence bloomed, impossible. wooyoung knew he should say it, knew the script by heart—push, pull, break, run. he should make a joke, say “get off, you freak” and laugh until the moment died.
he didn’t.
wooyoung’s voice scraped out, a sound shaped like compliance. “fine. have it your way.” his eyes flicked up.
san’s mouth curled, relief and hunger. he didn’t see the left hook coming—not until wooyoung twisted, all that loose energy whipped tight, fist flying up in a swing.
that one would’ve caught his cheek if he hadn’t snapped to attention.
san’s hand caught his wrist mid-air, the contact sharp. fingers digging in, the impact echoing in the small space. their bodies slammed closer, balance broken, wooyoung’s shoulder hitting the door with a thud.
wooyoung’s pulse thudded beneath san’s palm, hard and wild. their faces inches apart, both of them breathing like they’d run for miles.
san didn’t let go. not this time. “ Is that all you got?” the words a low rumble.
his other hand found wooyoung’s jaw, holding him still, with the precision of someone who’d mapped this out in their head a hundred times and wanted the reality even more.
wooyoung threw back a laugh, but it was raw, caught on the edge of something else. “you want more? i’ve got more.” he yanked back, twisting his arm, but san’s grip only shifted, pinning him more effectively, bodies slotted together—wooyoung trapped, but not helpless.
he surged forward again, maybe to shove, kiss, bite, no one could say—not even him. the space between them went electric, the threat of violence and the promise of something messier bleeding together. for all his bravado, wooyoung’s breath hitched, mouth open, eyes burning.
san leaned in, smile wolfish. “go ahead. hit me again, if you need to.”
wooyoung’s response was a snarl—half fury, uncertain wanting—his knee coming up in a feint, but san was faster, hip shifting to block, crowding him harder against the door. the air was thick, every inch of skin hyper-aware. “you’re not as tough as you think,” san said.
“you’d know,” wooyoung shot back, voice shaking now, not from fear. his hands fisted in san’s shirt, nails digging in, threatening pain or maybe desperate for purchase. “let go.”
san did.
but only a heartbeat, for wooyoung to feel the absence and the chill, a thin ghost of escape that vanished the second san’s grip returned, ruthless this time, fingers locking tight around his wrist.
san spun him away from the door, any chance of running snuffed out by the force that dragged him back across the studio floor.
his shoes skidded, catching on a tangle of cables, and he barely had time to snarl before the momentum carried him—first stumbling, then pressed forward—right up against the edge of the console. padded walls blurred at the corners of his vision. san shoved him down, forearm braced across his upper back. the pressure wasn’t there to hurt, but the angle made it unimaginable to rise, his chest flush to the mixing board. he twisted, meaning to spit a curse, but san was already there, knee between his legs, body caging him in from behind.
the console flickered, lights chasing themselves across the dials. every time he tried to shift, san pressed in closer, pinning him harder, making it clear that surrender was only an option if he chose it out loud.
wooyoung’s heart hammered so loud he swore san could feel it through his back. the word—no—caught at the roof of his mouth, but he didn’t say it, not for real. his hands splayed on the console, body arched in a question he wouldn’t let himself answer.
wooyoung’s mouth worked, nothing coming out but a strangled “don’t.” not a command—an apology.
san laughed, a soft, dangerous sound, and rocked his hips in, grinding him harder against the buttons and blinking lights. “say it like you mean it, then.” his hands clamped down on wooyoung’s waist, pinning him to the console. “stop pretending you’re not begging for this.”
wooyoung’s body went hot and traitorous, trembling with the effort of not melting entirely. he bared his teeth, a brat to the bitter end. “get off me, you psycho—”
san’s grip tightened, a warning and a promise all at once. “you’ve been asking for this since you walked in. you really want me to stop? then say it.” his lips found the curve of wooyoung’s neck, biting hard to leave proof.
“fuck off, ah—” wooyoung hissed, but his hips bucked back against san’s. “i said let go.”
“you don’t mean that,” san’s breath was a scorch, tongue tracing the mark he’d left. “your mouth says no, your body’s needy.”
wooyoung flung a curse, but his body pushed back, arching for every rough press. “get your hands off me—”
“tell me to stop,” san whispered, voice ruined, one hand sliding under wooyoung’s shirt, nails scraping along his ribs. “one word and i’m gone.”
wooyoung shook his head, eyes stinging, not with tears but with the effort of holding it all in. “i can’t,” he whispered, half-shattered.
he could’ve ended it, he knew. it was always right there—one word and san would back off, would vanish into apology. but he didn’t want it to end.
if san wanted him to break, he would have. if wooyoung wanted to run, he would have. on the contrary, every muscle leaned in, straining for the line they both kept redrawing.
for every insult wooyoung tossed out, his hands clung tighter, dragging him closer instead of pushing away. every time he tried to crawl out of his own skin, san was there, matching him move for move, never letting the game break or the tension snap.
he was so tired of running. and san, grinning against his ear, made it clear who’d been hunting all along.
san didn’t let up—his grip brutal now, one hand spanning wooyoung’s waist, the other pinning his wrist down so hard the plastic buttons under his palm dug into bone. every inch of wooyoung’s body felt sensitive, nerves lit up from the inside. he tried to twist away, breath stuttering out of him in a sound too close to a moan.
“bet you thought you could get away with it forever,” san rasped, mouth dragging hot down the line of wooyoung’s neck. “acting like you didn’t want this—like you’re the victim.”
wooyoung’s answer was a yelp, and his hips arched up, desperation betraying him. “you’re fucking deranged,” he snapped, though it landed on a gasp when san’s hand slid lower, knuckles raking along the waistband of his jeans. “i can’t believe you—”
“can’t believe i caught you?” san mocked, hips pressing in, his own breath jagged. “can’t believe you lasted this long pretending you didn’t want to be caught?”
wooyoung tried to say something sharp, but all that came out was a whine, swallowed by the next rough grind. the humiliation burned—face pressed to the cool console, hair sticking to his forehead, body shuddering with every push. it should have been awful—should have made him hate it. instead, every second of roughness just made him needier, clawing at the edge for more.
san’s hand wandered up, twisting a fistful of wooyoung’s shirt, yanking him half-upright, so his mouth was close enough to bite at his ear, voice wicked-soft. “don’t worry, i’ll make sure you remember it. every word you ever said—every no that meant yes.”
wooyoung kicked out, a last-ditch act of rebellion, but his body wouldn’t commit. “get off, get off, i’m—” voice breaking, breath catching.
san’s response was a harsh laugh, burying his mouth in the side of wooyoung’s neck, biting down—hard enough to leave him marked for days. “say it for me, tell me that you hate it. you want me gone?”
a moment where wooyoung could, should, say stop. the word didn’t come.
san’s hands got rougher, grabbing both wrists in one hand, yanking them up over wooyoung’s head, shoving him flat to the console, leaving him open, breathless, humiliated. “look at you,” san taunted, voice shaking from effort.
they’d touched before, but never like this. never with no way back.
wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut, shame and heat tangling. “fuck you,” he managed, but his body shuddered—hips lifting, seeking friction, seeking more.
“no,” san said, biting the word off, dragging his hand down the length of wooyoung’s spine, pushing his top up to expose skin to the cold air and his own indignity. “not until you beg, and mean it.”
the only sound was the frantic rattle of wooyoung’s breath, the dull thud of his heart, and the steady, rough rhythm of san’s hands forcing him to admit, without words, that he’d lost. that he wanted to be ruined by this, by him, in this studio with the rain pounding the world away.
and every second, san hovered just enough—waiting for any word, any sign that would end it all. but all he got were curses, and the way wooyoung’s body never stopped moving back into him, silent and pleading, until the humiliation tasted like relief. his free hand roamed, skimming over wooyoung’s sides, finding every place he tensed and pressing harder, then moving lower. no chance to believe this was just roughhousing anymore.
he thumbed the waistband of wooyoung’s jeans, then shoved them down an inch. san’s voice scraped his ear, low and unyielding. “you know what happens if you arch your back like that.”
wooyoung’s pulse skipped, breath catching in a hiccup that tried to sound angry. “y-you’re so—” but his voice trembled, hips pressing helplessly into the console. the friction hurt, then ached, then blurred.
san leaned over him, breath ghosting the back of his neck, dragging teeth over the exposed edge of the shoulder, mouthing bruises down the slope. his other hand slid between wooyoung’s hip and the desk, palming him through his jeans, not giving him any real relief, to make him burn.
the distress doubled—san whispering, “tell me you don’t want it, i dare you. lie to me one more time.” he punctuated every word with a roll of his hips, heavy enough to let wooyoung know he was hard.
he grit out, “if you’re going to do it, do it.” his body rising off the desk, straining toward san’s touch.
san bit back a laugh, pressing his mouth to the hinge of wooyoung’s jaw, letting his tongue trace the outline. “no, not until you ask for it.”
he let go of wooyoung’s wrists for a beat, dragging both hands down his back, fingers digging into skin, then down to the waistband, squeezing his ass, nails biting in to pin him tighter to the desk.
breathing was everything—hot, overlapping, echoing off the walls and the console’s metal face. every sound felt obscene in the dead quiet of the room. san’s hands were everywhere and nowhere, touching, holding, denying, daring.
wooyoung argued more, “i swear to god—” his voice fizzled out as san shifted behind him, rough palm sliding up beneath the rumpled tank, then yanking the fabric over his head in one practiced, careless pull. the cotton caught at his wrists, making him fight for a second before it surrendered, baring his back to the room. the humiliation cut twice—first in the way san stripped him, second in the way his own body refused to flinch.
he let wooyoung feel the weight of his gaze, unhurried, then spit into his own hand, not bothering to hide the sound. it landed wet and crude in the hush of the studio. san’s palm dragged slow up the length of wooyoung’s spine, leaving a slick, stinging trail in its wake.
wooyoung jerked, more shocked than hurt, twisting his shoulders, but san held him steady with a single hand braced between his shoulder blades. “the fuck, are you twelve?” he bit out, aiming for snide and hitting off-balance.
san bent in, words dropping straight to his ear, “don’t move, i want you to feel every second.” and how he said it was worse than if he’d shouted.
head dropped forward, hair falling over wooyoung’s eyes, and he laughed—a raw, broken thing. he tried to buck back, grind his ass into san’s hips, then instantly recoiled from the hardness he felt there. “jesus, you need a new hobby.”
san’s hand ran down his spine again, slower this time, pressing the spit into the skin like a brand. “tell me that again, see where it gets you.”
wooyoung’s breath stuttered. for a second, he let himself hang there, body limp, letting the burn of shame roll through him. then, like a fuse reigniting, he twisted, trying to bite at san’s wrist. “keep acting up, see if i care. you gonna write a song about this, too?”
“depends—gonna cry for me, or just ruin my console?” his free hand kneaded at wooyoung’s waist, fingers finding the bruised spots and lingering there, not for comfort, too much to ignore.
“go to hell,” wooyoung retorted, but his ass pushed back, dick straining against denim, body betraying him in all the ways words never did.
“already there.” san loosened his grip on wooyoung’s wrists, for him to move, to struggle or give in, but he only dug his nails into the console edge, jaw tight. “you want out? you know what to say.”
wooyoung breathed, shallow and rough, heart in his throat. he flexed his hands, letting them linger on the buttons, feeling the ridges and dials—“bet you’d miss me if i ran,” he muttered, head turned, eyes flickering over the wall of monitors, catching the ghost of their reflection in the glass. “bet you’d play that fucking demo on repeat, too.”
the next shame came without warning—san, one hand still heavy at wooyoung’s waist, the other skating up under his ribs, nails leaving angry red lines in their trail. “so mouthy,” he said, “but you never tell me to stop any of this.” mouth was at his nape, breathing him in and biting.
then san yanked his wrists up.
one hard pull, spun him, and suddenly wooyoung was facing him, breath coming fast, chest to chest.
san’s grip on his wrists was iron, but his eyes searched wooyoung’s face, not for fear, but for that flash of want he’d been hunting all night. and when he found it—painted across every line—san’s mouth crashed down, hard.
teeth knocked, lips bruised, tongues fighting for space. it wasn’t a kiss, not at first; it was punishment.
they’d joked about it for years. now nobody was laughing.
wooyoung made a wounded sound, the first crack of pride breaking, and clawed at san’s arms—nails scraping red lines, holding on like he meant to break skin, to take a piece with him. their hips met, friction sparking in the narrow space between them. san pressed him back, flattening him over the edge of the console, bodies aligning, head knocking against a fader, his mouth dragged open by the force of the kiss.
he pulled away first, forehead pressed to wooyoung’s, breath ragged. “i hate you, I fucking hate—” wooyoung started, voice splintering.
san’s hand cupped his jaw, finger digging in. “then stop looking at me like you want me to ruin you.” his other hand found wooyoung’s hip, pinning him there.
wooyoung’s reply died in his mouth, lips parted, a gasp choking off whatever insult he’d meant to fire. all the fight was still there—hot, alive, but now tangled up in need, in the sick rush of being seen, really seen, and not being able to lie about it anymore.
san kissed him again, rougher this time, as he needed to make a mark, to be sure that wooyoung wouldn’t walk away with anything less than evidence. he let his mouth wander, biting at the line of wooyoung’s jaw, trailing down to the pulse hammering at his throat. “tell me,” san hissed, “you want this, say you want me.”
his mouth moved lower, grazing the bruises he’d left, tongue lazy, “i’ll ruin you for anyone else,” words pressed hot into woo’s skin. “you’ll crawl back, you always do.”
wooyoung laughed, high and shaking, letting it break over both of them. “you’re obsessed. you are actually sick.”
san’s hand fisted in the front of his jeans, dragging him closer, hips grinding down, hard enough to make wooyoung whimper, to make him arch and bite at san’s shoulder. “you started it,” san muttered, the sound thick with months of want.
wooyoung shot back, “yea, ‘cause no one else lets me bully them for hours and still wants me at the end of it.”
san grinned, feral, licking the sting of the words from wooyoung’s mouth. “you don’t get to leave now. not when you look like that.” he caught the fabric, heaved—none of the careful slow-burning undress of daydreams, but an insistent demand that made wooyoung jerk and bite down on a curse.
the cotton stretched, gave, then slid away—off one arm, then the next, pulled over his head so fast his hair stood on end. it landed somewhere behind them, forgotten. now it was wooyoung’s bare chest against the chill studio air, muscles tense. he braced both hands on san’s shoulders, meaning to shove, but san caught his wrists again, trapping them against the console, pinning him back, exposed under the cold wash of lights.
“how am I supposed to be normal about that,” san breathed, voice raw, something close to awe threading the hunger. “so fucking pretty when you’re fighting me…”
wooyoung fired back, “get over yourself.”
san didn’t move—unshakeable, patient, like he could outlast every insult.
it was always like this. wooyoung could snarl, threaten, throw every mean line in his arsenal, and san would still find an excuse to linger, to stay too long. make me wanna stay—the lyric should’ve been a threat, but san wore it like a promise. every fight ended with him closer than before, never leaving
wooyoung hated how much he meant it.
“why would i?” san shot back, letting one hand trail down the center of wooyoung’s chest, splaying fingers wide as if to measure the span of bone and muscle. his thumb brushed over there, making wooyoung arch, then he slid lower, counting the ribs beneath his palm.
wooyoung let loose a string of curses, writhing against the hold—so san slapped his thigh, a sharp crack in the quiet. the sting flared, and before wooyoung could yelp, san’s mouth was there, kissing over the mark, tongue hot,
“you wanna dance?” san taunted, lips brushing over skin, “then move for me.”
he bent, “one, two, three…” he counted aloud, voice lazy, tongue dipping into the hollows between each rib, making wooyoung squirm and swallow down on a whimper.
“don’t..” wooyoung started, meaning to protest, but san shushed him, mouth hovering just above his skin.
san licked a stripe up one side, tongue counting the ribs—five, four, six— inventing a new way to claim him. “right here—you go all soft, open.” he murmured, words muffled against skin. “you shake like you want to break away, but you’re holding on so tight.”
wooyoung bucked, heat spiking, every inch of him alive to touch. “i’m not—soft,” he gritted, but even he could hear the break in his tone.
“you’re killing me.” san whispered again, biting at a new mark. “never needed a song to keep you…you would let me have you right here, every night, if i asked.”
wooyoung could only gasp, hands restless where they gripped the console. san’s hands lingered, mapping out the lines and pressing, measuring how lean he was. “you know they talk about you,” he muttered. “say you’re too thin now, fucking.. they’ve never seen you like this, have they?”
wooyoung let out a breath that was inbetween a scoff and a plea. “you sound like a creep.”
san’s mouth curved, sucking little bruises into every hollow. “i could spend all night here. don’t you get it? every line—made for my hands. you fit so fucking perfect, jagi.” he spat the word.
wooyoung arched up, reckless. “you like the bones that much, hyung? are you going to gnaw on me?” his tone was taunting, but the way his voice wobbled gave him away.
“only yours,” he whispered, “only ever yours. let them talk. none of them will ever get touch this...” his hands skated down to grip wooyoung’s waist, fingers wrapping almost the whole way around. “..so fucking hot like this, you don’t even know.”
wooyoung tried to wriggle, to squirm out of the grasp, but he only ended up grinding back into san’s thigh, the humiliation burning, making him hiss. “stop talking like that—”
some part of him knew this was the cycle—push, pull, run, get dragged back.
keep it on repeat wasn’t just a lyric, it was the pattern they lived in: wooyoung snapping, san holding tighter, both of them serious for the moment to break but never letting go. every time he tried to escape, san made it feel like a challenge. every time san let him go, wooyoung found a way to ask for more. over and over, just like the track—never the same, never finished.
“what? like i’m obsessed?” san was relentless, letting his mouth wander, painting a constellation of bruises over each rib, each line. “i am. you drive me fucking insane.” he dragged a hand up, fingers splayed over a sharp edge, squeezing, owning. “every show, every goddamn performance—i watch you, wonder how something this perfect can keep wanting me back.”
san’s grip just tightened, unbothered by the struggle—if anything, he sounded proud. “look how strong you are, even like this. fuck, you’re perfect.” he punctuated it with a bruising hold, pinning wooyoung more securely, as if proving the point.
wooyoung’s laughter came out staccato, breathless. “should get your eyes checked—”
san’s teeth grazed the lowest rib, a mark to match the others. “you’re cute when you lie,” he murmured, “keep acting innocent like you don’t know exactly what you do to me.”
he leaned up, mouth finding wooyoung’s again, this time slower and deeper. “i want every piece.” he whispered, pulling back to catch wooyoung’s eyes, “every damn angle. i want you messy and gorgeous and too thin for anyone but me, you’re too much for anyone else. torn up and starving, that’s how i love you.”
wooyoung trembled, eyes darting away.
san’s hand cupped his cheek, forced him to look back. “and you like it, don’t you?” his thumb brushed over the red bite marks he’d left.
wooyoung’s retort died, his body arching up into san’s hold.
san ran a palm down the line of his ribs, rough, then softer, thumbing over each bone, cataloging his favorite artwork. “look at me,” he said, voice low, dangerous, “let me see how much you want it.”
wooyoung did, and the silence that filled the room was the loudest confession—how he stared back, daring, furious at the world for making his body a target, grateful to san for turning it into a treasure.
“made to fit right here,” san groaned, dragging his hips flush against wooyoung’s, pinning him over the console again, body caging him in, making every rib a roadmap to ruin.
wooyoung laughed, but it was thin, shaking. “you’re so fucking weird about it,” but his hands had already grabbed san’s wrist, guiding him down, refusing to let him stop.
mouth slack, eyes bright, rolled his hips up. “if you’re gonna worship, then do me right,” he said, voice gone ragged, then squirmed under the attention, chin tilted, eyes sharp—hunting for a weak spot to turn the tide, knowing there was none.
“keep staring,” he taunted, words slurred with heat, “next comeback i’ll bulk up, just to spite you.”
san went utterly still. it would have been funny if the look in his eyes wasn’t so real. “don’t you fucking dare,” he bit out, grip tightening at wooyoung’s side. “don’t change a thing, like they could ever keep up with you.”
woo rolled his eyes, tried to deflect—“flattery? now? you really are..”
“it’s not flattery if it’s the truth. you don’t even know, do you—look what you do to me.” his thumb pressed at the hollow of wooyoung’s neck, feeling the wild thrum under—“don’t pretend you don’t like how it feels to be wanted like this. you hide all the time, but your body tells on you. now you’re so honest it hurts to look at you.”
wooyoung sucked in a breath, the shame hot as blood. “you like all this?” he shot back, voice cracking, “the bones, the scars, the parts some others hate?”
“i fucking love it,” san replied, not missing a beat. “every scar, every bruise, they are proof you’re real and mine. you think i want anyone normal?” his voice dropped, close to reverence. “i want you—exactly like this. no one else ever gets this.”
his mouth hovering just at the edge of wooyoung’s collarbone, biting down until woo gasped—pain spiking, then dissolving into a dark rush. “let them watch, i get the last word,” san muttered, licking the mark he’d left. “and the first.”
the console dug into wooyoung’s back, cold metal ridges a harsh contrast to the heat winding up his spine. san’s hands, restless and greedy, mapped the dip of his waist, the sharp climb of each rib, thumbs tracing every ridge like braille. each time wooyoung twitched or tried to twist away, san just pressed him harder, body sealing off every escape.
then his hand dropped slowly, to the waistband of the boy’s jeans.
wooyoung froze, shuddering at the scrape of a callused thumb over his hip bone. “make it worth the mess,” he threw out, all boldness.
san shoved the denim down, just enough to get at the boxers, fabric pooling at mid-thigh. his palm skated over the front, cupping, not gentle at all, and wooyoung arched up into it, humiliation surging bright and raw. “so urgent,” san teased, almost worship. “didn’t know you could get like this for me.”
this wasn’t how he imagined the first time, but he couldn’t imagine it any other way now. wooyoung spit a curse, voice cracking on the syllable, but didn’t pull away.
san’s hand was merciless—fingers curling into the elastic, dragging it down, exposing wooyoung to the icy air. with the other, he pinched his chin, making him look and hold eye contact while his grip got rougher, clinical. “don’t blink. i want to watch you fall apart.”
wooyoung tried to buck away and wriggle for space, but the console edge and san’s thigh boxed him in, pinned him wide open. his hands gripped the edge, then flew to san’s wrist, not pushing, only holding on for dear life.
san spat in his hand—filthy—then wrapped his hand around wooyoung, stroking him hard, unforgiving. wooyoung choked on a moan, the burn of it sharp, his whole body twisting for more, less, anything. “fuck—san, what are you—” the words got lost, overwhelmed by sensation.
“you know exactly what,” san crooned, thumb dragging over the leaking tip, spreading slick, stroking him in time with his own ragged breaths. the sound was lewd—skin on skin, the wet glide of spit and pre-come, the choked-off gasps wooyoung couldn’t withdraw.
“can’t believe you let me do this,” san murmured, voice so soft it felt like a threat. “all that running, all that noise, and here you are—”
wooyoung, still fighting for air, snapped back, “shut up—if you’re going to act deranged, at least finish what you started.”
“say it nicer,” san challenged, never slowing the relentless pace of his hand. “or maybe i’ll take my time.”
the defiance flickered, but didn’t die. wooyoung arched, head thrown back, eyes flashing. “please,” he tried to claw back ground, sarcasm dripping, “take your fucking time.”
san grinned, savage. “with pleasure,” and his hand squeezed the thigh, dragging his nails over skin. “spread your legs,” san growled, not asking. “don’t make me do all the work.”
wooyoung obeyed, reckless, reckless, breath stuttering. he could feel his own need smeared across san’s palm. the exhibition of it, pinned half-naked to the console, studio lights harsh on every angle, rain hissing at the windows—sent him spiraling. his hips lifted for more, chasing every touch, every drag and press.
“let me see all of it,” san murmured, and his hand found wooyoung’s jaw again, holding him steady, thumb forcing his mouth open, smearing slick across his lips. “messy suits you.”
wooyoung snarled, but licked at san’s thumb anyway, defiant, broken open.
san ran his thumb across woo’s mouth, slow, leaving spit glistening at the corner of his lips. “wipe that off, and i’ll make it worse,” he warned.
then san’s voice dropped, loving, “touch yourself,” he ordered, breath a razor at wooyoung’s ear. san let his hand let go, sudden and mean, fingers sticky.
wooyoung’s head spun. his own hand wrapping around himself, stroking with a fever that surprised him. “fucking—can’t believe you—” but he couldn’t finish. san’s hand was at his throat again, squeezing lightly to remind him who was in control, who made him unravel.
“so beautiful when you’re ruined,” he breathed, a shudder rolling through both of them.
wooyoung whined, the burn tipping toward agony, every nerve sparking as he got closer, body desperate for release, for relief. “san, san, i—”
san pressed in, mouth at his jaw, hips grinding, hand never letting up at his throat. “come for me, wooyoung. i want to see it. now.”
it was a command, a curse, wooyoung bucked up, pulse splintering, climax ripping through him—mess hot on his own hand, on san’s jeans, the shock of it left him breathless, emptied out, shaking.
he slumped, boneless, wrists loose in san’s grip.
san didn’t let him rest. “look at the mess you made,” he whispered, licking the sweat from wooyoung’s temple, nipping the shell of his ear. “can you feel it? how bad you need me?”
wooyoung couldn’t think, but his body answered, twitching, arching into each aftershock. “mmh, was that enough for your ego, san hyung?”
san smirked, “not even close.”
wooyoung’s breath stuttered, but he didn’t look away. his mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a dare. “go on, what’s stopping you?” he rasped.
for the first time, san looked… unsteady, hands tight where they gripped wooyoung’s hips.
wooyoung arched up, chest bare, eyes never leaving san’s. “come on, hyung, thought you could ruin me? i’m still here.”
san’s laugh was shaky, brittle around the edges. “cocky little shit,” he muttered, but the bite in his tone was all need.
“what are you—” san started, but the rest broke off in a hiss as wooyoung shoved him back, forceful, making space between their bodies.
“since you’re so proud of yourself,” wooyoung muttered, breathless, “let’s see if you can keep it together when it’s your turn.”
he pushed san’s jeans down—rough, impatient—just enough to bare him, fingers cold against fevered skin. for a moment he lingered, gaze skimming every inch, drinking in the way san’s muscles jumped under his touch. then he dropped to his knees, biting at the sharp cut of san’s thigh, lips leaving red imprints in every place that would make him twitch.
san’s hand shot to the wall behind him, the other landing at the back of wooyoung’s head, not guiding—begging.
wooyoung grinned, mouth pressed right against the pulse at san’s inner thigh, teeth scraping, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up. he spat, messy, letting spit roll down the length of him before lapping it up, making a show of the filth, the claim. san shuddered—body fighting to keep quiet, but the tension rippled all the way to his hands.
“you get off on making a mess of me,” wooyoung murmured, mouthing around the base, voice gone thick and mean, “so let’s see how well you handle it.”
san groaned, hips jerking, already undone by the show, the way wooyoung’s hands pinned him right at the hipbones, holding him still and helpless. wooyoung’s mouth closed around him—hot, tight, relentless, not caring if he gagged, not caring how wet and vulgar it sounded. he alternated between taking him deep and pulling back to suck at the head, tongue swirling, then dragging his teeth to make the older curse. san’s head tipped back, a choked moan leaking out, hips arching into the touch, the fight already gone.
“fuck! woo, slow down—” san gasped.
wooyoung glanced up, eyes bright with the barest smile twisting his lips. “don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered, voice ruined. “thought you liked me mouthy.”
san’s hips bucked involuntarily, but Wooyoung held him still, refusing to let him set the pace. every movement was willful, a lesson in control—he’d hum around the head, flick his tongue under the ridge, then pull off entirely just to mouth at san’s inner thighs, marking him up, leaving him shuddering.
“fucking hell,” san groaned, his whole body was a tremor, every muscle pulled tight as wire. he tried to bite back the next noise, but it spilled out, a broken, pathetic whimper.
wooyoung’s mouth was relentless—he’d take san deep, swallow around him, then pull back with a lewd pop, lips swollen, chin wet. “never seen you so quiet,” he teased, running his tongue along the vein, breathing heat. “cat got your tongue, sannie? or did i?”
san tried to retort, failed. his hand fisted in wooyoung’s hair, to hold on. “please… woo… don’t stop,” he finally managed.
wooyoung grinned, wicked, letting saliva drip down over the head, thumb smearing it around, teasing, flicking, drawing out every last shudder. “that’s it,” he murmured, “be good for me. show me how bad you want it.”
he worked san with his mouth, then with his hand, never giving him the satisfaction of coming easy. every time san got close, wooyoung would slow, pull off, whisper filth at the head—“you were so sure you’d break me”—then sink back down, swallowing him whole.
san’s legs shook, every inch of him strung out, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “woo—young— i—can’t—” he said, breath catching.
wooyoung pulled off again, licking a stripe up the cock, locking eyes. “you can. show me.”
san’s control shattered, hips bucking, voice gone rough with want. wooyoung sucked him deep, throat flexing, hands gripping tighter, and when san came, it was with a helpless cry, a stuttered gasp that echoed off the studio walls.
it was supposed to be wrath—san’s ruin, his fire. but now he was the one unraveling.
wooyoung swallowed, messy, chin dripping, then rose to his feet, lips swollen, eyes alight with triumph.
he caught san’s face, dragged him down for a kiss, letting san taste himself on wooyoung’s tongue and making it clear who’d won. “you really thought you were in control?” he whispered, “i let you do every bit of it.”
san could only stare, wrecked, the aftershocks still running through him. “why.. why do you let me—”
wooyoung smiled, cruel and loving at once, pressing a last kiss to san’s mouth. “never was yours, sannie. you were always mine.”
he could end it. burn it all down if he wanted—he always could, if he decided to own what he did to san. the power to finish the game sat in his hands, all this time, and for a second he wondered what would happen if he stopped running and let it burn.
san’s hand reached up, “don’t—don’t go. don’t leave me.” the confession was breathless, nearly lost under the white noise and the blood in his ears.
wooyoung pressed a hand to his chest, right over his wild heart, soothing with his thumb. “i’m not going anywhere,” he said, soft, but with a spark of that old danger.
trembling, forehead pressed to woo’s shoulder, voice breaking at the seams. “why can’t i get enough of you?”
woo smiled small. “because i wanted it that way.”
san’s eyes fluttered open, caught between worship and despair, and he looked up at wooyoung as if seeing him for the first time—not a prize, not prey, not a muse, but the axis of every hunger.
his hand drifted down san’s chest, lazy, confident, tracing sweat. “never was yours, sannie. you were always mine.”
it was almost tender, the way he soothed the shuddering in san’s limbs, brushing a kiss over his forehead. “breathe with me.”
not a request—an order, dressed up as comfort. he curled his hand behind san’s neck, pulled him closer, and pressed his lips to the damp hair at his temple. when san shuddered, woo hummed—quiet at first, then louder, the melody not quite the original demo, but the one san had cut and bent and rebuilt for him, slow and sticky, the chorus drawn out in a whisper.
san’s eyes slid shut, hands flexed at his sides, twitching like he wanted to reach, to take control back, but couldn’t make the move. wooyoung’s other hand drifted to his hair, raking through the damp strands, indulgent, never rushed. every time san’s body tried to wind up—every tremor, every muscle tensing as if to roll them over, retake ground—wooyoung just kept him anchored, humming into his ear, not letting him out.
“suits you,” wooyoung murmured, fingers combed through the knots at san’s nape.
san’s head tipped back, throat bare, and he let the weight of woo’s hand hold him. “just… let me have it for a minute,” he breathed.
“greedy,” wooyoung teased, “didn’t know you had it in you, always so busy being in charge.”
a huffed laugh, “was i ever?” he asked, eyes slitting open, searching woo’s face for an answer he already knew. “you never let me be.”
“i like watching you try.” his palm swept up the side of san’s face, thumb pressing at the hollow just under his cheekbone. he hummed again, each note heavy with all the things neither of them had said for years.
“do you remember,” he started, voice light and cruel, “the first time you made me sing that bridge for you? backstage, after that disaster show in busan. you said i sounded like shit, then asked me to do it again…”
san’s mouth twitched, “you did sound like shit,” he responded. “kept missing the harmony.”
“did you keep that one too?” woo’s voice went soft, his thumb dragging over san’s eyebrow, gentle, close to breaking the mood.
san let his eyes close, nodding once, a silent confession. “never deleted a thing.”
wooyoung grinned—more wolf than angel, all fangs and fondness. “yeah. didn’t think you would.” he trailed lower, mouth at his jaw. “all this time, and you were hoarding every mistake. every time i messed up, you wanted to hear it on repeat.”
san shuddered, but didn’t fight. “never the same, live,” he admitted, “can’t get enough of you like this. wish i could.”
wooyoung’s hand tightened in his hair, making him look up, meeting his gaze. “don’t wish. i like you desperate, makes me feel holy.”
san’s cheeks went pink, almost shy. “you’re evil,” he muttered, no conviction left in the insult.
“told you before, long ago,” wooyoung replied, brushing his thumb across san’s lips. “i always get what i want.” he let his hand drift, featherlight, down the side of san’s throat, pressing at the collarbone, then down to his chest, counting out the beats of his heart. “you’ll remember this next time you try to act tough, right? who you belong to?”
san’s breath caught, then let out a low, broken laugh. “etched it in already.”
wooyoung’s fingers worked gentle patterns through san’s hair, and the tension was gone—no need for power, no need for violence, just two boys sweating in a studio that had become a shrine, a crime scene, a shelter. outside, the rain had softened, no longer a wall but a curtain, a gentle veil over everything.
wooyoung kissed him one last time—soft, lingering, a benediction. “go home with me,” he said, not asking. “sleep in my bed tonight. let them wonder why you can’t look away at rehearsal.”
san nodded, pliant now, eyes shining, voice gone small. “you— yeah, anything you want.”
“good boy,” wooyoung murmured.
and san, ruined, soothed, adored, would have to learn how to worship at the altar of the one who had been writing the story.
san’s obsession, all along, was at woo’s mercy.
the studio was quiet but for the hush of rain, their breathing tangled, the glow of monitors washing everything violet and strange. purple was always san’s. the color only mattered because wooyoung let it. resented it. chased it, sometimes. probably accepting it, or twisting it into something else, was all it ever took to turn color into fate.
san’s body had stopped shaking, but inside, the spiral kept going—endless, wild, questions he could never pin down.
is it love, or is it worship? was I protecting him, or did I want to break him so I could keep all the pieces?
he wondered if it was sick, wanting someone so fragile, sharp-edged and impossible. if it was worse that wooyoung wanted it, needed it, let himself be taken apart and rebuilt in san’s hands just to prove the difference mattered.
maybe that was why he lost his mind every time they touched—the contrast, the way his wooyoung’s body looked breakable and acted anything but. the proof that nothing “safe” could ever make him this desperate. the sickness and the cure, all in one.
he pressed closer, as if that would make it last, make it make sense. but even now, with woo's fingers combing through his hair, humming a song that wasn’t meant for anyone else, san understood: the physical battle was won, maybe, but the psychological war was never his. it was always about who set the fire.
lucifer, san thought, not a fallen angel, but the one who showed me heaven, then taught me how to live in hell.
Notes:
you now qualify for a major in overthinking
I had SO much fun writing the fic, thank you for staying, ATINY
these going hand-in-hand with the work:
Hourly JYH post
&
if the video didn't play, try this backup below:
CREEP MV (x version)
^ ALSO YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS, CLICK THE TEXT (the pic is just preview) ^
woosan is real guys!! more crumbssomeone told me "Why does it feel like I'm watching them fuck raw + unlubed when they're watching the video"
MADE ME CACKLE, that's so well put. maybe they were
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bluewooboo on Chapter 4 Sat 12 Jul 2025 09:47PM UTC
Last Edited Sat 12 Jul 2025 09:48PM UTC
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