Chapter Text
The warm sunlight filters through the half-closed shutters, a single golden beam cutting across the room, illuminating just a slice of the bed while leaving the rest in shadows. Wooyoung lies sprawled on his stomach, eyes half-closed, lips parted slightly. He can’t remember how—or why—he ended up in this situation, let alone how he wound up in this bed. There’s a strong scent lingering in the air, heavy, almost suffocating. He doesn’t know what it is, but strangely enough, it feels… comforting.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up a little with his elbows pressing into the mattress. His eyes scan the room, searching for something familiar, some kind of anchor—but there’s nothing. The sudden stab of pain in his head forces him to flop back down, limp like dead weight. Then, fragments of the previous night begin to bleed back into his mind. Rivers of alcohol. Music blaring loud. Sweaty bodies moving in unison with the rhythm. He remembers the drunken laughter, the slurred, dragged-out words of his friends.
But most of all—he remembers clinging to Mingi, almost begging him. Please, let’s sleep together tonight, he’d said, throwing himself against him as though his life depended on it. Please, I don’t want to sleep alone, Mingi.
Wooyoung brings a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes.
“Fuck,” he mutters again.
With a sudden push, he finally forces himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. He feels like shit.
He doesn’t even know where he tossed his phone. Or his clothes. And Mingi? Gone. The other side of the bed is empty, not a trace of his best friend left behind. With strength he doesn’t even know he possesses, he drags himself up and scans the room one more time for his belongings. In the corner by the foot of the bed—his pants from last night. Under the bed—his crumpled t-shirt. Bingo.
As he fumbles with the zipper of his pants, a sharp beep cuts through the silence. His phone, buried somewhere in the far corner of the room. He follows the sound and picks it up. 9:00 AM. Which means he has at least two whole hours to do absolutely nothing before classes begin. But any relief is crushed the moment he sees the message flashing on his screen.
besto friendo~
you awake???? i’m at the café with Yunho. move your ass
Wooyoung’s been awake barely ten minutes, and already he’s had enough. Honestly.
He exhales a deep sigh and finishes dressing. His head is pounding, and the sunlight only makes it worse. On the nightstand, he notices a pair of Mingi’s sunglasses. Without thinking twice, he decides they’re his for the day.
One last glance at the room—messy, but not his problem. He shuts the door behind him.
On the way to the café, his eyes stay glued to his phone. He scrolls quickly, making sure he didn’t send any incriminating messages—or worse, that no embarrassing photos were taken. A few blurry selfies appear of him and Seonghwa, clearly drunk and completely out of it. He can’t help but smile at the sight and—
Boom. A dull thud slams into his left shoulder.
“Watch where the fuck you’re walking.”
Choi San.
Perfect. Just perfect. Today the universe has clearly chosen him as its favorite punching bag.
If life were some low-budget teen comedy, Choi San would be its poster boy—the golden child, worshiped by everyone and feared by most. Tall, sharp jaw, eyes like sharpened blades, and a body carved with the kind of precision that makes you think maybe gods do get bored and sometimes flex their skills on mortals. If Wooyoung had even an ounce of faith, he might’ve considered San a miracle—sent to earth to bless humanity with beauty and prosperity.
If only he’d learned how to keep his damn mouth shut.
Because Choi San isn’t just beautiful. He’s a walking stereotype. The kind of guy always flanked by a pack of girls, basketball jersey hanging off his shoulders, baggy pants sitting low like some sad attempt at effortless cool. Daddy’s money draped across his life in the form of flashy cars, designer sneakers, and probably even the smug little curve of his smile.
And, of course, the moment Wooyoung’s coming out became public knowledge, San took it upon himself—as if the cliché demanded it—to make Wooyoung’s life nothing short of a living hell. A snide comment too loud in the hallway, sharp little jokes tossed casually at his expense, glares that quickly turn into the laughter of his friends.
Wooyoung doesn’t know what he hates more: the flawless perfection San seems to carry so effortlessly, or the fact that, every single time he walks into a room, Wooyoung can’t actually pretend that he doesn’t exist to him.
Not today.
Wooyoung drapes a hand over his shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere far away. He feels San’s stare like a blade, slicing him into pieces, hungry and sharp, like it could crush him if he looked back. Then, the sound of snickering reaches him—San’s little entourage, hanging on every word.
“Faggot.” The word drops like a stone, and the group erupts in laughter, loud and obnoxious, like San just invented comedy itself. Disgusting.
Wooyoung smiles. Not because it’s funny, but because he knows exactly how to play the game. Slowly, he turns to face him, adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and lets the calmest, sharpest sarcasm drip from his words.
“Wow,” he says, clapping slowly, deliberately. “Truly hilarious. Maybe Daddy should’ve made sure you got less… special attention when you were little. This… repression of yours? It’s really starting to look aggressive, San.”
San froze. His jaw tightened, sharp like the glare he pinned on Wooyoung, darker, heavier, cutting through the space between them. His eyes swept him up and down, and Wooyoung caught the flicker—the way his barb had struck something raw inside him.
He almost laughed. His own chest stilled as San’s arms slipped away from the girls clinging to him, his body leaning a step closer. Wooyoung could see the ripple of muscle in his shoulders, the restraint in his movements, as if San was holding back more than just his temper.
And maybe—maybe this time he had gone too far. But he didn’t care. Not even for a second. The sight of San reacting, breaking that untouchable facade, lit something dangerous in his chest. A spark of defiance. A thrill he couldn’t suppress.
Behind San, the flock of voices quieted all at once, their laughter suffocated, leaving only the weight of expectation in the air. They waited for his answer. None came. Not immediately, anyway.
Wooyoung’s gaze was steady, almost playful, though his pulse hammered with the sharp edge of victory. He raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch, savoring the way it wrapped itself around San’s pride.
The morning sun was merciless, spilling gold across the street and sticking to Wooyoung’s skin like a second punishment. His clothes, the same from last night, reeked faintly of vodka—sweet coconut and strawberry still clung stubbornly to him, wrapping around him like a confession he didn’t intend to make.
He hadn’t planned to see San. He hadn’t wanted to. But the universe seemed cruelly fond of collisions.
His movements were too calm, as though each one was chosen with care. He took a step forward. Then another. The space between them shrank until Wooyoung could feel it—the heat radiating off him, the pressure of his presence filling every inch of air, making it impossible to breathe freely.
Wooyoung’s heart pounded, but he refused to flinch. He raised his chin higher, forcing a smirk onto his lips, though the edges of it trembled with adrenaline. His pulse betrayed him, thundering in his ears.
San stopped just close enough that Wooyoung could see the storm flickering behind his eyes. His stare was molten, unwavering, burning straight through him.
“Say that again,” San’s voice was low, rough, almost a growl. Not loud, but dangerous. It wasn’t really a question—it was a dare.
Wooyoung’s throat tightened. He should’ve felt afraid. Anyone else would’ve been. But fear wasn’t what twisted inside him. No, it was something far worse—something thrilling.
He wanted this. He wanted San’s composure to crack, to see that perfect mask split open. He wanted to feel the edge of his anger, sharp and close, like a blade against his skin.
He leaned forward slightly, letting his smirk widen, though his breath was uneven. “Why?” he murmured, his voice dripping with taunt, “Did I hit too close?”
For a split second—just one—San’s control faltered. His nostrils flared, his hand twitched at his side like it wanted to grab him, pull him close, shake him, anything. Wooyoung caught it, and it sent a reckless thrill straight through his chest.
But San didn’t move. Not fully. He held himself back with an iron grip, standing there like a storm barely leashed, silence pressing against Wooyoung so hard it almost crushed him.
The air between them was suffocating, heavy with everything they weren’t saying, everything they wouldn’t let themselves do.
Wooyoung’s throat went dry. He should’ve been afraid. Any sane person would’ve been terrified. But fear wasn’t what coiled inside him. No. It was something darker. Hotter. Thrilling.
And then, slowly, San leaned closer, close enough that Wooyoung could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting against his skin. His voice was so soft it barely reached above the hum of the street, but every syllable dripped with threat.
“Careful, Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung’s smirk faltered, just for an instant. His chest tightened painfully, but he didn’t back away. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t give San that satisfaction.
Instead, he let the silence stretch, savoring the dangerous closeness, the way San’s anger felt like fire crawling across his skin. Then, with every ounce of arrogance he could muster, Wooyoung turned his head and stepped past him, shoulders brushing just barely, deliberately, against San’s.
Each step away felt heavy, but his smile stayed fixed, because he knew San’s eyes were still on him, searing into his back. He didn’t need to turn to know.
It wasn’t over. Not even close.
The wound was open, raw and throbbing, and they both knew neither of them could leave it to heal.
Not when the silence between them screamed louder than words.
--
Mingi was already seated at the table, laughter exploding out of him so loudly that half the bar could probably hear. His mouth was wide open in a carefree grin, his hands slapping against his thighs as if the joy inside him had nowhere else to go. To his right sat Yunho, calm as ever, sipping his coffee from a small porcelain cup. The rim hid part of his smile, but his eyes betrayed him—quiet amusement sparkling there, like he was enjoying both the story and the way Mingi nearly choked on his own laughter.
“…so I told him, okay, maybe that was a bit too much!” Seonghwa’s voice cracked mid-sentence, his words tumbling out between poorly contained chuckles. His elegant composure was gone, replaced by the kind of laughter that left his shoulders trembling.
Wooyoung stepped closer, fragments of their conversation floating toward him, blurred by the haze of noise surrounding the café. The place was alive in that chaotic morning way: students hunched over notebooks, whispering last-minute notes to each other; gossipy chatter weaving between the clink of spoons and cups; the steady hum of a dozen different conversations melting into one constant, irritating buzz. His headache pulsed harder with every sound, a sharp drumbeat at the back of his skull that made him want to press his palms tighter against his ears.
But then his eyes caught Yunho’s. The older boy had just set down his cup, and with a simple gesture—pushing out the empty chair beside him—he invited Wooyoung to sit. No words, no fuss. That was what Wooyoung had always admired about him: Yunho never needed to ask twice, never crowded him with questions. He just left space, and somehow, that was enough.
Wooyoung circled the table and sank into the chair, his body heavy with exhaustion. As soon as he sat down, Yunho reached over and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat—firm, steady. It was such a small thing, but Wooyoung felt his throat tighten anyway. Yunho always seemed to know without asking, like he could sense the storm in his head.
“How are you?” Yunho asked quietly, returning his attention to his coffee as though the answer wasn’t important, even though it always was.
Wooyoung groaned softly, pressing his fingertips against his temples, trying to contain the pounding inside. “My head’s about to explode,” he muttered, voice muffled between his hands. The laughter from the other side of the table only made it worse. He tilted his head toward Yunho, his whole body turning in silent desperation. “What are they even talking about?” His eyes searched Yunho’s face like he needed the explanation to be worth the agony.
Yunho chuckled under his breath, glancing at Mingi and Seonghwa, who were practically leaning into each other, red-faced and hitting each other’s arms like boys who had just shared the funniest secret in the world.
“Last night,” Yunho began, lowering his voice like he was sharing something sacred, “Mingi basically devoured Lisa’s face. Seonghwa walked in on them. Lisa ran off. Mingi… didn’t exactly stop.”
The corners of Yunho’s lips curled into a smirk as his eyes flicked back to Wooyoung, who groaned louder, sinking further into his chair as if the café ceiling might just collapse on top of him and put him out of his misery.
Wooyoung didn’t even know where he had been a moment ago. Maybe locked in the bathroom, throwing up his very soul.
Same old story. He adjusted his glasses with a slow push up the bridge of his nose. The two boys hadn’t even noticed his presence.
On the table, Mingi’s coffee had long gone cold. Wooyoung grabbed it, downed the bitter liquid in a single swallow, and grimaced at the acrid taste.
“I don’t even know why I did it!” Mingi’s voice broke through the room, half-shouting, half-laughing.
“Because you’re fucking desperate, that’s why!” Seonghwa shot back instantly, laughter bubbling between his words.
The two of them burst out laughing again, loud and unrestrained. Mingi wiped at the tears in the corner of his eyes before suddenly swiveling toward Wooyoung. His mouth formed an exaggerated O of surprise before he leaned in dramatically, hands catching Wooyoung’s face.
“Please, sleep with me!” he mimicked, in a desperate whine. “Don’t make me sleep alone, Mingi, I beg you!”
Wooyoung couldn’t stop the curve of a smile, but he pulled away from Mingi’s touch, teeth flashing in a grin that was almost feral.
“Asshole. Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, voice low, sharp. “Why the hell are you so loud? It’s not even ten in the morning and you’ve already managed to ruin my day.”
Mingi only laughed harder, because he knew Wooyoung was never a morning person.
“Bad wake-up, Woo?” Seonghwa teased, tearing into a croissant so aggressively that sugar dust rained across the table.
“Worse.” Wooyoung’s hand dragged through his hair, a harsh sigh following. “Choi San.”
The table fell silent all at once. The laughter evaporated, as if the very name carried weight heavy enough to crush the air. Everyone knew. Everyone had seen it—the tension simmering between them, impossible to ignore.
“I swear.. I’ll kill him,” Mingi muttered, this time serious, fists curling against the wood of the table. “Why does he have to act like that all the fucking time?”
“He should just be ignored,” Yunho said quietly, setting down his espresso cup with deliberate calm. “That’s what you do with flies.”
Wooyoung exhaled, long and tired. The truth was, it had been going on since the start of the year. This constant push and pull, this relentless war of words and looks between him and San. It was exhausting. Yes, it was entertaining sometimes. But how long could he keep enduring it before something snapped?
“He’s a piece of shit,” Wooyoung said flatly, leaning back in his chair. His expression betrayed nothing, but the weight in his voice did. “It’ll pass. This… obsession with me. Eventually, it has to fade.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew he didn’t believe them.
Wooyoung tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on anything else, but the pounding in his head made it impossible. Every sound, every movement, felt amplified, like the world itself was pressing down on him. He didn’t want to think about San, about last night, about anything. It was all too much, and his body ached for reprieve.
Still, the morning passed faster than he expected.
Their friends drifted toward the campus, yawning and chatting lazily between classes. Yuhno and Seong-hwa had already disappeared into their dorms, leaving Wooyoung to collect himself. He hadn’t fully shaken off the fog when he spotted Mingi, sprawled casually on a park bench just outside the campus. The cigarette smoke curled from his fingers in lazy spirals, sunlight catching the embers as he scrolled through his phone.
“They’re throwing a horror-themed party at the frat house next door,” Mingi said casually, exhaling a plume of smoke. One arm stretched across the back of the bench, the other holding his phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. “We have to go. Obviously.”
Wooyoung watched him, arms crossed, muscles tense. He could feel the exhaustion in every fiber of his body, but also the subtle pull of Mingi’s enthusiasm—a pull he could never resist. Mingi ran a hand through his unruly black hair, shaking his head with a grin that was equal parts mischief and challenge.
“Obviously,” Wooyoung muttered under his breath, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.
Mingi leaned back again, blowing smoke into the morning air, completely unbothered by the chaos surrounding them. He knew exactly how far he was pushing Wooyoung—how he dragged him to parties, late nights, and messy mornings. Almost every night blurred into the next, a mix of laughter, games, movies, and occasional chaos that left them both exhausted but somehow alive.
Wooyoung couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugged at his lips. Mingi caught it immediately, his eyes twinkling with amusement, and they shared a quiet laugh that felt like a secret pact against the absurdity of everything around them.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Twenty years old, alive, reckless, and reckless together. Life was chaotic, messy, and entirely too short to spend weighed down by worry or regret.
Mingi tilted his head, the smoke drifting lazily above him, and Wooyoung let himself relax just a fraction. Maybe this—this ridiculous, exhausting, chaotic friendship—was enough. Maybe it was the only way to survive, to breathe, to keep moving forward. One absurd, unpredictable day at a time
—
It was just past eleven at night when the group pushed through the doorway of the house—or what could vaguely be called a house. The moment they stepped inside, the chaos hit them like a wave. The space didn’t resemble a home at all; instead, it pulsed with energy, a living organism of sweat, laughter, and alcohol. Dim lights painted the walls in electric purples and deep blues, shadows curling and twisting like smoke. The air was heavy, almost sticky, saturated with the scent of perfume, beer, and bodies pressed too close together.
The entrance was a crush of people, shoulder to shoulder, chatting, laughing, bumping into one another, some grinding against walls, lips locking in a frenzy of drunken abandon. Streams of liquor disappeared down eager throats, glasses clinked in constant rhythm, and someone somewhere was yelling over music barely audible above the roar of the crowd.
Wooyoung exchanged a glance with his friends, their expressions a mix of thrill and amusement. They were all ready to dive into the chaos, to get lost in the madness that awaited inside.
“Okay,” Yuhno’s voice cut through the noise, calm and commanding despite the ruckus. “Phones on. Don’t lose each other in the mess.”
Mingi threw an arm around his neck, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek with a grin that was half teasing, half affectionate. “Okay, papa,” he said, voice low and playful, then turned to the others. “Time to find Lisa. Let’s see if I can actually finish something tonight.”
Seong-hwa shook his head, laughing and shaking a finger. “Please. Don’t make a fool of yourself again.”
Wooyoung’s gaze drifted over the crowd, sweeping past faces, searching for a corner to retreat to, some small patch of calm amidst the storm. As much as he adored his friends, the thought of diving into the chaos of this night made his chest tighten. He didn’t want to be part of this frenzy. He wanted a quiet evening, maybe a drink, a little dancing, then the freedom of his apartment—alone or not, it didn’t matter.
“I’m going to get a drink,” he said, tugging at the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt. “Try not to get yourselves into trouble.”
His friends chuckled, giving him teasing smiles as he drifted toward the kitchen. Surprisingly, the space was almost empty, save for a few scattered bottles and half-used glasses strewn across the island. He grabbed a glass, beginning to mix juices and spirits with a vague sense of recklessness. He didn’t know exactly what he was creating—just something that would knock him flat after a few sips.
The air in the room pressed against him, thick and humid, almost suffocating. The faint draft from the half-open window did nothing to relieve it. He shook the drink carefully, pouring it back into the glass, eyes squinting as the strong scent of alcohol hit him. One sip, and the burn raced down his throat, eyes watering from the intensity.
And then—a hand, firm and uninvited, shot under his glass. The contents tipped over, splashing across him, cold and sticky, smelling like failure and humiliation.
“What the—” Wooyoung’s words died in his throat as he looked up, heart skipping.
Choi San.
San’s smirk was infuriating, slow and deliberate, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. “I told you to be careful” he said, voice low, dripping with satisfaction.
Rage surged through Wooyoung, hot and immediate. Without thinking, he lifted his glass and poured the rest of the drink onto San. The liquid soaked him, running down the sharp lines of his face and over his shirt.
Time slowed. Both froze, shock painting their expressions, the room around them melting into a blur of color and muffled sound.
San’s expression, however, was priceless. A volatile cocktail of rage, astonishment, and visceral hatred. Every line of his jaw was tight, muscles flexing beneath his skin as if restrained by sheer willpower. His eyes, dark and molten, traced Wooyoung with the intensity of a predator observing prey.
“You’re dead,” San said, voice low and deliberate. Each word struck like a hammer: “You. Are. Dead.”
Wooyoung laughed, short and defiant, letting it ring out over the music and chatter. “Careful there, San. Oops.”
Wooyoung’s heartbeat was a wild drum in his chest, echoing in his ears louder than the music or the chatter of the crowd around him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, sharp and restless, making every nerve sing with awareness. San’s gaze landed on him—dark, penetrating, heavy enough to feel like a physical strike. It was nothing like the teasing smirk from this morning. This was different. Dangerous. Absolute.
He noticed the tension coiled in San’s body, the fist clenched tightly at his side, rigid as a steel trap. Wooyoung’s stomach flipped. Please… not this… he thought, almost pleading silently. He had just arrived. Couldn’t he have five minutes to breathe, to just… exist?
But before the thought could fully form, San’s fist smashed into his stomach. Hard. Cruel. He barely had time to register the first hit before the second followed, then a third, his body folding over each strike. Pain erupted like fire in his abdomen, taking the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping. Kicks followed, sharp and merciless, pounding into him with precision.
Wooyoung’s vision blurred, the edges of the world melting into chaos. The crowd that had gathered froze, horrified, unable to intervene. The music, the laughter, the ceaseless murmurs of the party around him became a distant, distorted roar in his ears. Each shout, each curse from San was muffled yet electric, piercing through the haze of pain.
A metallic taste spread in Wooyoung’s mouth, bitter and coppery. His head spun, his body betrayed him, and then… nothing.
Nothing.
Chapter Text
Choi San had never been violent.
At least, for as long as he could remember, he had never used violence to get what he wanted.
Every desire of his had always been an unspoken command—for everyone around him.
He remembered as a child, simply looking at something on a store shelf was enough for it to end up in his hands, already paid for. It didn’t matter if he barely played with it afterward, or if it held little real importance to him. What mattered was holding it, even if only for five minutes. Just the thought of possessing it, of having that small thing all to himself, was enough to make him happy.
His babysitters—he didn’t even remember how many—had never heard him cry. Never heard him ask for the same thing twice. He wasn’t allowed. Just as he wasn’t allowed to let anyone into his room. Not even his best friend, Yeosang, was truly welcome in his home. His father had warned him: “Don’t mix with those people. You’re special, San, you’re different.” And he believed every word. He saw his father at least twice a week, though his job kept him traveling around the world. When he couldn’t be there, he called, and San had always appreciated that.
His mother, on the other hand, was always at home—but never really there. Most of his memories of her were blurred, indistinct. He remembered her moving through the house in skimpy outfits, glass in hand, hair always perfect. He couldn’t recall a single embrace from her. For a while, he didn’t even recognize her as his mother. She was beautiful, undeniably so, but he would see her enter his room, only for someone from the household staff to follow soon after—and hours would pass before anyone emerged.
San had always wondered what could possibly bring so many men into his mother’s room. As children, we observe the world carefully, taking notes, learning. But as he grew older, he understood. And he hated that he did.
Most of all, he hated remembering the day he walked in on her with a drawing he had made for her, a gift from him. What he saw is etched into him forever. His mother on all fours, Zach behind her, pants down, an expression that would haunt him. His mother, his own mother, called a whore—and she seemed… happy? Her hands struck her own bare flesh, leaving red, livid marks, scratches, blood. San couldn’t believe his eyes. He remembered his legs moving of their own accord, carrying him out of the room. He remembered diving under the covers, covering his eyes. He was seven.
It hadn’t been long before the news came: his mother would not be returning home. Strangely, San felt a sense of relief, though he couldn’t understand why.
Since that day, San struggled to remember his mother at all; his mind seemed to have erased her from memory. His relationship with his father remained unchanged, but San himself… he had changed. Something inside him had broken. His sweet, gentle nature turned sharp, irritable, withdrawn. And yet, he had never been violent.
So why had he just hit Wooyoung? Why did the names pour out of his mouth, names he didn’t even know he knew? Why did his fists keep landing, relentless, on a body that no longer responded? Rage and guilt collided inside him, fueled by the drink he shouldn’t have thrown, the morning words he shouldn’t have spoken, the way he had dragged his father into the chaos.
Strong arms wrapped around his chest. His eyes were nearly vacant when a voice whispered in his ear: “San, damn it, you’re killing him!” They pulled him away from Wooyoung, lying on the ground. “The police are coming. Are you out of your mind?”
Choi San had never been violent. But something inside him is broken.
—
The run towards his room is almost painful. He knows that no one will talk, he knows it very well.
But at the same time he feels his hands trembling. He feels a sense of anxiety and anguish inside him that he cannot explain well in words.
His room is dark, the noise of the night outside the window is almost annoying.
What was supposed to be a normal evening among friends has turned into something more.
He doesn’t know why he reacted that way. He still doesn’t know how to give himself concrete answers. He only knows that he wouldn’t have stopped. Not even at the sight of the blood coming out of Wooyoung’s mouth did he stop.
Why?
San paces the room, running his hands through his hair, breath sharp and uneven.
The knot in his stomach won’t ease—if anything, it twists tighter, sharper. Maybe sleep would fix it.
But he can’t stop.
He keeps hearing it—the thud of fists against a body, the sound reverberating in his chest. The way Wooyoung’s face contorted in pain, his eyes shutting, his body giving in as it hit the floor.
Something coils in San’s gut at the memory, too strong, too wrong.
And yet… it stirs him. The pressure in his pants builds, undeniable, impossible to ignore. With a strangled breath, he squeezes his eyes shut and throws himself face down onto the mattress.
Stop. Stop. Get out. Leave me alone.
He mutters the words into the pillow, desperate for his own mind to obey, for these thoughts to stop clawing at him. Cruel thoughts. Wicked thoughts.
He isn’t like Wooyoung. He won’t even let the words form in his head—but he isn’t like him.
He doesn’t like or want boys.
He wants curves, soft skin, smooth legs, the scent of coconut and vanilla clinging to a clean body. That’s what he wants. That’s who he is.
Shaking, he yanks open the nightstand drawer. His hand closes around what he’s been searching for. Proof. He just needs proof—anything to convince himself he’s still right.
With a fluid movement, he opens the lubricant and lowers his pants to his knees, gripping his entire length in one go. He moves his hand up and down, with regular movements, finding peace in what he is doing. He thinks of naked women’s bodies, women being fucked, tits and asses on display; he tries to remember the last girl he was with. He tries to remember the warmth of her tight hole and how she made him come inside her.
He thinks of Wooyoung.
His toned body, his hair down to below his ear, the curve of his smile when this morning he came close to him to challenge him and San noticed a small mole under his eye.
He thinks of how he was dressed tonight.
The shirt slightly unbuttoned at the chest that let his sculpted chest be glimpsed.
He thinks of his face contorted with pain as his fists struck him.
What?
What is happening?
The flow of his thoughts is stopped by the sudden realization. His mind becomes a blank sheet, while his hand moves more frenetically. His breath becomes irregular.
He cannot stop.
Wooyoung, Wooyoung, Wooyoung…
He comes. Hard. In less than 5 minutes.
San’s eyes snap wide, terror flooding his face as he yanks the blanket up to hide behind it.
What is happening to him?
With frantic movements, he scrubs at his stomach and palm with a tissue, desperate to erase every trace of what just unfolded—erase it, erase himself. But the act feels futile, meaningless.
His mind is nothing but a void, hollow and suffocating.
Air burns in his throat, his chest refuses to rise. He squeezes his eyes shut with all his strength, curling into himself as if the smaller he becomes, the less he’ll exist.
He is not like Wooyoung. He cannot be. He never will.
—
The days on campus passed in a blur, each one indistinguishable from the last, and San didn’t see Wooyoung once. Not a shadow, not a glimpse. No news. No word. No one dared even whisper a single detail. He knew exactly what kind of storm would break inside him if they tried.
No call from his father. No message from the police. Not a single mention of Wooyoung. And yet… it didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. The emptiness it left gnawed at him, sharp and hollow, twisting inside like a slow, persistent knot.
San sipped his coffee, trying to feel something normal, something grounding. Lectures were over, the campus quieting into an empty, soft afternoon. A book lay open in front of him, but the words didn’t reach him. He was pretending to read, letting the paper cover the storm inside.
“Maybe I should kill you for what you did.”
The voice tore through the calm. San froze, his muscles taut, heartbeat hitching. He turned. A tall boy stood there, fists clenched, face unreadable. Familiar, though he couldn’t place him, almost comical in the contrast between soft features and the words he spat.
San felt the pull of something dark and sharp inside, a flicker of amusement he didn’t intend. He waved his friends down with one hand, keeping the moment, savoring it. Let them watch. Let them feel the gravity of it too.
“You are…?” His voice was soft. Observing, weighing. Letting the boy burn a little under the gaze. San could feel the anger radiating from him, almost palpable, mixing with fear, confusion, and something else—something fragile and human.
“You nearly killed Wooyoung, you asshole. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some kind of sick psycho?”
The words barely registered. They barely mattered. What mattered was the pulse, the tension, the way Mingi’s body screamed defiance and helplessness at the same time. And then… clarity.
“Oh…” San murmured, rising, stepping closer. Calm. Always too calm. Teasing lightness in his words, darkness in his gaze. “So he’s still alive? What a shame.”
He chuckled softly, but the sound didn’t reach his eyes. He watched Mingi flinch, tense, small.
The instinct to strike was immediate, but the boy beside him stopped him, arm gripping his shoulder. “Mingi, it’s useless. Let’s just go…”, the words were soft, but shaky. “It won’t solve anything… nothing will end this way.”
San didn’t need to move. Didn’t need to speak. He watched, absorbing every twitch of muscle, every rigid jawline, every flash of panic. The unspoken words, the fear, the defiance—it all flowed into him, alive, sharp, intoxicating.
He let silence stretch. Let the tension tighten around them. Let them wonder. Let them feel powerless.
“He almost killed him, and we’re supposed to sit here and let him get away with it?”
Mingi’s chest heaved, a stifled cry caught in his throat. Pride kept him from collapsing completely, but the desperation pressed at the surface.
San didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Every thought, every sense, every instinct told him he controlled the space, the moment, the storm. It was all his to watch, to manipulate. And he would. He didn’t need to act. Not yet.
Inside, a subtle thrill wound through him, sharp, electric. He was silent. He was untouchable. And yet, every detail of Wooyoung—the fight, the pain, the fear—was alive in him, clawing, impossible to forget, impossible to release.
The storm was quiet now, but it had begun. San was at the center of it, watching, feeling, savoring every fragile, trembling heartbeat around him.
“Let’s go…” the other boy’s voice tried to pull Mingi away, calm, almost rational, but Mingi didn’t budge. His eyes stayed locked on San, full of fire and accusation.
“And if we didn’t report you, you piece of shit,” Mingi continued, teeth clenched, voice trembling with a mix of rage and disbelief, “it’s because Wooyoung didn’t want to. He didn’t even… he didn’t even say your name.”
San felt the words hit him like ice water, shocking him awake. He had gotten away again. Barely. And the realization left a strange, hollow feeling in his chest—part relief, part unease. It was like staring at the edge of something dangerous and realizing, just for a moment, that you hadn’t fallen.
“But know this, San,” Mingi said, low and venomous, voice tight with warning, “this won’t last. Watch your back.”
San laughed. Not a loud laugh, not one for anyone else. It was a quiet, sharp chuckle, a sound that almost startled him because of how automatic it felt. Deep down, he knew Mingi was right.
If it had been someone he cared about, if it had been a friend in the same situation… he probably would have lost control even more. He might have hurt them. He might have regretted it forever. And yet, he didn’t fully understand how he himself had ended up here, in this gray, trembling line between control and chaos.
San had never been violent—not truly. That’s what he told himself, every single day. He had always been the one who followed rules, the one who kept his hands to himself, the one who let his charm, his words, his presence do the work for him. But… the more he thought about it, the more he realized how fragile that claim was. How quickly it had all slipped out of his control that night. How his fists had moved on their own, how the sound of Wooyoung collapsing, the shock, the small fear in his eyes, had done something to him… something that stirred a part of him he didn’t even know existed.
And now, here, days later, with Mingi’s warning ringing in his ears, San felt a strange cocktail of emotions swirling inside him. Anxiety, yes. But also a strange exhilaration, a sharp clarity he couldn’t ignore. He had survived. He had acted, he had made an impact. And yet… the thought of it, the memory of his own hands, his own body moving with that raw energy, left a knot of unease in his chest.
He shook his head, trying to chase away the feeling, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t like that. That he didn’t crave it. That he wasn’t… dangerous. But a small, quiet voice in his mind whispered, and it refused to be silenced: maybe he was.
Maybe he always had been, in some way.
San took a deep breath, the weight of it pressing against his lungs. He looked at Mingi’s furious, trembling face, at the boy beside him trying desperately to calm the storm, and for the first time, he allowed himself a tiny, private acknowledgment of the truth he had been denying: he didn’t know who he was anymore.
Not really.
And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
Chapter Text
There is no better word for how he feels in this moment than trapped. Ever since he was admitted to the hospital four days ago, his own personal hell has begun—a suffocating, unrelenting torment that refuses to let go. It is as if the day itself had been cursed, predetermined to end like this, leaving him suspended in a limbo between pain and uncertainty.
Everything is unbearably chaotic. The moment he opened his eyes in the ambulance, he was swallowed by a storm of sound. Voices—urgent, overlapping, demanding answers he cannot give—assault his ears. His friends’ voices ring in the background, calling his name, pleading for him to stay calm, insisting that everything will be okay. But the words reach him only partially, fragmented and distorted, like shards of glass cutting through a fog of confusion.
Then darkness again. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? His eyelids feel like lead, pressing down with a weight he has never known. His body aches in ways that make him feel alien to himself: a dull, gnawing pain in his right side, sharp pangs curling through his stomach, legs heavy and unresponsive. Every muscle seems to have forgotten how to move. The taste of blood is metallic and thick, clinging stubbornly to his tongue, reminding him of every violent impact he cannot remember clearly.
He wants to speak, to reassure someone, to make sense of what’s happening—but no words come. His throat feels raw, useless, like a lockbox holding back the sound of his own voice. Around him, shapes shift—familiar presences, shadows of people he knows—but he cannot place them. Faces blur, names escape him, identities dissolve before he can grasp them. His eyes remain closed, but even opening them feels impossible, as if his body itself resists.
“Fortunately, Wooyoung is young, and he will recover quickly,” a calm male voice says. It is steady, deliberate, professional—but he cannot tell if it belongs to a doctor or someone else. “He has two cracked ribs and multiple bruises, but nothing life-threatening. The blow to his head didn’t cause any cranial trauma, thankfully, but he has suffered severe shock. The painkillers are only beginning to take effect. He just needs to rest and remain… safe.”
Soft sighs ripple through the room. Relief from others washes over him, but he cannot feel it. His own body is a cage, every movement, every breath a reminder of how fragile he is. Pain radiates like electricity through his limbs, a constant reminder of vulnerability.
“The police will arrive once Wooyoung is fully awake. They will want to ask him some questions. Your statements must align with his if we want the complaint to proceed officially,” the voice adds, calm and detached.
The words float around him, barely tangible, slipping through the fog in his mind. He feels trapped—inside his own body, inside a head filled with confused perceptions, floating between consciousness and unconsciousness. Sounds are distant, amplified, distorted. Shadows of movement flicker at the edge of his awareness. Every second stretches like eternity; every heartbeat feels too loud, too fast, too overwhelming.
Fear coils in his stomach, tight and suffocating, but beneath it runs a thread of fragile hope—fragile, almost imperceptible. He senses warmth, care, the presence of people who want him safe, even if he cannot see them clearly. But even that hope is weighted with helplessness. He cannot move. He cannot speak. He cannot fully know where he is, or why.
He is trapped. Trapped in a body that feels alien, in a mind that struggles to recognize reality. Trapped in time, in pain, in uncertainty. Trapped in the liminal space between fear and relief, suffering and survival—where every second is a reminder of just how fragile life can be, and how powerless he is to control it.
--
“Wooyoung, I’m asking you one last time… who did this to you?”
Silence.
Outside the window, sunlight pours into the room, deceptively warm for a February day. It hits the walls in harsh angles, casting elongated shadows across the floor, across his bruised body, as if mocking him—an indifferent witness to his suffering. He should be in class right now with Mingi, notebook open, pen in hand, trying to decipher equations that have always seemed meaningless. He wonders, fleetingly, what the physics professor said about his absence. Normally, he never paid attention in those lessons, never really cared. But now… he misses them, the rhythm of the classroom, the small, mundane sounds of students shuffling papers, the faint scratch of a pencil on a page. The thought brings a strange, bitter ache to his chest.
His face is pressed toward the window, gaze vacant, staring at nothing in particular. The sunlight catches on the faint blue under his eyes, the bruises across his cheekbones, the subtle swell of new marks forming on his body. The questions continue, slicing through the room, insistent and sharp, but he isn’t listening. He can’t. He refuses to.
Wooyoung has never been a snitch. Not as a child, not now. Even in situations where it would have been easy, or expected. He remembers in fifth grade, when a boy stole his pens—he knew exactly who did it, clear as day. But he didn’t tell anyone. At home, he confessed to his mother anyway. And she had simply smiled, softly stroked his hair, as she does now, her warmth a fragile shield in a world that suddenly feels harsh, chaotic, and unrelenting.
Beside him, Mingi and Yunho stand rigid, almost statues in the room, their tension radiating outward like an electric field. He can sense their fear, their frustration, their quiet desperation without even turning his head. Their energy presses on him, a silent plea that he can feel but does not answer.
“Wooyoung, are you listening to me?” The policeman’s tone sharpens, frustration lacing the edges, approaching irritation. But Wooyoung’s mind is elsewhere, calculating, armored. He will not give them the satisfaction of breaking him.
“I fell and hit myself. How many times do I have to say it?” His voice is flat, controlled, icy, a wall between himself and the room, an assertion of ownership over his own story.
“That’s not true,” Mingi says through clenched teeth, eyes burning, jaw taut. Wooyoung glances at him briefly, a flash of acknowledgment, then lowers his eyes again. He knows what his friends have said, knows their concern and anger, but it is their word against his. And he will not bend, will not yield.
“Can you please step out of the room?” Wooyoung says to the policeman, voice low, measured, almost commanding, a quiet assertion of control in the storm surrounding him. His eyes flick toward his friends, brief reassurance, a subtle reminder that they are not powerless.
The policeman exhales slowly, turning toward the two boys by the bed. Wooyoung’s mother stands as well, hand pressed tightly against his in a grip that is both protective and agonizing in its tenderness. He hasn’t even seen her stand since waking—only to talk to the doctors, to move between rooms. He can’t imagine what she has felt seeing her son in this state. And he refuses to imagine it. He wants only to go home, lie on the couch, watch a film, and forget. To erase everything from these last days.
Even now, a fleeting thought of an exam in a few months brushes his mind. A strange, almost absurd anchor of normalcy in the midst of chaos. He needs to study, to focus, to survive—not just this interrogation, but life itself.
The boys exchange a glance, brief, loaded with unspoken understanding, before returning their attention fully to him.
“We’re outside if you need us,” Yunho says softly, steady. Mingi’s fists are clenched, the knuckles pale, tension radiating from him in waves. Wooyoung doesn’t blame them. He would feel the same.
The interrogation continues, relentless. The policeman seems determined to chip away at him, oblivious to the exhaustion, to the bruises, to the delicate mental calculus that keeps Wooyoung afloat. But eventually, after a tense silence that stretches impossibly long, the officer relents, scribbling into the official report: accidental fall.
A fragile exhale of relief slips into the room, unnoticed by most. Wooyoung closes his eyes, letting the faint weight of control settle, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. A shiver runs down his spine, a subtle acknowledgment of the small victory. The sun outside continues to blaze, indifferent, relentless, casting the world in bright, almost mocking light.
Wooyoung remains still for a long moment, counting his breaths, feeling the slow pulse of life in his limbs, the faint ache that will not completely leave him. The world outside feels distant, almost unreal, but within him, a quiet storm settles. He is tired, achingly aware of every bruise, every pang of soreness, every sharp edge of memory and fear. And yet… he is intact, stubbornly, quietly, entirely himself.
--
After an entire week of agony, surrounded by tubes, monitors, and the incessant beeping of machines, Wooyoung finally steps out of the hospital. The sunlight hits him in full force, warm and vivid, almost painful after days in sterile fluorescent light. He has never felt so happy, so free. Every breath fills his lungs like a quiet triumph, every movement feels like reclaiming a part of himself he thought he had lost.
Life begins to stretch before him, almost normal again. The doctors have warned him to rest, to avoid any heavy exertion, to take painkillers and other medicines he barely cares about. Honestly, they are irrelevant to him now. All he wants is to feel the world without the shadow of fear pressing down on his chest, without the constant weight of helplessness.
Almost every classmate asks what happened, the whispers curling around him like wind through the hallways, pressing for answers he doesn’t wish to give. Especially why he never reported San for what he did. Wooyoung shrugs, almost careless. It’s as if the whole ordeal barely scratches his thoughts. He doesn’t want to dwell on it. He doesn’t care. All he wants is for this chapter to close, for the shadow to vanish completely.
Days pass, slow but steady. Mingi and Yunho are never far, their concern a constant presence, silent yet tangible. Their vigilance makes him smile faintly; he reassures them in quiet gestures, in calm words, but deep down he feels the weight of what they’ve endured, what they’ve carried silently beside him.
Seong-hwa, however, is the one most affected. He never entered the room while Wooyoung lay unconscious, yet he never left the hospital either. He was the one who revived him. He was the one who called the ambulance, who stayed near the chaos without flinching. Since leaving, Wooyoung hasn’t been able to speak to him; even looking at him seems impossible. Still, he tells himself—over and over—that in a few days, things will return to normal. At least, he hopes so.
The world continues on, indifferent. Life moves for everyone else, relentless and oblivious. Lectures, assignments, casual chatter, the rhythm of days—nothing has stopped.
Days blur into each other. The hospital fades from his mind, replaced by sunlight streaming through dorm windows, the hum of the city outside, the normality he longs to inhabit.
Mingi tells him about the chat with San while he was still intubated. He doesn’t want to hear it. Even just the name makes his skin crawl, a shiver running down his spine—not of fear, but pure disgust. The memory presses against him, a reminder of what he endured, but he keeps his gaze forward.
San crosses his path in the hallways occasionally. They exchange brief glances, nothing more. Silence is enough. Perhaps it’s exactly the closure he needed, the unspoken end to a chapter he never wanted written. Perhaps now, truly, it’s over.
Wooyoung walks forward slowly, each step lighter than the last, feeling his body remember itself again, feeling the world stretch out around him without restraint. The past week lingers only at the edges of his mind, fading gradually into a distant echo, a shadow that no longer defines him.
--
The library smelled faintly of old paper and dust, that kind of air that clung to silence and made every breath feel louder than it should. The soft glow of the lamps cast golden pools of light across the tables, leaving the corners drowned in shadows. Pens scratched against notebooks, pages turned quietly, but for Wooyoung it was all just background noise. He wasn’t really here. Not entirely.
His eyes skimmed over the words in the book open in front of him, but not a single sentence stayed in his mind. It was like trying to read through fog. Ever since the hospital, his concentration had been a stranger. He used to love studying with the others, even if he pretended to complain about it. Now it just felt like pretending to be normal when nothing inside him was.
Across from him, Yunho was bent over his notes with unshakable focus, lips pressed together as if the world would fall apart if he didn’t get the next definition right. Seong-hwa, perfectly composed as always, sat with his spine straight and his face calm, though his eyes flickered up now and then, watching without really watching. And Mingi—Mingi sighed every few minutes, shifting in his chair, his restlessness bleeding through the quiet. To anyone else, they looked like four ordinary students. But Wooyoung could feel it: their silence wasn’t real. It was heavy, stretched thin, tied to him and everything he’d gone through.
He hated that weight. He hated how they treated him like glass, as if he’d shatter at the slightest crack. He didn’t want their pity. He wanted to feel alive again, reckless and free, like he used to before everything changed.
“Tonight there’s a party in the dorms. Wing D,” Wooyoung said suddenly, breaking the stillness. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air like a spark in dry wood. He rolled a small scrap of paper between his fingers and flicked it at Mingi, letting the mischievous curve of a smile spread across his lips. “We’re going. Obviously.”
Mingi blinked, startled, and then just stared at him. No quick laugh, no teasing comeback. His eyes lingered too long, searching, like he was trying to read what Wooyoung wasn’t saying out loud—whether this was just Wooyoung being Wooyoung again, or whether it was a desperate attempt to outrun something darker.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Mingi said at last, his voice cautious. His gaze flickered toward Seong-hwa, who gave the smallest shake of his head before lowering his eyes to his book again, as though the pages held answers he didn’t want to say aloud.
Wooyoung leaned forward, lowering his voice but sharpening it with urgency. “Mingi, I’m fine. Really.” He swallowed, the words tasting bitter even as he forced them out. “Please. I need this.”
There it was—the crack in the mask. The plea behind the grin.
Mingi’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked ready to refuse. But then he saw it: that flicker in Wooyoung’s expression, something fragile and raw, like a flame fighting not to go out. He let out a slow breath.
“Maybe,” he said reluctantly, “but only if you promise you won’t leave my side. Not even once.”
Wooyoung let out a short laugh, trying to make it sound easy, careless. It almost fooled even him. Almost.
“Perfect,” he whispered back, his smile widening, bright and reckless, showing all his teeth. “I can’t wait.”
--
Wooyoung felt as if, for once, the world was finally spinning in the right direction.
He sat with a Coke Zero in hand—alcohol still off-limits thanks to the pile of medication he was on—while Mingi talked animatedly with what might have been a classmate from biology. Wooyoung hadn’t really caught his name earlier—Hongjoong, maybe?—and had simply nodded like he understood. He hadn’t.
Not that it mattered. The words were background noise anyway. Mingi was in the middle of telling some long, supposedly funny story about a girl he’d met at the gym. Wooyoung couldn’t care less, yet found himself oddly content, sitting there, letting the sound of voices and laughter wrap around him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was part of something normal.
The music pounded through the house, bass vibrating in his ribs, but it didn’t grate on his nerves the way it usually did. Instead, it almost felt… pleasant. Alive.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he leaned close to Mingi’s ear, raising his voice above the music. Mingi gave a distracted nod, already turning back to Hongjoong.
Wooyoung slipped through the sea of sweaty bodies, careful not to bump shoulders, and for once the chaos of being surrounded didn’t suffocate him. It was almost liberating, after so many months trapped in silence and books.
But when he left the bathroom, he didn’t head back in. Instead, he stepped outside.
The cool night air hit him instantly, crisp and steadying. He crossed the small yard and dropped onto the patch of grass, letting himself sink into it. Above him stretched a sky littered with stars, so dense and bright it felt almost unreal. For a long, quiet moment, Wooyoung just breathed.
He was happy. Genuinely happy.
And then, a figure staggered closer from the distance, footsteps uneven, until it dropped onto the grass a few meters away. The stench of alcohol drifted over immediately, sharp and suffocating, forcing Wooyoung to turn his head.
Everything froze.
San.
The moment Wooyoung’s eyes registered the familiar face, his body locked up as if some invisible thread had tied them together. San’s expression was unreadable—stiff, almost carved from stone.
Wooyoung looked away first. He didn’t care anymore about winning, losing, or whatever game they’d been trapped in before the accident. He just wanted to exist outside of it.
But San… San clearly wasn’t done.
With a quiet shuffle, he closed the distance and lowered himself beside Wooyoung.
“Uh.” San cleared his throat, knees drawn up, his half-empty beer dangling loosely between them. His voice was thick, slurred at the edges. “You’re not drinking?”
Wooyoung swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He shook his head but didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t.
“Got it.” San took a sip of his beer, as if it might steel him, then glanced around—paranoid, scanning to make sure nobody else was watching. Everyone was still inside, lost in the music.
“Thanks,” San muttered finally, quieter now. “For… not saying my name.”
Wooyoung heard it. Every word. And yet, he said nothing. Silence was safer. He let his eyes flick toward San for the briefest heartbeat. The boy’s cheeks were flushed red, from alcohol or nerves—it was impossible to tell. But there was something else there too, something Wooyoung hadn’t seen before. Not anger. Not arrogance. Something dangerously close to embarrassment.
Their gazes locked. Wooyoung tilted his head slightly, studying him like an equation he couldn’t solve. San didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into it.
And then, without warning, San closed the space between them.
The world narrowed. San’s face loomed closer, eyes fluttering half-shut. Wooyoung could feel the ghost of his breath, warm and dizzying, brushing against his skin.
It was too much.
Wooyoung shoved him back.
San blinked as if jolted awake, eyes wide, face burning scarlet as though his skin itself might combust. For a second, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
Then San shot to his feet. The beer slipped from his hand, crashing into the grass, liquid foaming into the dirt. His gaze wasn’t on Wooyoung anymore—it scattered, restless, clinging to the empty space around them.
“No one would believe you anyway,” he slurred, voice ragged.
He dragged his palms down his jeans, trying to ground himself, then spared Wooyoung a single, fleeting glance. One heartbeat.
“I don't snitch,” Wooyoung’s voice cracked the silence, trembling but unyielding.
San’s chest rose with a sharp breath. He nodded once, curt and unreadable, before disappearing back into the night with the same suddenness he had arrived.
And Wooyoung was left behind, heart racing, mind screaming incoherent thoughts into the starlit air.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter Text
“Mom?”
San slings his backpack off his shoulder, but it feels impossibly heavy. The silence of the house presses against him, a weight that makes his chest ache. He’s used to it, or he thought he was—but today, it’s different. Today, it feels cruel.
He drops the bag on the floor, the sound echoing too loudly. His fingers fumble as he slips off his shoes, mechanical movements, disconnected from the heat rising inside him.
“Mom?”
The word trembles out. No answer. Only the hollow echo that seems to mock him.
He tiptoes down the hallway, each movement magnified in his mind. His ears strain. He thinks he hears a laugh. Soft. Warm. It flutters in his chest and then vanishes, leaving a hollow ache that twists like a knife.
In his hands, the assignment feels impossibly important. The highest grade. Even higher than Yeosang. The teacher had praised him, touched him, smiled at him. Her words had burned into him like sunlight, warm and pure. He remembers it all—the glow in his chest, the pride that made his face heat up.
All he wants is for his mother to see him. To see him now. To smile at him, to tell him she's proud of him. To acknowledge what the teacher already has.
The hallway stretches endlessly. Every step echoes, every second magnifies the sound of a laugh he can’t quite place. His chest pounds. His stomach knots.
He knocks lightly. He always knocks lightly. Politeness. Manners. Everything drilled into him.
He peeks in on tiptoe, only half his head visible.
What he sees makes him freeze.
His mother sits at the table. Her silk robe clings to her like liquid shadow, revealing more than just elegance. One foot rests in the lap of a young man, dressed in a uniform he recognizes from the house staff. The other foot is held gently in his hands. They smile at each other, intimate. He is invisible.
San’s throat tightens. His small hands tremble uncontrollably. Anger, confusion, and a visceral, almost physical ache of jealousy wash over him.
“I got the highest grade in class! Even higher than Yeosang!”
He blurts the words out, the syllables tripping over themselves. For a moment, her eyes flick to him. Recognition? Hope flares. But it dies instantly. She turns back to the man, laughing at something he says, whispering, smiling—without him.
Her voice finally reaches him—but it isn’t for him.
“You’re amazing with those hands. What else can you do?”
The words slash into him like a blade. She sips her drink, eyes half-lidded, amused, intimate. The man replies, softly, smoothly, and though he cannot hear, every sound twists around San like a knife, wrapping tighter in his chest. They are speaking a language he cannot reach, a world he cannot touch.
San freezes. Time stretches, each second feels thick. His body feels small too, unworthy. He wants to scream. To run. To shake her until she sees him. But he cannot. He is paralyzed, trapped in the room, trapped inside his own body, inside his own helplessness.
His hands ball into fists so tight he can barely breathe. Every laugh, every shared glance between them, drives a shard of something sharp and poisonous into him. He feels it physically—hot, twisting, raw—like knives scraping his ribs from the inside.
He hates her. Hates her beauty, her laughter. Hates her for looking away, for choosing someone else’s warmth over the her own child who had earned praise, who had deserved it, who needed it. He hates the way she smiles, the way she moves, the way she makes him invisible with nothing more than a glance.
And yet… a small, desperate part of him still wants her gaze. Still wants her approval. Still aches to be seen, even as his heart pounds with fury.
San hates her. And he knows—he always will.
The room feels tighter now, the walls pressing in, the air heavy. Every movement she makes, every subtle touch with the man, reverberates through his chest. He imagines himself there, touching her hand, reaching for her smile, begging for a glance—and his mind twists in rage and longing, desperate for validation he knows he’ll never get.
He is small, broken, furious, and utterly alone.
—
San pushes his way through the crowd, the heat of a hundred bodies pressing in on him—dancing, laughing, moving as one. The noise swallows him whole. His stomach twists, bile rising; his limbs feel detached, as if they belong to someone else. Flashbacks of just minutes ago claw at his mind, each image scraping his skin raw. The way Wooyoung looked at him before pushing him away—it burns like acid in his chest.
San hates rejection. He hates the taste of losing.
He needs to fix it, to claw back some control, to scrape off the filth that’s burrowing under his skin like a parasite gnawing at his sanity.
He scans the faces in the crowd, vision tilting, the alcohol in his veins making him feel weightless even as his thoughts drag him down, back to what he just did.
He didn’t really want to kiss Wooyoung. At least, that’s what he tells himself. A mistake. A terrible misunderstanding.
San isn’t like Wooyoung.
He won’t be. He can’t be.
San has never struggled with self-esteem. He knows what he looks like. He knows what people see when their eyes land on him. Compliments have chased him all his life—his body, the way he moves. Girls stare like they’d pay just to taste him.
Tonight, it’s gonna be nothing but a game. He told himself that the moment he walked in. The first girl who comes close, who dares to brush against him, will be the one. Easy. Quick. Proof.
His gaze cuts through the crowd like a blade, dissecting every face, every set of eyes that lingers too long. He doesn’t need effort. A smirk, a throwaway compliment, fingers brushing a bare arm—then the bathroom door shuts, and it’s over. He’s done it before. He can do it again.
It should feel simple. It always has.
San moves toward the makeshift bar, grabbing the first bottle his hand brushes against. He pours himself a glass without even checking the label, his fingers trembling just enough to betray the desperation behind the gesture. He needs this. He needs it. He tells himself he needs it. He drinks to forget. He drinks to feel normal. He drinks to feel anything.
The alcohol is settling in his system, clouding the sharp edges of his thoughts. Good. That’s exactly what he wants—blurred lines, muffled noise, anything that keeps him from hearing his own head. Around him, the music blasts, but here it feels distant, as if the speakers were buried underwater.
He takes a long sip, then catches sight of a girl nearby. She’s talking to her friend, laughing at something trivial. Juniors, maybe. Slim, beautiful in that effortless, untouchable way. Pure. One blonde, one redhead. San’s gaze hooks on the blonde.
Yes. That’s what you need. A girl. Normal. Easy. Clean. Safe. Not him. Never him.
He doesn’t think—his body just moves, reckless and slow, every step betraying the weight of the alcohol in his veins.
“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” he murmurs, leaning close to her ear. His words slur just slightly, but he forces them out with the confidence of someone who’s pretending not to be broken.
You wanted him then, and you want him now, in ways you can’t touch, can’t admit, can’t say aloud. And you’re terrified.
The blonde giggles, hiding her face with her hand. “Are you always like this?” she teases, her voice light and playful.
Shut up. Don't talk.
Say yes. Say yes. Pretend you’re fine. Pretend you’re normal.
San’s hand brushes the girl’s back. His fingers graze the warm skin under her shirt, and part of him tells himself this is enough. A substitute. A lie. A shield against what he truly wants.
“No,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Only with you.”
The words feel wrong in his mouth. They are a shield, a diversion, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the ground. Inside, his chest tightens, stomach knots, and a cold awareness settles over him: every laugh, every touch, every whispered word is a battle against the pull of desire he cannot admit.
She is not him. But he is not safe. He is not normal. He is not clean.
And he wants him.
Wooyoung. Always Wooyoung.
Even now. Even as he drinks and touches and pretends.
His lips curve into a smile but he doesn’t feel anything. “Let me take you somewhere.”
—
San knows exactly what he’s doing is wrong. Filthy.
He hasn’t even asked the blonde girl’s name. He simply led her into the bathroom. Closed the door. Made her kneel. For all he knows, she could be anyone. He hasn’t even kissed her. Nothing.
All he sees are blurred images, all his primal urges taking over. He moves his hand along his pants and then, with more force than necessary, he guides his cock into her mouth. She looks up at him, maybe a shy, embarrassed smile. San doesn’t look at her. Can’t. His mind is consumed by need, every sensation. Something deeper he can’t name now.
His hands grip her head, fingers tangled in her hair, tight enough to anchor her in place. He sets a rhythm almost unnatural and still he doesn’t dare to look at her. He only wants release, to come, to prove—to himself—that this is where he belongs. A beautiful girl between his legs, and nothing else matters.
San closes his eyes, drinking in the warmth, the wetness, the sensation of her mouth moving over him. He throws his head back, moaning loud, high and raw. Maybe he wants to be heard, he need to let the world know what consumes him. Alcohol courses through his veins, amplifying every detail, making everything sharper, more urgent.
“Like that…” he murmurs, teeth clenched, pressing into her throat. He feels her cough beneath him, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate.
Then, suddenly, he lowers his gaze—and it hits him like ice.
Where the blonde girl had been, he sees Wooyoung. The same dark, big eyes he had been staring into before ending up in this bathroom. Hair black as night, lips slightly parted, red and wet, curling into a teasing, languid half-smile. The sight freezes him, makes his pulse hammer in his ears.
San blinks, bangs his head lightly against the wall behind him, trying to force himself awake. His fist clenches tight against his forehead.
“Go away, fuck- just go,” he murmurs, voice rough and ragged between moans.
He hears the girl stop abruptly, asking “Are you okay?” But her words drift to him, muffled, disconnected, almost irrelevant. San doesn’t answer. He drives himself relentlessly, pushed by need and hunger, until his orgasm hits him, violent, consuming, leaving traces everywhere—her face, lips, chest.
Even then, he doesn’t dare look. He cannot face those eyes again.
He is terrified. He feels like some kind of psycho. He is obsessed. He steps away without a second look back, a glance, slamming the door behind him, the world outside suddenly irrelevant.
His mind is still tethered to that gaze, to that presence. Wooyoung’s eyes, those impossible dark eyes, burn into him even now, pulling, haunting, demanding.
He wants to forget but he can’t.
—
The weather outside is practically perfect.
San sat on a bench outside the campus, the warmth of the sun doing little to ease the chill in his chest. He watched Yeosang and Jongho darting across the court with a basketball, their laughter bright and careless, bouncing in the air like it belonged to a life he wasn’t sure he had anymore.
"Hey, that’s cheating!” Jongho yelled, hands on his hips, a mixture of mock outrage and genuine competitiveness in his voice. “You can’t play like that!”
Yeosang laughed, tilting his head back with the kind of reckless confidence that made the world seem simple. He aimed, released the ball, and it sailed perfectly through the hoop. Arms spread wide, he turned to his friend with a victorious grin.
“Not my fault you don’t know how to play.”
Jongho scowled, clearly offended, before lunging after Yeosang, their laughter overlapping and bouncing off the pavement like a soundtrack to a normal, ordinary afternoon.
It had been days since the party. Days since the incident he couldn’t, wouldn’t speak of. And yet, the memory clung to him like a shadow, refusing to fade. He had tried to push it aside, convince himself it was just a moment, a foolish impulse—but it wasn’t. Not entirely. He had seen Wooyoung a few times since that night. No words were exchanged. Just fleeting glances, sharp and heavy, filled with unsaid things. San kept his distance. The farther away, the safer it felt.
“Can I ask you guys something?”
San stood, brushing off his pants, and walked over to them. He caught the ball in his hands and began dribbling absentmindedly, the steady thump against the pavement keeping time with the uneasy rhythm in his chest. Yeosang and Jongho watched him, their smiles still bright despite the exhaustion painted across their faces.
“Have you ever…” His throat tightened. He searched for words, trying to keep his face neutral “…wanted to be with someone—like really, truly wanted it—but at the same time known it’s completely wrong?”
He shot. Missed.
Yeosang laughed, confused. “What the hell are you talking about, man?” He jogged after the ball as it rolled away.
San forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck.
I tried to kiss a man. The thought burned like a secret too hot to hold, and yet what came out instead was blunt, almost careless:
“A freshman girl gave me a blowjob in the bathroom the other day.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the breeze. “But I couldn’t even look at her after I came. I just… ran.”
Because the truth was far messier. The pleasure hadn’t been hers. Not really. His body reacted, but only partially. His mind had been elsewhere the whole time, flashing to Wooyoung: the dark intensity of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the heat of him imagined between his hands, the taste of him on his tongue. That thought had been the only real spark. Only that had made him come.
He remembered the warmth of her mouth, the way she tried, the softness, and yet it all felt muted, distant. He had done what was expected, what was necessary, but his mind had betrayed him. His body had betrayed him. And after it was over, he had fled, unable to face the girl, unable to face himself.
Jongho sprinted past Yeosang, snatched the ball, and held it against his chest. “It’s post-coital dysphoria or some shit like that,” he said, tossing it back to San. “Pretty common in men. Don’t stress about it.”
San caught it, holding it tight as if it could anchor him to sanity. He dribbled again, the sound of the ball hitting the pavement keeping rhythm with the anxiety thrumming in his veins.
“I don’t know… maybe something’s wrong with me.” He aimed for the hoop, missed again, the sound echoing hollowly, a reminder of the disconnect inside him.
Yeosang came over, slinging an arm around his shoulders. His smile was steady, warm, but the flicker of worry in his eyes was unmistakable. “Has it happened more than once?”
“Not really.” San slipped from the embrace, chasing the ball again, letting the rhythm of dribbling be his only anchor.
Jongho collapsed to the ground, legs stretched out, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “At least someone’s sucking your dick,” he muttered lazily, a smirk tugging at his lips.
San laughed, hurling the ball at him.
Yeosang smacked Jongho sharply on the back of his head and spread his arms, as if saying, “Seriously? Now? Really?”Jongho rubbed the back of his skull, casting a crooked, annoyed glance at his friend.
San wasn’t paying attention. Not anymore.
A few meters ahead, Wooyoung stood with another boy. San couldn’t make out their faces clearly, couldn’t identify the other boy. Yet his eyes were fixed on them, unwilling to blink. His chest tightened painfully, his ribs pressing together. The basketball slipped through his fingers with a soft thud, unnoticed, and his hands trembled slightly from the tension that had coiled in his arms.
why can’t I look away? why do I burn like this?
Wooyoung pulled the other boy into a hug, face buried in the boy’s chest. A simple hug. That’s all it should have been.
But San’s stomach twisted violently. His heart slammed against his ribcage, each beat reverberating through his veins like a drum. Sweat prickled along his scalp, neck, and the small of his back. His fists clenched until his knuckles ached, trembling as they flexed and released involuntarily.
Jealousy. Anger. Desire. Confusion. A desperate ache that curled through his chest and into his throat, leaving him momentarily breathless.
I should look away. I want to look away. But I can’t.
“Are you seeing this?” he snapped at Yeosang and Jongho, his voice shaking. “Right in front of everyone… they don’t even have shame at all.”
Yeosang stepped closer, eyes following San’s gesture.
“It’s just a hug, San. You don’t need to react like—”
Shut up. His arms around someone else. His warmth on another’s skin. The way he moves. The way his eyes don’t see me, yet burn me through my chest. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
San’s internal scream reverberated through every fiber of his body. His legs trembled, coiled like springs ready to launch. He bent to pick up the basketball, moving toward them without realizing it. Each step carried urgency, driven by something he could not name, something almost feral.
His friends shouted behind him, but their voices were distant.
He flung the ball at Wooyoung’s legs. Hard. “This isn’t your spot, faggots. Go somewhere else.” Words spat like venom, but they didn’t taste like victory. They tasted like desperation.
Wooyoung froze, processing, then slowly released the other boy from the hug. He turned toward San. Calm. Detached. Exhausted. Silent. As if nothing San was feeling even mattered.
San’s heart hammered.
Why is he so calm? Why does he make me feel like this?
“What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded, stepping closer, but Wooyoung remained still. The boy next to him moved as if to intervene, but Wooyoung held him back with a single hand.
Time stretched as a single tear of sweat slid down the back of his neck. His pulse rattled his ears. Every muscle in his body was taut, ready to spring or collapse.
With agonizing slowness, Wooyoung took the other boy’s hand and walked away.
Not a word. Not a glance back.
San froze, breath short, hands trembling. All he could see was Wooyoung. Every step he took left a burn in San’s chest, a hollow, aching fire that refused to be extinguished.
“Fuck…” he muttered between clenched teeth, the world around him dissolving into a blur of noise. This wasn’t simple anger. It was worse. It was pure jealousy, silent and fierce, creeping into every thought, every nerve, threatening to consume him entirely.
San wanted to ask who the boy was. Why Wooyoung held him so close. Why it had to be him. Why Wooyoung was doing this to him.
A part of him wanted to chase, to grab, to scream, to drag Wooyoung back into his orbit. Another part—the darker part—wanted to collapse, let the obsession take over completely, let it consume him until nothing remained but the fire and Wooyoung.
And all the while, Wooyoung walked away, indifferent, leaving San standing in the middle of the campus.
Chapter Text
Wooyoung has a secret.
Or perhaps it is truer to say that Wooyoung has a problem.
Yet the problem, no matter how stubbornly he tries to bury it, begins to shape itself into something darker, something heavier—a secret. And like all problems left unspoken, hidden even from the people we trust most, it festers. First it becomes a shadow, then a secret, and finally a parasite—gnawing its way through the walls of his chest, eating at him from the inside out.
That is how Wooyoung’s torment begins.
He had never hidden his sexuality. He never had a reason to. He had never felt the faintest spark of desire for a woman—never once. To him, women were radiant beings, luminous in their femininity, fascinating in their delicate gestures, their subtle strength, their easy grace. He admired them endlessly, sometimes even envied them. At times, he had tried to emulate that beauty, weaving it into the fabric of his own identity.
His clothes had always walked a fine line between audacity and allure—tight, translucent shirts that clung like second skin, pants that left little to imagination. His neck was often adorned with jewelry: chains, chokers, glittering stones that caught the light and demanded to be seen. Both his earlobes gleamed with studs or sparkles, as if he carried his own constellation with him wherever he went.
The comments of others—the whispers, the smirks, the insults—mean nothing to him. At sixteen, when the world is sharp and terrifying, when everything feels too new and too dangerous, Wooyoung finds his own small space in the world simply by learning to be himself. No masks, no pretense, no apologies.
He experiments freely, chasing every spark of curiosity.
He dyes his hair in vibrant colors, paints his face with bold strokes of makeup, lines his eyes until they cut like blades, coats his nails in bright lacquer. Every detail is another way of declaring to the world: I am here, and I am myself. I embrace every version of myself without hesitation.
When people threw words at him like knives, he answered back without hesitation.
His retorts were swift, his tongue sharp enough to draw blood. And yet, he had never taken their cruelty to heart; he never gave them the power to wound him.
His mother used to warn him, half in jest and half in worry, that one day his sharp tongue and reckless words would get him into real trouble. Wooyoung remembered only laughing at her, pressing a cherry-flavored kiss to her cheek, leaving behind the faint shimmer of lip gloss as though it were his signature, his unspoken promise: I will always be myself.
Even in relationships, though he has not had many, Wooyoung always pays close attention to whom he lets near him—whether friendship or love. He gave his trust only to those he felt truly deserved a place beside him. He had once tried one-night stand, just once, and returned home in tears. He had learned from that single mistake never to scatter pieces of himself carelessly. His body, his heart, his spirit—those were gifts meant only for someone who loved him deeply, wholly.
And love, in many ways, had always found him. Wooyoung had been blessed with people who adored him for what he was, who never asked him to change, who held him close without hesitation. And in return, he gave back double what he received. That was who he was. That was who he had always been.
Sweet Wooyoung. Beloved Wooyoung.
Wooyoung, who answers hate without fear.
Empathetic Wooyoung. Sensitive Wooyoung. Clever, radiant, untamed Wooyoung.
But still—
Wooyoung has a secret.
And he does not know what to do with it.
—
Wooyoung stands in front of the mirror in his small room, the soft hum of the heater mingling with the chaos of colors spread across his desk—lipsticks, glosses, palettes, brushes, scattered like stars in a private galaxy. The faint smell of his perfume lingers in the air, mixed with the sweet, chemical tang of nail polish and makeup remover. On the bed, Mingi sprawls back, phone in hand, a YouTube video blasting at a volume so loud it vibrates against the walls and rattles the loose blinds. Sometimes Wooyoung wonders if Mingi’s hearing is even real.
“Do you think the nude pink lipstick or the peach-pink gloss looks better?” he asks, holding both products between his fingers, tilting his head, a small crease of curiosity forming on his forehead.
Mingi slowly turns toward him, his expression frozen in a perfect question mark, a living punctuation suspended in the air. He studies the two products as if deciding the fate of the universe, all while the video continues its relentless assault on their ears, a chorus of laughter and music bleeding into the room.
“The pink one’s matte and the gloss is shiny, right?” he finally asks, pointing at the products with his index finger, eyes lifting to Wooyoung’s. Wooyoung nods, biting back a laugh that bubbles in his chest, delicate and soft.
“Gloss,” Mingi declares at last, almost solemnly, as if he has just solved a crisis of state. “Gloss. Yeah. I like the way it makes your lips look.”
Then, with a casualness only Mingi can pull off, he turns back to his video, lost in the flickering screen, the light dancing across his face in little patches, casting soft shadows on his sharp cheekbones.
Wooyoung chuckles softly, the sound mingling with the faint crackle of the video. He leans closer to the mirror, fingertips tracing the outline of his lips, pressing them together to blend the gloss evenly. The cool shimmer clings to his skin, a small armor against the world outside his room.
He begins blending pink eyeshadow across his eyelids, the brush feathering color across his skin, when his phone buzzes—once, twice, a flurry of vibrations that makes his chest skip.
hongjoong
woo, hi!! I’m texting to ask ..how you’re doing??
im sorry abt that guy being so rude to you the other day.
srly.
ses an asshole.
if you’d let me step in, i swear I would’ve made him swallow his own tongue.
anyway.
I know u re with Mingi.
he’s not picking up his phone.
can u tell him the meeting is delayed by half an hour?
srry, i just got back too late and I can’t get ready in time.
okay??
sorry for the spam >.<
btw, I really enjoyed the other day.
if u ever need another hug, u know where to find me <3
i hope talking a little helped u, after everything u’ve been through these past weeks.
u’re a beautiful person.
See ya later <333
Wooyoung stares at the screen, a foolish, lighthearted smile slowly stretching across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. His chest feels lighter, as if each word from Hongjoong brushes away some of the weight he’s been carrying.
After the party and the near-kiss incident, he had returned to find Mingi drunk and collapsing into Hongjoong’s careful arms. Wooyoung laughed then, a low sound, almost like a sigh of relief. That ridiculous, small scene had, for a fraction of a second, wiped away the heaviness of what he had endured. But his face, beneath the laughter, still holds quiet shadows. And Hongjoong noticed.
On the walk back to the dorms, the night air cool against their skin, they exchange a few words. They joke about Mingi’s terrible alcohol tolerance, despite being twice their size. As they settle Mingi into his bed, Hongjoong asks if Wooyoung would like to take a walk with him sometime. He stresses the invitation is optional—no pressure, no expectation. Then, in a softer, more careful tone, he adds that he didn’t like the look on Wooyoung’s face earlier; it seemed “like someone just ripped the light right out of your eyes.”
Wooyoung doesn’t respond immediately. The words pierce him, unexpected, and he feels a flutter in his chest that is both heavy and strange. The silence stretches, thick with tension, the kind that makes your ears ring and your breath shallow, until he finally speaks: “Does Friday afternoon work? We can go to the ice cream shop on campus and walk around there.”
And so they did.
They met, sunlight casting long shadows across the campus grounds, warm light reflecting off the pavement, the air buzzing faintly with distant voices and the occasional rustle of leaves. They spent the afternoon talking, laughing, and sometimes just sitting quietly. Wooyoung shared the chaos he has endured—the hospital days, the nights he struggled to breathe—and yet he never mentions San. He didn’t tell him it was San, and he didn’t say he choose not to report him. Hongjoong didn’t ask.
In return, Hongjoong shared pieces of himself, stories of his childhood, the trauma of his coming out in his old hometown, the grief of losing his father. Wooyoung, ever empathetic, responded with gestures, with touches, with a hug that lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary, warm and grounding.
But then Choi San showed up, unnecessary and dramatic, breaking the fragile calm. Wooyoung refused to engage. Instead, he guided Hongjoong aside—who apologizes as if the fault were his—and shortly after, Wooyoung dismissed him with the excuse that he wants to be alone for a while. They parted quietly, a soft click of doors and the echo of footsteps marking the end of the moment.
“Hongjoong says he’ll be thirty minutes late,” Wooyoung says, picking up the mascara and carefully brushing it along his longest lashes, curling them upward.
“But that means we’ll miss the start of the game!” Mingi suddenly sits up on the bed, huffing, a flash of impatience in his movements. “Tell him we’re going without him. I don’t care.” He leans behind Wooyoung, catching his reflection in the mirror as he fixes his hair. “And I don’t want to miss the cheerleaders either.” He glances down at his friend, flashing a mischievous grin.
Wooyoung shakes his head and laughs softly at his friend’s words, a light sound filling the room. He grabs his phone and opens the chat in front of Mingi, who, curious, scrolls through the first messages and, without warning, snatches the device from Wooyoung’s hands.
“Hey!” Wooyoung exclaims, a mix of surprise and protest in his voice. “That’s a violation of privacy!”
He leans forward, trying to grab the phone back, forgetting entirely that Mingi is.. Mingi. But it’s not really Mingi reading the messages that bothers him—it’s the thought of the questions that might follow. Questions about what happened with Hongjoong. It’s the silence, the stillness behind Mingi’s gaze, that presses down on him, heavier than any words.
“Is he talking about San?” Mingi asks, his tone far too serious. Wooyoung doesn’t answer. With a sharp motion, he grabs the phone back and slips it into his pocket, as if protecting something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
“Come on, let’s go, or we’ll be late, and you won’t see the cheerleaders bouncing around,” Wooyoung tries, attempting to lighten the mood. But it doesn’t work. Because now Mingi is looking at him with worried eyes, and seeing that expression hurts—a bittersweet ache tightening in his chest.
And what hurts even more is that Wooyoung can’t be honest. He can’t tell Mingi the truth.
Because Wooyoung has a terrible secret.
Mingi doesn’t know that a few days ago, Wooyoung refused a kiss from San. He doesn’t know that, in reality, for a fleeting moment, he wanted to surrender, to lean in, to kiss him back. He doesn’t know that once he returned home, stunned and breathless, he touched himself in the shower at the mere thought of him.
Not because Wooyoung thinks San is a good person—or a good match. No. He will never forgive him for what he made him endure, for the homophobic insults, the hostile glances that seemed to pierce through him. Never.
And yet, he can’t ignore the fact that he feels drawn to him, pulled like two magnets forced toward each other despite their own will.
In a strange, unsettling way, Wooyoung even feels a thrill knowing that San seems so obsessed with him. Ever since the party incident—where San almost violently crossed the line—he has followed Wooyoung with his eyes wherever he goes, lingering, intense, almost magnetic.
But Wooyoung doesn’t know how to respond.
He doesn’t know whether to fight, to run, or to give in to impulses he cannot voice.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
—
They are both sipping on their Cokes, sitting a few rows from the court, close enough to feel the pulse of the game in every cheer and shout, when Hongjoong finally drops into the seat beside them. It hasn’t been too long, but definitely more than thirty minutes since Mingi and Wooyoung first arrived.
“Sorry,” he announces, still breathless, as if he has run the whole way here. “Looks like I’m later than expected.”
Wooyoung smiles at him—almost tenderly—and shifts a little to make space for him on the bench. “Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything special,” he says, glancing at Mingi, who looks like the most focused person in the entire arena. His eyes are locked on the game, sharp and intense, almost as if he were the coach himself.
“We’re two points ahead,” Mingi mutters, his tone clipped with concentration. “Our defense is completely out of control tonight. The Clous don’t even know wh—” But his sentence cuts off mid-word because he’s already on his feet, along with half the row, shouting at the top of his lungs: “Pass that ball!”
Hongjoong and Wooyoung exchange a look, the kind that sparks laughter even before a sound leaves their lips. They both chuckle, and Wooyoung instinctively covers his mouth with his hand, a habit he’s never managed to shake. When he glances sideways, Hongjoong is staring at him—softly, intently—his smile carrying something warmer than amusement.
“That eyeshadow… it really suits you,” Hongjoong says, hesitating slightly over the word as if testing it. “That’s what it’s called, right?” His finger hovers in the air, inching toward Wooyoung’s eyelid, almost as if he wants to touch it.
Wooyoung freezes for a moment, watching him, then keeps smiling, though his tone shifts playfully. “If you touch it, you’ll ruin it.”
Hongjoong retracts his hand immediately, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. It’s such a sweet sight that Wooyoung can’t help but think it: Hongjoong is sweet.
“Thanks,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice lower now, almost private. He places his hand gently on Hongjoong’s knee, squeezing ever so slightly.
Hongjoong startles at the sudden touch, his body giving the faintest jolt, but his smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it glows brighter, as if the whole arena’s noise fades for a moment, leaving only the two of them in that fragile, unspoken space.
The night drifts on in fragmented laughter, casual remarks tossed carelessly between the three of them. Mingi dominates the conversation, slipping into the exaggerated role of a sports commentator, each word theatrical, each gesture overly dramatic. The others laugh, caught in the current of his energy, but Wooyoung barely hears them. His attention has long since been claimed by something—or someone—else.
Because then he feels it: a stare searing the back of his neck like fire.
Up ahead, San sits among his friends, or at least he tries to look as if he belongs there. But every muscle, every subtle twitch of his posture betrays him. His eyes have not left Wooyoung since the moment he arrived, tracing his movements with a precision that is almost painful to feel. It’s as though the world has narrowed to a single, suffocating point: him.
Wooyoung dares only a glance, from the corner of his eye, and it is enough. The intensity of San’s gaze crashes over him in waves. It makes his skin prickle, his stomach tighten. There’s something almost predatory in the way San watches him, something that ignites both fear and curiosity in equal measure. He forces himself to blend in with the laughter around him, hiding behind his own casual movements, careful not to be noticed—especially by Hongjoong, whose attention to him is unnerving. Normally, Wooyoung might have welcomed the watchful presence, a silent reassurance that he is seen. But tonight is different. Tonight, the game is not about comfort.
Inside, his mind spins. Thoughts tumble over one another in chaotic bursts. A thousand questions, a thousand silent “what ifs” stretch across his consciousness like storm clouds.
Why is he looking at me like that?
Why does he hate me so much?
Wooyoung shivers, pushing the memory away. He hasn’t hurt San—not truly. Just a few biting remarks, responses to provocations, nothing more. He has never started anything, never escalated beyond a shadow of conflict. And yet, the intensity of San’s hatred is undeniable, like an invisible weight pressing down on him.
He knows, finally, that he cannot let this continue in silence. He cannot drift through this night pretending it means nothing. He needs answers. He needs to understand the fire in San’s eyes, the reasons behind the venom he feels every time their paths cross.
And so he rises, slowly. His voice, when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom, is casual, a lie as smooth as silk. His movements, however, betray a quiet purpose. He turns toward San. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, a single heartbeat stretched into eternity. No words are spoken, yet a message pulses between them, unspoken but clear: Follow me.
San jerks, subtly but unmistakably. His gaze flickers, a brief crack in his armor. His lips curl into a grimace, almost disgusted and embarrassed, a look reminiscent of a child caught doing something forbidden. Wooyoung notices, almost savoring the small victory, yet he keeps his face neutral.
He doesn’t linger. His steps are quiet and measured, echoing faintly on the polished floor, each one a drumbeat in his chest, each one carrying him closer to the dim corridor beyond the gym. The laughter and chaos of the court fade behind him, swallowed by shadows, leaving him alone with the tension that coils tightly in his chest.
He waits. Five minutes. Ten. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, making doubt seep into the edges of his resolve. Perhaps San won’t follow. Perhaps tonight, the moment will dissolve into nothing.
And then—he hears it. Footsteps. Closing in from behind.
Wooyoung’s chest tightens. Anxiety, fear, anticipation—they mingle into a heady cocktail that makes his heart race. His mind buzzes with questions, possibilities, and warnings. Yet beneath it all lies something darker, something thrilling: a spark of excitement he refuses to name.
He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.
Because he already knows.
It can only be him.
He starts walking, each step weighted with anticipation. Behind him, he senses the figure moving in perfect rhythm, like a shadow glued to his movements. It’s subtle at first, almost a whisper in the silence, but the awareness twists his stomach, coils his chest, and ignites a mix of fear and exhilaration.
It’s time to face it.
He opens the bathroom door and finally turns around.
San is there, standing still, his gaze fixed on him with a piercing intensity that feels almost tangible. His eyes roam over Wooyoung’s body, scanning him with a precision that feels invasive, and then they settle on his face. Neither of them speaks. The air between them hums with tension, thick enough to taste. Wooyoung’s mind scrambles for words, but everything dies in his throat.
But, finally, Wooyoung shatters the silence.
“Why are you staring at me?” His voice trembles, brittle with sudden anxiety, the edge of it betraying a nervous curiosity he can’t hide.
“I’m not staring at you.” San’s voice is deceptively calm. “Stop imagining things that don’t exist.”
Wooyoung laughs softly, shaking his head, arms tightening across his chest as though to anchor himself. “Really, San?”
He notices the flicker in San’s eyes, the small jolt at his words, like a crack in a mask he refuses to let fall. Almost as if their near kiss, the stares, the insults—none of it had ever existed.
“No one would believe you anyway,” San says, stepping closer, just a single measured step.
Wooyoung doesn’t respond. He knows these words. He’s already answered them the other night. He only stares, letting the tension thicken around them, let it coil and squeeze. In the bathroom, the only sounds are their breaths—shallow, quick, almost in sync—and the relentless pounding of their hearts, loud, echoing in the confined space.
“You have no right to talk to me like that. I’ve always tried to be better with you. I didn’t even report you when I could have, San. I…” Wooyoung swallows hard, eyes locking with San’s unyielding gaze. “…stop treating me like this. Please. For both of us.”
San stays silent. Wooyoung notices his hands trembling slightly, the subtle tension in his body as he steps closer, careful not to close the last fraction of distance. A wall of unspoken words hangs between them, dense and almost suffocating.
“I’ll never be like you,” San spits, voice low, soaked with restrained rage. “But I can’t get your eyes from that night out of my head.” He narrows his eyes, and the space between them shrinks until their breaths brush against each other, close enough to feel warmth, far enough to tease with impossibility.
Wooyoung is speechless, paralyzed. San’s words strike him like molten knives, sharp, scalding, unforgettable.
“What?” His voice is fragile, barely audible. He understands perfectly, yet can’t process it. His mind is disjointed, scrambled.
“Is that your boyfriend?” San’s tone is teasing, almost mocking. “I thought you had better taste.”
Wooyoung freezes completely, silence consuming him.
Then, silence again
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
“I didn’t think you could be this quiet, you…” San lets the word hang, then silence again.
“Tell me… tell me you wanted it too.” The words float in the air, charged, raw, unspoken yet undeniable. His gaze is glued to Wooyoung’s. They are so close now that if Wooyoung leaned just half a centimeter, their lips would brush.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, San.” Wooyoung forces the words out, firm but trembling. He wants to challenge him, provoke him, make him speak… really speak.
San doesn’t look pleased. His fist slams against the wall just beside Wooyoung’s head, knuckles reddening instantly. Wooyoung flinches, grimacing as though shielding himself from the force.
San doesn’t strike him, though. He only stares. His gaze drifts to Wooyoung’s lips, then back to his eyes, dark and magnetic.
“I don’t know if I want to tear you from my mind, or just from this world.” His jaw is tight, the words low, dangerous. “And you disgust me.”
Then, San’s hand shoots up, settling on the bare curve of Wooyoung’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze, only holds him there, still.
Fear blooms in Wooyoung, crawling from his stomach up into his chest and across his face. His breaths become shallow, uneven, gulping under the weight of San’s touch. The heat of his hand against his skin is incendiary, intimate, almost impossibly close. He can’t help thinking, absurdly, that this being their first contact makes it almost comical.
And then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, San releases him. He steps back, chest heaving, breathing ragged.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this. Clear?”
Before Wooyoung can even answer, San is gone. The bathroom falls silent. Wooyoung stands frozen, heart hammering, skin still tingling from the warmth of that hand, mind spinning, utterly disoriented.
Chapter Text
San absentmindedly adjusted the collar of his shirt as the waiter set down the dish he had just ordered. Across from him, his father was speaking, but San wasn’t truly listening. His words floated over him like background noise, an indistinct hum about the latest trip to Europe. The company had just opened a new branch in Rome, his father said; business was booming, and this would require him to be away even more than before. As if that were news to San.
He already knew. These were just his father’s guilty attempts to make up for lost time, to patch the invisible holes of a son who had been left behind. It had been two months? Three? San no longer counted. He never had.
After San’s mother left—vanishing into who knows where, with who knows whom—his father had tried, never fully successfully, to be more present. But within four months, life had snapped back to its usual rhythm.
Whenever his father was out of town, he called at least twice a week. When in the city, they met for Sunday lunches, unless work intervened. Nothing really changed. San had learned to navigate these patterns almost instinctively. He never blamed his father for his absence; he knew how much that company meant to him. His father had never let him lack anything, always keeping his promises, always pampering him, even from afar. Gifts, birthday wishes, Christmas, Easter, money—mountains of it. Yet still, growing up, San had always felt second in the hierarchy of parental love.
His mother preferred to fuck every man of the house staff to his. His father always put work before him. San had always felt neglected, almost invisible to the very people who should have loved him unconditionally. He had learned early that not everyone was born to be a parent, that maybe there should be certifications, exams, written and oral tests, before allowing someone to take on that responsibility.
And yet, here they were, on a Sunday in April, his father taking him out to an Italian restaurant, to celebrate his successes with his dear only son. Right now, he was talking about how different the food was, how this dish—though from a famous, Michelin-starred, ridiculously expensive restaurant—did not compare to what he’d eaten in the heart of Rome.
“When you’re done with exams, you must come with me,” he said, twirling spaghetti on his fork before putting it in his mouth. With his mouth still full, he added, “Maybe you’ll even meet a nice Italian girl!” He laughed warmly, a light in his eyes meant for his son.
San, jolted from his wandering thoughts by this, only nodded, turning the fork in his plate. He wasn’t even hungry.
“I saw beautiful women, you know? All curvy, olive-skinned, incredibly charming.”
But San wasn’t listening anymore.
“I passed Private Law.”
He looked up from his plate, the collar of his shirt suddenly unbearably tight against his throat.
“Highest score,” he added, voice steady, proud.
His father simply poured him a glass of wine, then topped up his own, smiling. “Then let’s toast.” He raised his glass, looking straight into San’s eyes. “To wine, beautiful women, and passing exams.”
Wine and beautiful women matter more than my grade?
San thought, but he lifted the glass anyway, drinking it quietly. His father’s expression darkened slightly; he studied him, searching.
“All well with your friends? Are you settling in okay?”
San remained silent, staring at the untouched plate of pasta.
“Your mother asked about you, you know?”
Silence.
San froze.
“She wanted a photo of you. Wanted to see how you’ve grown. Said she’d like to call you, sometimes.”
“And what did you say?” His voice was cold, frozen.
“I said I’d ask you first.”
“Tell her not to.”
—
San needed to drink.
To drink and to fuck.
He needed to feel absolutely nothing. To shed his own skin, to slip out of his body as if it were a heavy coat he no longer wanted to wear. He didn’t want feelings, didn’t want memories, didn’t want love. He didn’t need anything.
Only to drink until his stomach revolted, until his throat burned raw. To fuck until it felt like his cock wasn’t even his, as if it belonged to someone else—something separate, detached.
After hearing his father speak about his mother, San had felt something twist violently inside him, a knot of shame, fury, and grief he couldn’t untangle. Yeosang hadn’t asked questions. He never did. He had simply taken San’s hand and led him out of the suffocating silence and into a nearby bar.
They had known each other longer than memory made clear. Years had melted into one another until it was impossible to tell when their bond had begun. Yeosang knew more about San’s pain than San had ever said aloud. He didn’t need words. He read it in the flinches, the shadows across his friend’s face, the way San’s mouth hardened when his father was mentioned, the vacant stare when his mother came up. Yeosang had collected all those fragments, piecing together a map of San’s sorrow without ever demanding confession.
San had never had to ask him to be there. Yeosang simply was.
Now they were drenched in sweat, drunk beyond reason, clinging to each other as if their bodies were shields. Their voices cracked as they screamed some half-forgotten song, the language warped by alcohol until it barely resembled human speech. San’s throat ached, his chest heaved, but he laughed, his head pressed against Yeosang’s shoulder.
He loved this. Loved that Yeosang knew when to vanish and when to smother him with closeness. Loved that he never asked for explanations, never demanded truths. Loved that with him, he didn’t have to perform.
And yet—beneath the alcohol, beneath the sweat and noise—there was another thought. A name.
Wooyoung.
How would Yeosang react if he knew about the almosts? The nearlys? The charged moments San had collected with Wooyoung, moments so close to breaking into something else. Did Yeosang already know? Of course he did. Yeosang always knew everything.
But where was Wooyoung now? Sleeping? Laughing with someone else? Or—stupid thought—thinking of him? No. Impossible. The last time, Wooyoung hadn’t even managed to tell him he wanted to kiss him. Maybe he wasn’t his type.
What does it matter. I’m not gay. I don’t care if I’m his type.
The lie tasted bitter even as it formed.
Because the truth was there, raw, gnawing: he wanted him. He wanted to kiss Wooyoung right now, to drag him into the nearest dark corner, to tear away his clothes. He wanted to fuck him until he forgot his own name. He wanted to find out if his hole was as tight, as perfect, as he had imagined in the secret corners of his mind.
“Earth to San!”
Yeosang’s hands clapped sharply in front of his face, the sound exploding in his ears. “I’ve been calling you for, like, three hours, you fucker. Where the hell’s your head?”
San blinked rapidly, startled, like a man pulled out of a dream after a long, suffocating sleep. His vision blurred, then cleared.
Where the hell is my head?
He didn’t know anymore. Between the alcohol, the anger, the desire, and the fuck-up situation ship of his family, San wasn’t sure his head belonged to him at all.
“I don’t know what - or who - you’re thinking about,” Yeosang’s voice rose above the pounding music, low and close to San’s ear, intimate in a way that made the noise of the club feel distant. “But those thoughts are eating you alive.”
Then he looked at him, smiling, one brow raised in quiet challenge.
San let out a laugh—too quick, too sharp. “No one.”
“Bullshit.”
Yeosang took a drink, but his gaze wasn’t on San anymore. His eyes were fixed on the crowd moving like a restless tide on the dance floor.
“Look,” he said finally, his tone softer, stripped of pretense. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’ll still love you the same.” He leaned closer, the warmth of his shoulder brushing San’s. “But don’t look at me like you’re talking about a ghost.”
Wooyoung.
San stiffened. His fingers clenched around the glass so tightly that the condensation trickled down his hand like cold sweat. Yeosang could always read him like an open book. Always.
“It’s not a ghost,” San managed at last, his voice raw, the words scraping out of him as he kept his eyes down, unable to meet his friend’s gaze.
But Yeosang said nothing more. He only laughed quietly, the sound dissolving into the music, then gave San’s arm a light tap before slipping away into the chaos of the dance floor.
And just like that, San was left alone—with his drink, his silence, and the ghost that wasn’t supposed to be a ghost.
—
The days slipped by almost without San realizing it, each one bleeding into the next, indistinguishable, heavy with silence. His phone remained almost permanently set on Do Not Disturb. The thought that his mother might actually call him out of nowhere haunted him like a specter that hovered constantly at the edges of his awareness.
He still saw Wooyoung.
But since that last meeting, it was like Wooyoung had erased him from existence. He didn’t even look at San anymore. He would pass by in the hallways, chatting with his friends, sometimes with only that same boy from the game. They never held hands, but the way the boy’s eyes lingered on Wooyoung made San’s skin crawl. And every time they noticed San nearby, they would simply change direction, as if his very presence were something toxic.
There were moments when San wanted nothing more than to grab Wooyoung in front of everyone, drag him down to the floor, and scream the cruelest things he could summon right into his face—beat him bloody if he had to. Because San hated being ignored. Hated it more than anything. And this act of deliberate erasure—this pretending as their last conversation had never happened—drove him insane.
He couldn’t understand what game Wooyoung was playing. But he despised, with a raw and gnawing fury, the fact that he no longer had any power over him, no control. No way in.
And yet San was hypnotized by his presence. Completely. When he didn’t catch sight of him between classes, he found himself opening Wooyoung’s Instagram profile, scrolling through his photos, reading the comments his friends left, watching the way he responded to them. There were moments when San desired to be that free—to live with that ease, that unfiltered openness. To be able to exist so effortlessly.
But San had reached a conclusion: whatever he felt for Wooyoung, it wasn’t love. It was obsession. Pure and simple. The same kind of obsession he used to have as a child when he wanted a new toy so badly he couldn’t think of anything else. He would play with it for days, even sleep with it clutched in his arms, only to one day toss it into the bottom of a closet, forgotten, abandoned.
So he stopped asking himself questions. Because San wasn’t gay. He knew he wasn’t. He felt no attraction to other men. Only to Wooyoung. And he told himself it was because of Wooyoung’s mannerisms—the softness, the delicate gestures, the gentle, almost feminine features. The thick, glossy hair, his full lips, the curve of his nose.
San had even tried sleeping with girls these past few days. The outcome was always the same: he could only release when he took control, when he bent them over, forcing their bodies into positions where he didn’t have to look them in the eye. He could only come when it was rough, detached, mechanical.
It was a compromise, one he barely allowed himself to think about. A fragile truce with himself. Almost like he was refusing to confront the truth, refusing to name it, because naming it would make it real.
—
If there is one thing San excels at, it is watching.
Not simply looking, but devouring the world with his eyes, dismantling it piece by piece until nothing remains hidden. It has always been like this, an instinct he never asked for but that has shaped him all the same. Where others see a crowd, San sees individuals. Where others hear laughter, San hears the cracks in a voice. He notices what people think they bury—the tremor of fingers, the false curve of a smile, the shadow crossing their gaze.
He absorbs these fragments until they belong to him. Without meaning to, he memorizes them—habits, rhythms, silences—like an addiction he cannot quit. He did it with his father, dissecting every ritual until it was etched in his mind. With his friends, whose mannerisms he learned before they could even recognize them themselves. With his mother, when he was small and unseen, watching her drift like a ghost through rooms, dragging strangers behind her. Always observing, always hoarding. It is his way of owning the world.
And so he did with Wooyoung.
San tells himself lies to keep breathing: Wooyoung doesn’t matter. This is just boredom. Just a distraction. Just a way to fill the silence inside me. But the words taste hollow even as he repeats them. The truth presses harder each day. Wooyoung is the only thing that stirs his blood, the only presence that makes silence unbearable, the only name that lingers on the back of his tongue when he tries to sleep. Nothing else that scratches at his thoughts so relentlessly. It’s almost as if he wants to punish Wooyoung for daring to make him feel this way.
The more Wooyoung ignores him, the more San spirals.
Obsession is a tide.
He knows where Wooyoung goes when he thinks no one is watching. He knows which streets he walks, which corners he lingers at. San is always there, close enough to breathe the same air, but never close enough to touch. Wooyoung has never seen him—San is sure of it. And yet San feels the weight of their unspoken thread.
The last words they exchanged cannot be the last. He refuses. He will not be forgotten, will not allow Wooyoung to erase him as though he were dust on glass. Something sharp inside him demands more—demands continuation, collision, consequence.
And then there is Wooyoung himself: light incarnate. Always smiling, always radiating warmth that others cannot resist. People cling to him, laugh with him, touch him as if he belongs to everyone. Their hands leave marks San cannot see but feels burning under his own skin. Jealousy corrodes him, not just envy of Wooyoung’s effortless glow, but something far deeper, rawer—territorial, venomous. He buries it, of course, buries everything, because to name it would mean surrender.
But the truth cannot be buried forever. San knows.
He will never be like Wooyoung. This realization, however, has nothing to do with the boy’s orientation. It runs deeper than that. Every fiber of Wooyoung’s being stands in opposition to San. They are opposites in essence, two halves of a paradox that can never fully meet.
They are not simply different. Yin and Yang.
The sun and the moon.
Orbiting endlessly, yet never touching.
And it is in that distance—between light and darkness—that San feels himself unraveling.
San can’t. He never really lets anyone step inside his bubble, that fragile, suffocating sphere of space that feels like both shield and prison. Sure, Yeosang hugs him from time to time—years of friendship have built a kind of tolerance—but even then, San cannot deny the truth: there have been moments when that closeness made his skin crawl, when the weight of another body pressed against him felt unbearable. Yeosang knows this. He has always known. That is why he never pushes too far.
But with Wooyoung… Wooyoung is different. And San just knows it.
San knows his routine with the precision of a clockmaker. Thursday nights: after classes, Wooyoung retreats to the library, stays until closing, always the last to leave. Last time, San waited outside for two hours—two long hours of pacing, of forcing his breath to stay even, of rehearsing words he never spoke.
Now, it is 8 p.m. The library closes at nine.
He knows the girl at the front desk will be there, as usual, eyes on her phone, her laugh muffled through a cheap speaker. She never notices who comes or goes, only glances up out of habit. San despises negligence, despises distraction—yet tonight he is grateful for it. Grateful that she is exactly this careless.
He enters with practiced nonchalance, as if he belongs there, as if nothing inside him is burning. He doesn’t have to search. He already knows where Wooyoung is—always the same place. The very last desk, near the archive room. Always there, as though ritual compels him.
San’s footsteps are soft, nearly weightless, but inside, his body betrays him. His heart hammers a brutal rhythm, too loud, too eager. It isn’t fear. No—this is something darker, sharper. Excitement. He doesn’t yet know what he will say, but the not-knowing only feeds him. The situation itself, the anticipation, makes him feel alive in a way nothing else does. As if, for the first time, he has a purpose.
And then—he sees him.
Wooyoung, back turned, headphones on, a book open before him, pen scratching quietly across the page. Oblivious. Vulnerable. San watches the curve of his shoulders, the small movements of his hand, the subtle tilt of his head. Every detail is a spark, a pull.
San glances around—empty. The librarian hidden in her cocoon of chatter. Silence stretches thick, suffocating, sacred. For a moment it feels as though they are the only two souls left in the world, stranded in this dim-lit library where time itself has stilled.
He moves. Drags out a chair, slow but deliberate, and sits down beside him. His eyes fix on the blank wall ahead, but every nerve is locked onto Wooyoung.
The reaction is immediate. Wooyoung notices—San feels it before he sees it. A sharp intake of breath, a jolt that runs through the boy’s body. He rips the headphones off, frozen.
Silence. Long, fragile, brittle silence.
But San has no time for hesitation.
His pulse quickens, wild and merciless.
And as the moment stretches thin, his lips curve into something dark. A smile—sharp, cold, and heavy with everything he will never say aloud.
“It’s a little late to be studying.” San says, though his eyes cannot bring themselves to meet him.
Wooyoung shuts the book in front of him with a sharp snap, and now he turns fully, facing San at last.
“Isn’t it a little late to follow people?” His voice is steady, sharper than before. It seems that since their last conversation, he has grown bolder, heavier with defiance. “People might start thinking you’re a psychopath. A stalker.”
“What people?” Now San looks at him. The boy before him is clearly worn, exhaustion etched into the shadows beneath his eyes, carved by hours bent over books. “There’s no one here. Just the two of us.” His tone is soft, almost casual, but the words are blades.
Wooyoung inhales slowly, as though steadying himself. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“You.” San’s answer comes instantly, instinctively, like something ancient rising from the pit of him. “You are the problem.”
It feels as though something else speaks through him, as though he is possessed—his responses falling like prophecy, carved into the stone of destiny long before this night. His voice remains calm, static, while beneath it, tension thrums like wire pulled taut.
Wooyoung’s eyes dart around the room, searching, confirming the truth he doesn’t want to acknowledge. San is right. They are alone. And in that moment, something flickers across his face—fear. Real, raw fear. But it lasts only a heartbeat, and then it’s gone.
“Leave me alone. I think I was perfectly clear the last time.” He shoves his books closed with quick, clumsy hands, words spilling fast. He makes to rise—but San is faster.
His hand closes around Wooyoung’s wrist with brutal force, iron digging into flesh. Will it leave a mark? The thought slithers through San’s mind, dark, eager. He hopes it does. In some twisted, diseased corner of himself, he wants the bruise to bloom, to remain—proof of this moment, of his hold.
“Not so fast, pretty boy.” San’s gaze doesn’t waver, locked entirely on him. His grip tightens, sharp enough to draw a wince from Wooyoung’s face. The flicker of pain there—San savors it.
Wooyoung jerks, tries to wrench free, lips curling into a grimace. “Let me go or I’ll scream.” His voice trembles, cracking under the pressure, but he pushes the words through. “I swear I’ll do it.”
San is already on his feet, towering over him, his shadow swallowing Wooyoung whole. “No, you won’t.” Their foreheads nearly touch, the press of his presence suffocating, unrelenting. His grip tightens even further, vice-like. “Just like you didn’t say my name to the police.” A laugh breaks from his mouth, low, sinister, vibrating as he shoves Wooyoung backward, forcing him closer to the archive door. “You haven’t changed your mind now, have you?”
Silence. Wooyoung doesn’t answer, only drinks in San’s words, each syllable hitting like stone. As if silence itself were a refusal to accept that San is right.
“I can hear your heart. Fast. Too fast. You’re not about to have a heart attack, are you?” San’s voice drips with cruel amusement, his face close enough to taste the air Wooyoung breathes. He can smell him—clean, too clean. Vanilla, coconut, the faint sweetness of shampoo. It’s disorienting. Wooyoung smells pure, but San knows he isn’t. He’s filthy. A joke of nature. A deviation. And yet San feels intoxicated, drunk on him, as though his presence were whiskey burning his throat, addictive, ruinous.
“Are you scared?” San murmurs, pressing closer, so close Wooyoung’s back collides with the wall. His free hand hovers near the archive door handle, as if the whole night is pivoting on this single motion.
“Scared? You’re the one who’s terrified.” Wooyoung’s words are venom, low and sharp. “You’re terrified. You want to kiss me again, San? It’s a shame you can’t even admit it to yourself.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You like pretty boy, don’t you? Just like me. Admit it. I won’t judge you.”
The words strike like fire. Rage ignites in San, sudden and scorching, flooding him red. He wants to smash his head against the wall, to split him open, to see blood scatter and drip. He wants to tear the tongue from his mouth, to watch those defiant eyes roll lifeless in their sockets. The images come unbidden, vivid.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he wrenches the door open and shoves Wooyoung inside. The boy stumbles, falls hard to the ground. San follows immediately, shutting the door behind them. The room plunges into darkness—no windows, no light. The air itself feels strangled. And in the blackness, San feels a flicker of relief. The shadows are his ally. His breath betrays him, rough, uneven.
“Are you going to kill me, San? Do it. I dare you.”
Shut up. Shut up.
San forces him up again, slamming him back against the wall, body pressed into shape by force alone. He cannot see Wooyoung clearly, only the outline of him, trembling or defiant—it doesn’t matter.
“Do it, fuck. What are you waiting for?” Wooyoung spits through clenched teeth, almost shouting, his voice shattering the silence. “You’re a coward. A fucking coward. You don’t have the guts.”
Shut up. Shut your mouth. Shut up.
The words throb in San’s head, drowning out thought, rising like a chant.
All San can do is bring his hand to Wooyoung’s throat. But this time, the grip is not what it was the last time. There’s no hesitation, no mask of playful control—there is hatred, there is the hunger to see him bow, to force him down into submission. And San doesn’t even bother lying to himself anymore. Holding Wooyoung by the throat makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel godlike. His fingers tighten slightly, and he feels the heat bloom beneath his palm, Wooyoung’s soft skin burning alive beneath his hold.
“I could do it.” The words fall out in a whisper, poisonous, trembling with temptation. They’re so close again that San could almost get used to this distance, almost convince himself it’s natural. “But I came here to make a compromise. If only you’d stop acting like a screaming little bitch…” His head tilts, lips brushing dangerously near Wooyoung’s ear. His voice lowers, dripping like venom. “I almost like seeing you like this.”
His hand clamps harder, cutting the silence between them into shards. And this time Wooyoung goes still—silent, reverent, as if some primitive part of him recognizes the danger, recognizes San’s hold as something primal.
“I can’t even look at the girls I fuck anymore. Because of you.” San’s voice is raw, savage. “I have to imagine it’s you underneath me. That my cock is inside your little dirty tight hole instead of their dripping cunts.”
His lips trace the pale line of Wooyoung’s cheek, his breath hot, his words acid. “You disgust me, but I want to be honest.”
Under his hand, San feels the rise and fall of Wooyoung’s Adam’s apple, convulsing against his grip. The fragile reminder of how easy it would be to snap him. To silence him forever.
“Why do you pretend not to see me when you pass by? Is it your boyfriend? Is he jealous?”
“Let me go, San.”
But San only laughs. The sound that escapes him is not human—it’s twisted, jagged, a laugh scraped raw from the throat of something inhuman, something unhinged. His lips press lightly to Wooyoung’s cheek, a kiss so feather-soft it feels obscene. Too pure. Too innocent. The touch makes adrenaline explode inside him, coursing through his veins like fire. How could something so gentle, so slight, feel like oxygen in his lungs? How could this be all he needs to breathe?
“I want to… I can’t…” The courage he carried only moments before bleeds out of him. Evaporates. Suddenly, he is powerless. Even as his body holds control, even as he has Wooyoung pinned, he feels like it’s Wooyoung dictating every movement, every twitch of his hand, every flicker of breath. Like Wooyoung is inside his skull, tearing through his thoughts with claws and teeth.
“You want it too, don’t you? What I feel isn’t just me—I know it. You want it too.” San’s words shake, desperate. He leans closer until their chests press, until their hearts pound in synchrony, an unbearable rhythm beating between them.
“Tell me I’m right.” His forehead presses against Wooyoung’s, trembling. He can feel him shaking like a leaf caught in a storm, but not a single word escapes his lips. Silence. Agonizing silence.
“I want to kiss you. Please. Don’t push me away. Can I? Just let me do it. No one will ever know. It’ll be.. Our secret.”
San’s defenses collapse completely. His gaze burns into Wooyoung as though he could see him through the dark. He knows him, down to the smallest detail. Even blind, he could sketch his face perfectly. He’s etched into his bones.
“Let me go, San.” The words come broken, thin, like the voice of someone on the verge of tears.
San’s hand tightens again around his throat, dragging their lips so close they nearly brush.
He thinks, in that moment, if only Wooyoung whispered he was cold, San would set fire to every single book in this cursed library just to keep him warm.
“You don’t want me? I know you do. I feel it. I know it.” His words spill like the delirium of a madman convincing himself of his own lies, clinging to them like a lifeline.
But Wooyoung stays silent. His frantic breath crashes against San’s mouth, trembling, hot, too close. San wants to peel his skin off, crawl inside, live beneath it.
“You don’t deserve it.” At last, Wooyoung’s voice cuts the air. Sharp. Brutal. “You don’t deserve my lips, San. You don’t deserve anything.” His words are knives, honed to pierce exactly where they will wound the deepest. And they do.
San doesn’t relent. He can’t. Not now when they’re this close. Not when the truth of his obsession is laid bare in every twitch of his hand, every ragged breath. He knows the words are armor. He knows they’re fear. Fear of what San could do. Of what San has already done.
“Please.” San’s eyes squeeze shut, like he’s praying for mercy. “You know I won’t stop. I can’t.”
Silence answers him. A silence so loud it screams.
And then—clang. The library’s bell rings. Closing time.
“Please,” San whispers again, one final plea.
But Wooyoung moves before San can register it. He jerks San’s hand from his throat and shoves him hard in the chest. The shock of it rips San’s balance, and in that instant Wooyoung is free. He slips from his grasp like smoke. Quick, desperate, gone.
San hears the door fling open, the rush of air, the patter of footsteps cutting away from him. He sees him run, run toward the exit, without looking back.
And then there is nothing.
San stays frozen, breath ragged, chest hollow, the ghost of Wooyoung’s warmth still burning against his hand. His knees nearly give. This is the end, he tells himself.
San is fucked.
Chapter 7
Notes:
While I was writing this chapter, I almost felt the urgency to put down a few words and clarifications for you, my readers.
If you have reached with me until this point, I owe you my deepest gratitude.
This story walks through fragile, heavy places. It is not light, nor easy. If at any point you feel unsettled, please, take care of yourself. I understand. And if any of these words echo too closely to your own life, I beg you: do not carry that weight alone. Seek help. You are not alone.
The tags exist for a reason. They are warnings, carefully placed. Read them with attention. This is my only way of holding out a hand before you step further in.
Thank you, deeply and endlessly.
Hope you like it!
Chapter Text
The moment Wooyoung slams the door shut behind him, his world shatters into a thousand pieces.
He doesn’t even know what name to give to the thing swelling inside his chest.
Something nameless, monstrous. Tears slip from his eyes before he even realizes, hot and relentless, streaking down until his face is soaked. His breath comes short, jagged, like he’s been drowning for hours and just now broke the surface.
He collapses to the floor, his back sliding down against the cold wall until he’s sitting right there in front of the door, as if he’s trying to block out the world. His hands clutch at his throat. The phantom of San’s grip is still there, seared into his flesh. He can feel the heat of it, the burn, the pressure like a brand. He can’t breathe. No air. His lungs refuse to obey.
He wants to believe none of this happened. That it was a dream. A nightmare. Some cruel trick his brain has staged while he wasn’t looking.
He draws his knees to his chest, holding himself tightly, as if trying to make himself smaller, to take up less space in a world that suddenly feels too heavy. As if disappearing—even for a moment—might give him a chance to breathe again. Just enough to survive the night.
But the tears keep falling. And Wooyoung thinks that if he doesn’t make himself breathe again—really breathe—the next thing that will happen is suffocation. He will choke to death on silence, on fear, on San’s ghost.
He feels like he’s drowning on land. His head spins, vertigo twisting the room into a warped funhouse mirror. Nothing looks the same. His own space feels alien, unrecognizable. Like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. Like he doesn’t belong to himself. Like San stole something—choice, control, freedom. His will is gone.
He stares down at his hands. On his wrist, the mark of San’s grip runs deep and angry, red grooves carved into his skin. The evidence. Proof that it happened. That it’s real. No escape now.
His stomach knots so hard he nearly vomits.
And then, without even deciding to, he’s on his feet. He doesn’t remember commanding his body to move—he feels like a puppet, jerked forward by invisible strings pulled from above. Someone else is guiding him, something that isn’t him.
He stumbles to the mirror, where his makeup is still scattered carelessly, abandoned from earlier. He flicks on the harsh neon lights, and the reflection staring back at him nearly breaks him.
His neck is a battlefield. Angry red welts, swollen and raw, glowing like fresh wounds. They look alive. They look like San’s hand is still there, still clamped, still squeezing. His wrist too, bruised and raw, screaming of violence. Unforgivable.
Wooyoung’s legs falter, strength seeping out of him. He’s collapsing.
His hand trembles as it rises to his throat, wrapping around himself, mimicking San’s grip. The gesture alone is unbearable. And then it bursts out of him. Wooyoung laughs.
Hysterical. Wrong.
He doesn’t know why. He can’t explain it. He’s laughing and sobbing all at once, his face burns red, twisted in anguish, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening until his reflection looks monstrous—like some grotesque horror mask staring back at him. He looks insane.
San has branded him. There is a piece of San on him now, wedged under his skin, buried in his veins. And he never asked for it.
The parasite is growing. The worm in his skull, chewing through every shred of sanity he has left. He can feel it spreading, taking root.
In his head, only San’s voice remains.
I know you want it too. Please.
It echoes. Over and over, a mantra on repeat, until Wooyoung is trapped in a loop, replaying the scene. Every detail. San’s breath against his skin, his hands pinning him, the heat of his body, the suffocating force of his strength. Wooyoung’s own heart pounding in terror, his stomach twisting in knots, the light in his gaze dimming.
It’s like San never left.
The weight of his stare is still on him. He can feel those eyes on him, burning holes into his back.
The hate. The hunger. The obsession. The passion. All of it clinging to Wooyoung’s skin.
The world outside ceases to exist. Nothing moves, nothing spins. There is only the mirror. Only his reflection. Only the marks around his neck.
And for a breathless second, he swears—he sees San behind him.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
—
Wooyoung hasn’t slept. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say he spent the entire night awake, trapped in a restless haze. He woke up drenched in sweat, screaming. A scream that came too late. He keeps telling himself he should have screamed then — at the library, when San’s hand was crushing his throat. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
And San followed him into his dreams.
The scene replays itself like a film, but in his dreams, it twists, becomes worse. In his dreams, he kisses San. He lets him.Their lips devour each other, hungry and brutal, his body pressed into San’s as if consumed by fire. He feels San’s hands clutching him, wrapping him in suffocating warmth. Their tongues search, desperate, as if wanting to dissolve into one another. They want each other. They crave each other. It is a blind, almost desperate hunger. He feels San’s tongue seeking him, wanting him with a rawness that leaves him trembling.
Wooyoung has never felt this powerless in his entire life.
He tells himself maybe he should leave. Escape. Another city, another continent, another planet if that’s what it takes. Or maybe he should tell someone, just once — vomit all of it out, scream the truth until the weight in his chest tears open, stop letting it rot inside of him.
Anything but this silence.
But he doesn’t. He does nothing.
In the morning, Hongjoong calls, like he always does. A sweet routine, steady and harmless. “Good morning,” he says, his voice soft, asking about classes, about food, about the tiny details of Wooyoung’s life. It’s something Wooyoung has come to cherish — having someone who genuinely cares, someone whose affection feels safe. Hongjoong’s intentions are pure, and Wooyoung knows it. He even thinks he feels something for him.
But not today.
Today, it feels wrong. His voice is mechanical when he answers, words flat and forced, like dialogue spoken by someone else. Hongjoong notices, of course — he always notices. He asks if Wooyoung wants to go out later, just for a walk. Wooyoung, despite the storm gnawing inside him, agrees.
In front of the mirror in his room—the same mirror that last night showed him an alien version of himself—today it reflects back the most exhausted creature in the world. As if he had walked the entire Camino de Santiago without ever stopping to rest, as if his soul had been stripped down to raw nerves and bone.
His eyes trace the marks on his throat. He takes a deep breath. He can’t go out like this. He can’t let anyone see them. Not Hongjoong. Not anyone.
And yet a sick thought claws at him — jealousy. The idea that someone else might see them, that anyone but him could look at the bruises San left like a brand, fills him with something twisted. A possessive feeling. It is his. San’s gift. His curse. The idea of covering it feels like a betrayal.
But that isn’t rational. He knows that. It isn’t sane.
So he takes a scarf and winds it tightly around his throat, concealing the marks that have shifted overnight from raw red to deep violet.
Stupid Wooyoung.
He hides it, but the phantom of San’s hand still lingers there — pulsing, suffocating, whispering. Even with the scarf on, Wooyoung swears he can feel San’s shadow behind him. In his skin. In his lungs. Watching.
He steps out of his room, almost dragged by some invisible force, and finds Hongjoong waiting. They spend the afternoon together in what feels like a blur of triviality—quiet, almost insignificant. Wooyoung pretends to laugh at his jokes, forces his lips into shapes they don’t want to make. When Hongjoong reaches for his hand, he pulls away, subtle but sharp, unable to bear the contact. He can’t even look at him straight.
Hongjoong notices. Agains. As always. His voice trembles as he asks if everything is really fine, if he’s done something wrong, if he’s somehow hurt him. Wooyoung shakes his head. He wants to tell him, “the problem isn’t you, it’s me,” but the words feel cliché, like something stolen from a cheap drama. He hates that. So instead, he gives him yet another smile and says he misses home—his mother, the comfort of his own walls. That he wants to go back for a few days, breathe familiar air, recharge.
It isn’t a lie. It’s true.
But it isn’t the whole truth either.
Hongjoong seems to understand, or at least chooses to. His presence is soft, tender, almost too kind to bear. Wooyoung wonders what he would see in him if he dared to tell the truth. If he ripped himself open and let it spill.
What would Hongjoong think if he admitted that he still feels San’s eyes on him, drilling into his skin?
He doesn’t know if it’s paranoia or something worse, but the weight of it is unbearable—close, suffocating—that he finds himself turning his head every few minutes, half-convinced San will be there, standing just behind him. Watching in silent. Waiting.
And in those moments, Wooyoung knows: he is losing his mind, piece by piece, breath by breath.
—
Wooyoung was scrolling through his phone, his thumb moving in slow, mechanical swipes across the screen. Next to him, Mingi was talking animatedly with Yunho, while Seonghwa sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, fully absorbed in his video game.
They were all gathered in Yunho’s room. He had just come back from spending a few days with his family in the countryside, and his voice carried that subtle brightness of someone who still felt refreshed. He told them how clean air always made him feel reborn, how every time he returned to the city it was harder to breathe, the air suddenly heavier, almost suffocating in comparison
“Can I come with you the next time?” Mingi asked, curious.
Then, without waiting for an answer, he stood up from the bed with a sudden spark of excitement. “You know what I’d really love to do?” His lips curved into a grin, as if he could already see the image playing out in his head. “Those movie scenes—you know, when the characters dive off those wooden docks into the lake?” As he spoke, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipped one between his lips, and lit it. The flame flared briefly before he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I’d love to do that.”
Yunho laughed and tossed a pillow at him. “There aren’t any lakes where I live.”
Mingi paused for a beat, then blew the smoke lazily out the window. “Then maybe I don’t want to go,” he said with a laugh, clearly enjoying the half-offended look on Yunho’s face.
“You could always stay with the cows and milk them,” Yunho muttered under his breath before turning toward Wooyoung. “What about you? What would you like to do?”
But Wooyoung wasn’t really there. Not really. His eyes are on the screen of his phone, yet he hasn’t seen a single word, a single image. When he finally looks up, their gazes are already on him.
“Uh?”
Their eyes on him felt heavier than the silence itself.
“Did you even hear a single word we just said?” Mingi asked, taking another drag from his cigarette, the ash trembling at the tip before he flicks it out the window. His eyes narrow, searching Wooyoung’s face more carefully. “You okay, Woo?”
Wooyoung’s hand instinctively rose to his neck, still wrapped in the heavy scarf he hadn’t taken off all day. The gesture was unconscious, almost a need, as if touching that fabric brought him closer to San. His throat dries instantly, his lungs feel shallow, like he’s back in that moment, air stolen from him.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Yunho remarked, one eyebrow arched in suspicion.
Wooyoung only forced a small smile, shoved his phone into his pocket, and shrugged lightly.
Not a single word would leave his lips.
He still hasn’t found the courage to tell his friends what just happened. He knows perfectly well how they would react, and Wooyoung isn’t even sure he wants that.
He can already picture it. His friends would first get angry, then look at him with pity because Wooyoung is too good, and San doesn’t deserve his kindness. Then they’d drag him to the nearest police station to report San—who could either be slapped with a restraining order or even end up behind bars, especially if they bring up the disaster from a few months ago, the one that left him in the hospital with cracked ribs and everything. Once that’s all done, his friends would keep looking at him with a mix of compassion and worry, pushing him to see some therapist just to make him realize that none of this is normal or healthy.
Wooyoung knows it. Every consequence, every chain reaction. He isn’t stupid.
But he doesn’t want it.
Not any of it.
If we’re being brutally honest, what Wooyoung wants is something else entirely.
Even though he feels completely swallowed by paranoia, Wooyoung convinces himself he’s in control, as if he can handle the situation.
The situation with San hasn’t changed. The difference is, since the last time, San seems even more present. He watches from afar, studies him. He’s not afraid of being seen by Wooyoung; sometimes it even feels like he wants to be seen, and that thought sends shivers crawling up Wooyoung’s spine.
Wooyoung no longer changes his path when he sees him from a distance. He doesn’t feel the need.
The marks on his wrist and neck haven’t faded—they’ve deepened, settled into the skin, etched like permanent reminders, they almost look like tattoos. His friends never ask about the scarf wrapped around his neck, even when it’s obvious he doesn’t need it. He’s grown strangely fond of it.
San is everywhere.
He feels him everywhere. He smells him, senses his gaze, his presence. Even when he’s alone in his room.
And it’s driving him insane.
Not just in libraries, hallways, streets. Not just in reflections or shadows. He is in the air. In the smell of dust and metal. In the thrum of electricity under fluorescent lights. In the beat of Wooyoung’s pulse, in the tightening of his chest, in the hollow of his stomach. He is under his skin, crawling through nerves and sinew, a weight in his throat, a shiver along his spine.
The room breathes him. The walls bend toward him. The floor shifts under the memory of his steps. Wooyoung can feel it, a thousand tiny pricks of awareness, and they all spell the same word: San is here.
At first, there was hate rising from the pit of his stomach, coiling around his lungs, dragging him into bathrooms to sob in silence, careful not to be heard.
It’s our secret.
He hasn’t returned to the library. Not alone. Not even with his friends. Even thinking about it makes his stomach twist, a coil of anxiety tightening around his ribs. The darkness of the archive room, the low hum, the scratch of pens on paper—he can feel San in it all. Watching. Waiting. Smiling at him through the corners of his vision.
He tells himself he can handle it. He can fix it.
So today is Thursday again. He’s just finished classes.
Usually, today is the day he studies late in the library. Alone.
San seemed to know that last time.
I wonder if he’s waiting for me there.
—
Wooyoung doesn’t know why he feels that knot tightening exactly at the pit of his stomach, as if something—a fucking elephant, a raging bison, a massive mass—were crushing down, blocking everything inside him.
It isn’t anxiety. It isn’t fear. He isn’t even worried.
In some twisted way, Wooyoung is nervous—but not for the right reasons, not for anything logical, not for anything real.
His mind isn’t lucid. He knows it. It’s like some switch inside his head has just short-circuited, leaving sparks and static where clear thought should be.
He’s trembling as he walks toward the entrance of the library.
It’s 6 p.m. The place should be fairly crowded by now. At the entrance, Lucy is there as always, headphones on, but she notices him, smiles, lifts a hand in greeting. Wooyoung forces himself to wave back, but his eyes are already searching, already locked onto something—onto someone.
Every step feels heavier, echoing unnaturally against the ground. His scarf tightens around his throat, a slow noose. Each breath seems mechanical, while inside his chest, everything is spinning upside down—blood rushing, organs twisting, a body at war with itself.
And then he sees him.
San.
Sitting exactly where Wooyoung always sits. His shoulders are broad, his hand moving across a sheet of paper as though he were writing something important. He wears an oversized sweatshirt, yet his frame refuses to be hidden.
Wooyoung’s pulse stutters. He feels excited, but it isn’t joy.
He clutches his books tighter, pressing them against his chest like a desperate lifeline against drowning.
Slowly, he pulls out the chair next to San. Every movement is measured, almost ritualistic. He feels like if his body has stopped trusting itself. He knows San has seen him. Wooyoung can feel it. He sense like if the entire room is watching, waiting for what will happen next. But San doesn’t turn, doesn’t look, doesn’t give him the mercy of an acknowledgment, his eyes fixed on the book in front of him as if Wooyoung were just another shadow.
Wooyoung sits. Opens his book with unnatural calm, his arm brushes San’s. A single touch—so brief it should mean nothing, right? It shouldn’t be a big deal, right?
But in that moment, Wooyoung could swear, swear to God and everyone in this room, that he feels adrenaline explode inside him, electricity tearing through his veins, shivers climbing his spine until they grip the back of his neck.
He cannot fucking move. He cannot even look. His body is a frozen effigy beside San.
And then, on San’s lips, there is a smile. Barely there, but it’s cruel, a reminder that San understands exactly what he does to him.
Wooyoung feels rage.
But his anger—
No. It isn’t for San. He isn’t angry at San. Not really. Maybe a little. But that isn’t where the fury burns.
The rage is for himself.
It’s explosive, corrosive, and yet disturbingly clear, lucid, ike the sky in the middle of the day, without clouds to soften it.
If someone had told Wooyoung that after everything San had put him through during these past months—after every scar, every twisted game, every moment of humiliation—he would feel almost happy to see him again, happy to brush against his arm, happy to realize that, in some sick and impossible way, San had been waiting for him, that he was there, in that exact moment, only for him—
Wooyoung would have laughed in their face. He might have even snapped back with something like, “That could never, ever happen.Not in a million years.”
And yet here he is, flushed red like a teenager drowning in hormonal chaos.
Wooyoung drags in a deep breath and shifts his chair slightly away from San’s, a small gesture, as if to say, “I’m here, but I don’t even know what I want.”
San moves like a ninja. With the precision of a predator, under the table, unseen by anyone else, his hand reaches out. Strong. Wooyoung knows that strength, has felt it before. San grips the chair and drags him back in, close, without lifting his gaze from the book. The gesture is wordless but deafening: a dialogue without sound, a conversation stitched into silence. A battlefield of invisible words.
Minutes pass. An hour. Two. The air between them grows thicker, more unbearable. They do not glance at each other, not even once. No words. Only silence. A silence that screams. A silence that binds. Both of them locked in it, as if speaking would shatter something too fragile to touch.
Only Wooyoung dares to shift the balance, timidly, almost like a confession. With delicate, disarming slowness, he pulls the scarf from around his neck.
San notices. Of course he notices. From the corner of his eye, he sees the bruises—his bruises—still lingering on Wooyoung’s skin, marks from a week ago. But he doesn’t say a word.
The library begins to empty.
One by one, voices fade. Chairs scrape and fall silent. The echo of footsteps dwindles into nothing. Until, at last, the entire perimeter of that enclosed space belongs only to them.
It feels like if they themselves have built the walls, brick by brick, until nothing from the outside world can seep in. A veil. A barrier. An invisible prison where only their presence exists.
From the outside, if anyone were left to see, it might look almost beautiful. Their breaths have synced without them noticing. Their lungs rise and fall in the same rhythm, as though they are bound, trapped in the same body.
By the time the clock strikes eight, their silence has become so loud it suffocates the space around them.
“San.”
“Wooyoung.”
The words split the air at the exact same instant.
It’s absurd. Ridiculous. It feels like a scene ripped straight from a film.
And yet it’s real.
Wooyoung clears his throat, forcing out a cough.
“Why are you here?” he asks, but his voice is barely more than a whisper. There’s a tremor of embarrassment in it, a hesitation he can’t hide.
“You know why I’m here.”
San’s reply is flat, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead, as though the truth were carved into it.
“Why are you here?” Wooyoung repeats, as if San’s answer wasn’t enough, as if he needs more—needs something solid to cling to.
But San doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands. Abruptly. The scrape of the chair against the floor cuts through the silence like a blade. He circles the table with measured steps until he reaches the old archive door of the library. Without looking back, he lays his hand on the handle. His back is still turned to Wooyoung.
Wooyoung doesn’t need to be told twice. His body moves almost against his will, rising, following. His heart is hammering so violently against his ribs he’s certain it will burst through his chest, spill out into the open.
As soon as he feels Wooyoung behind him, San opens the door. The gesture looks almost courteous, the way he steps aside to let him pass first. Almost. Then, silently, he follows him inside.
Wooyoung hesitates the moment he crosses the door. The room is dark, smelling of dust—the same smell that clung to it the last time. And with it come the memories. The images. The weight of everything that happened here. But the sensation inside him now is different. Sickeningly different.
The door shuts with a muted thud as San closes it behind them.
Then his eyes find Wooyoung.
No movement—just San’s gaze, oppressive.
Wooyoung feels it. Feels everything pressing against his skin, loud enough to be like a thousand broken sentences screaming without sound.
And then—so natural it feels unreal—San steps forward. He raises his hands and places them on Wooyoung’s face. Both palms against his skin, thumbs grazing his cheeks. A caress. A claim. The touch burning through him, setting his flesh on fire.
“Wait.”
Wooyoung’s voice cracks—low, hoarse like he’s just stumbled out of a concert. His eyes dart across San’s face, frantic, wild, unable to keep still, as if searching for something that he doesn’t even know.
But San doesn’t pull away. His hands remain. His thumbs keep stroking, sliding lower, pressing against Wooyoung’s neck. Fingers map the faint marks etched into his skin—the evidence of his strength.
“I waited a week to see them,” San murmurs, voice heavy, almost reverent. “I thought I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t see them.”
His fingers trace the bruises like blades, hypnotic. Then—nothing.
Wooyoung can’t move. His body refuses. He’s paralyzed, caught in a moment that swallows him whole. The anger, the shame, the confusion—they slip away, leaving nothing. Nothing but this.
Because maybe, right now, this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
San’s face leans closer, closer, closer. With every passing second, the pull between them tightens, a magnetic force impossible to resist. Their noses brush and Wooyoung finally lets his eyes fall shut.
Their breaths mingle, interwoven, fusing into one rhythm—
a chemical reaction, inevitable.
He doesn’t even need to ask. He doesn’t need to speak another word.
San’s lips are already on his.
It is so right it almost hurts.
Wooyoung stands frozen, letting himself sink into the press of San’s lips, tasting the sweetness that seems to belong to no one else. Every nerve in his body hums, alive, with every soft motion. His arms cling to his torso as if holding himself together, not yet daring to move, not yet ready to reach out, not yet daring to break the fragile line of restraint that keeps him upright.
San presses closer—softly, perfectly.
Wooyoung feels like fragile glass under San’s hands, under San’s lips, under the force of his presence. Every touch is electric, every motion a threat and a promise at once. He feels so small, so breakable, yet utterly consumed by the intensity of the moment.
Their lips move, slowly at first, then with growing urgency, as if dancing to a rhythm that they can only hear.
San’s tongue traces the edges of Wooyoung’s lips, seeking, exploring, and Wooyoung parts his mouth just enough, welcoming, as if the world outside has been erased, leaving only this perfect, consuming connection.
In that instant, all the memories, all the pain, everything San has done to him.. they vanish.
There is only this. Only this intoxicating sensation.
Kissing San.
Smelling San.
Tasting San.
San, San, San…
The world outside could crumble. Mountains could fall. The earth could split apart—and Wooyoung would not notice.
He slides his hands to San’s hips, drawing them closer, letting the heat and weight of their bodies fuse. Their tongues move together, a slow exploration, learning, claiming, demanding in quiet reverence.
San pulls back a fraction, just a breath, like surfacing from a long dive. His eyes lock with Wooyoung’s for a heartbeat, a fraction of eternity.
Then again—
Their lips meet.
Again.
And again.
Hands roam—gentle, tracing, pressing, caressing. A dance, a waltz, an unspoken symphony that moves them, that drags them, that folds the room around them.
The darkness in the room thickens, pressing in like a living thing, wrapping them, suffocating, enclosing, making the air itself a tangible weight. There is no space for anything else, no air for the world outside. Nothing exists but the warmth, the pressure, the pull between them.
Wooyoung’s mind floats, untethered, every thought reduced to one pulse, one need, one sensation. Every nerve screams, every breath mingles, every heartbeat is synchronized to the rhythm of San’s body.
Dear Wooyoung.
Unaware Wooyoung.
Wooyoung has never felt this powerless in his entire life.
Chapter Text
Almost as if by silent agreement, San and Wooyoung kept meeting, hidden away, always in the same secret refuge. That first kiss had not been a beginning—it had been an opening, the tearing of a seam. A Pandora’s box. Once undone, there was no turning back. They didn’t need to arrange anything, didn’t need to send a word. Both already knew: the very next day, they would return to each other.
Their kisses were gentle but also hungry. Mouths crashing, seeking, clashing; tongues tangling with desperation, as if they were drowning and the other’s breath was the only air left in the world. Hands roamed without restraint—gripping, clawing, holding on too tight. Within the silence of the library, the archive room had become their sanctuary. And yet, it wasn’t peace they found there—it was fire, secrecy, a hiding place from the world and from themselves.
On Friday, the day after their first kiss, should have pulled Wooyoung elsewhere and his life usually had a different rhythm then. But San went to the library and waited anyway. He was there at 5.30pm, pulse already unsteady. He didn’t ask Wooyoung to come, didn’t dare. He just trusted, with that obsessive certainty that both terrified and sustained him, that Wooyoung would appear at 6, as he always did.
At 5:50pm, San was already trembling.
His body could not contain it—desire, need. He hated the waiting, hated how powerless it made him feel.
That night, back in his room, he collapsed onto the bed, sheets still rumpled from the morning, and stared up at the ceiling. His thoughts were a mess, scattered words and unfinished sentences, fragments of things he couldn’t even admit to himself. But through the chaos, one image remained whole: Wooyoung’s lips.
The sweetest he had ever kissed. Too soft, too perfect. As if his own had been made to fit against them. They were full, warm. He could still taste them, still feel their imprint pressed into him, as though Wooyoung had carved himself into his very skin.
And yet, in the silence of that room, San whispered a lie to himself: I’m not like him. He clung to it as if it could protect him. He told himself he would never kiss another man, never crave another scent, another touch—because the truth was that he already belonged to Wooyoung, and that belonging felt less like freedom than it did a dangerous trap.
San kept moving through life as if nothing had changed. He laughed with his friends, traded jokes in crowded hallways, pretended to exist in the same world they inhabited. To anyone watching, he was untouched, still the same San. But no one—not even Yeosang—could see the monsters gnawing at him from the inside. Yeosang had long stopped asking questions, but he wasn’t blind.
“Lately,” Yeosang said one afternoon, balancing a plastic cup of iced coffee between his fingers, “you seem… lighter. Almost carefree. Like something’s lifted off you.”
San forced a laugh, sharp and too quick. “Carefree? Me?”
Yeosang tilted his head, studying him with that patient curiosity he carried like a second skin. But he didn’t push. He simply smirked, shook his head, and muttered, “Guess I’m just imagining things.”
Jongho, ever more blunt, chimed in from across the table, a fry halfway to his mouth. “You’re out more than usual. Different girl every day, huh? Careful, hyung, one of them’s gonna set your clothes on fire or, I don’t know, beat the shit out of you.”
The group chuckled. San smirked back, throwing his arm lazily over the chair beside him. “If they do, at least I’ll die entertained.”
The table erupted in laughter, but San’s stomach turned. He hated how easy it was—this mask, this parody of the man they thought he was.
The word alone was almost grotesque. If there was one thing San was not, it was free of thought. His mind was a labyrinth of locked doors and poisoned whispers.
He still, in fact, fucked girls. More than before. Different faces, different names, different beds. Almost every night, he sought out someone new—someone who would let him take what he needed without asking questions. They understood what he wanted, and they gave themselves to him anyway. But the cruel irony was this: the more he consumed them, the more he found himself running back to Wooyoung, desperate to kiss him harder, as if he could scrub away the scent of them, wash himself clean against his skin.
“San,” Jongho continued, squinting at him with an expression too sharp for his age, “do you even remember their names anymore? The girls, I mean.”
San raised an eyebrow, biting into his sandwich as if the question were ridiculous. “Why would I need to?” He swallowed, let a crooked smile curl his lips. “Not like they’re asking for mine either.”
It was a cycle without end, a spiral pulling him down. Desire for Wooyoung burned like a fever, and yet San fought with every muscle in his body to bury it, to suffocate it, to deny its existence. But the war against himself seemed endless.
—
Instead of drifting apart, their secret meetings grew more frequent. More dangerous. It was as if the universe itself was conspiring to pull them closer. And San knew—he could feel it in every hurried breath, every glance—that Wooyoung wanted it too. That was what made it unbearable. That was what made it wrong.
Beyond the library walls, no one could have imagined what burned in the back of the campus, the secrets they carried like contraband.
San still saw Wooyoung almost everywhere. In classrooms, walking the corridors, sitting with his friends in the cafeteria. But he was different now. Bad different.
The change clung to him like a ghost that others pretended not to notice, but San couldn’t look away. Once, Wooyoung’s gaze had been bright, a fire lit by his unique laughter. Now, it was dim, drifting somewhere distant. His smile had thinned into something hollow. He sat apart from the others, his head lowered, fingers constantly tangled together as though holding himself together by force. Sometimes, San noticed a small stress toy crushed in his hands, its shape collapsing under the weight of his restless grip.
And then there were the moments when Wooyoung’s eyes would lift across a room and collide with San’s. His lips would press into a straight line, his jaw tightening as if swallowing words that could never be spoken. A second later, San would catch the sharp bite of his cheek from the inside, the gesture so familiar it carved itself into San’s blood.
He knew every flicker of Wooyoung’s face, could sketch from memory the tiniest, most fragile shift in his expression. They repeated like ritual, like wounds reopening in the same place over and over again.
Hongjoong was no longer by his side. Not in the way he used to be, at least. But San never asked, not once. Questions were too dangerous. Their meetings weren’t made for conversation.
I don’t need to know.
No, when they met, they devoured each other in silence, drinking from one another as if their mouths were the only truth left in the world. For a few hours, they existed only in the hunger of touch, in the fever of bodies colliding. Words became unnecessary, even unwanted, stripped down to the barest essentials.
And San, in the rarest of moments, noticed something: Wooyoung only ever smiled right before San kissed him. A spark, fragile as glass, just before it was consumed by his lips.
—
“You’d look good blonde,” San murmured, the words slipping out between kisses, low and unguarded. His fingers traced the nape of Wooyoung’s neck, sliding through the dark strands of his hair as if testing how it might feel to hold something different, lighter.
Wooyoung pulled back just slightly, their lips parting but still close enough that San could taste his breath. His palms pressed gently against San’s chest, not to push him away but to steady himself. His brows knit together in the faintest confusion.
“Blonde?” he repeated, tilting his head, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you really think… it would suit me?”
There was a flicker of hesitation in his voice, an uncertainty that broke through his usual bravado. It was soft, vulnerable—like the question wasn’t about hair at all, but about whether he could ever truly be seen, accepted.
San studied him for a moment, his chest tightening at the sight. He could have laughed it off, teased him, made it sound casual. But instead, he let the silence linger just long enough to press meaning into his words.
“I know it would,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing along Wooyoung’s jaw.
Wooyoung’s lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. The insecurity in his gaze wavered, giving way to something warmer, though faintly disbelieving.
Wooyoung whispered, almost to himself, “I wonder if you’d still mean it if we weren’t like.. this.”
For a moment, San’s expression softened. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed lightly against Wooyoung’s.
“It’s only when I’m this close that I can tell the truth.”
His hands slid higher along San’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, as though holding on to something fragile. Then, as if afraid the moment might shatter, Wooyoung captured his lips again and kissed him, burning away the hesitation.
But just before their mouths met, San caught the smallest of smiles curving Wooyoung’s lips—a fleeting, fragile light that existed only for him.
And then—it shifted.
Why the fuck am saying things like that?
You don't really like him.
San.
Stop talking to him like this.
San pulled back, just slightly, but enough. His hand slipped from Wooyoung, falling heavy against his side. His eyes darted away, to the floor, to anywhere but Wooyoung’s face. His breath was still uneven, his lips still swollen, but the openness was gone. His shoulders had tensed, a wall rising up as quickly as it had fallen.
“Forget I said that,” he muttered, almost too low to be heard. The warmth had drained from his voice, leaving only the steel of someone who regretted giving too much.
Wooyoung searched his face, confusion flickering there, pain settling in like a shadow. He wanted to ask why, to demand San take the words back or give them to him properly. But instead, he only whispered, “If I were one of the girls you fuck, you wouldn’t have any problem saying things like this to me.”
The sentence cut through the room like glass shattering.
Wooyoung stared at him. “Why is it so easy with them, but with me- ” His voice cracked at the edges, the question hanging between them like smoke neither could clear.
“How long has it been since the first time? Two weeks? And still—you act like it’s nothing. Like none of this matters. I understand… I understand that it scares you, San, I really do. But you can’t keep—” his voice faltered, his throat tightening, “you can’t keep treating me like I’m no one.”
But San was already at a distance, bending down to pick up his bag from the floor. His movements were clumsy, rushed—as if his only way out was through silence.
“It’s late,” he muttered, voice stripped of warmth, like a door slamming shut in the dark. “I have to go.”
“San.. wait. I didn’t mean to—”
And before Wooyoung could even gather the fragments of what he wanted to say, San was gone.
—
The next day, San saw him.
At first it was only a shimmer, a sudden brightness cutting through the dull palette of the hallway. But then Wooyoung turned—and San’s entire body stalled.
His hair was blonde. Not just blonde, but almost white, as if light itself had woven into his strands. The fringe fell across his forehead, brushing against his lashes, framing the curve of his cheekbones with a softness that only magnified the sharpness of his eyes.
He had really done it.
Wooyoung had really done it. For him.
San stared, the world blurring all around him. Wooyoung was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at—so striking it felt unfair, almost cruel. His black, asymmetrical eyes glowed all the brighter against the pale cascade of his hair. A touch of makeup traced the line of his lashes, a whisper of color on his lips, making every detail unbearably vivid.
And he was smiling.
God, it had been so long since Wooyoung had smiled like that. The kind of smile that drew people in, disarmed them, made the room lighter just by existing. He was laughing with his friends, shoulders relaxed, tossing back their compliments with playful arrogance, teasing them about how reckless he was to bleach his hair on a whim.
The sound of his laughter was a knife twisting in San’s chest. That smile, that joy—it wasn’t his.
But then Wooyoung turned.
Their eyes met.
The transformation was instant: his laughter faltered into silence, his body stiffened, and a faint rush of red bloomed across his cheeks. His teeth caught his bottom lip, holding it there, as if the simple act of looking at San had undone him.
San’s pulse hammered. His throat tightened. He wanted to move, to bridge the gulf between them, to reach out and press his hands against that flushed skin—but he stood frozen, locked in place by the gravity of his own denial.
The moment lasted no more than a breath, but it burned into him, seared into the marrow of his bones.
“San,” Yeosang said, dragging the heavy backpack in his shoulders, patting his arms, “we are late. Let’s go”.
By the time Wooyoung turned back to his friends, San nodded to Yeosang—not really listening to what he just said— and he was already counting.
Counting the hours, minutes.
Waiting for 6 p.m to come. Quickly.
—
The thing was— they had never gone beyond kisses.
Their hands, yes, had always found each other, wandering, tracing the ridges of faces and shoulders, memorizing contours that whispered of more. Every touch left them both shivering. But never, not once, had San dared to cross the final line.
Tonight, though… tonight felt different, even if their last conversation hadn’t gone so well.
“You really did it,” San breathed, the words barely audible as he closed the door behind him. The click of the latch resonated in the small room, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to still.
Wooyoung smiled, his fingers threading through the pale strands of his hair. The light caught on the almost-white tips, making them glow. “Do they really suit me, like you thought they would? Am I beautiful?”
San didn’t answer. The words were trapped somewhere between his chest and his throat. Instead, he let his gaze linger, steady and unflinching, anchoring Wooyoung with a depth he could not voice.
Slowly, he leaned back against the wall, shoulders pressing into it. His body became both shield and invitation, a paradoxical signal that pulled Wooyoung closer. The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken, the things they had longed to say but never dared.
Wooyoung stepped closer, drawn in by the gravity of San’s eyes. The faint brush of their bodies made the room shrink, the sound of breathing the only witness to the storm building in the quiet.
San’s hands hung at his sides, still for the moment, testing the uncharted space between them. And yet, every pulse of his heart, every shallow breath, spoke of a desire he could no longer ignore—a tension coiled tight, ready to snap.
San’s breath trembled as Wooyoung pressed closer, so close his scent—something sharp and intoxicating—flooded his senses. The warmth rolling off him was suffocating and San’s body ached with the urge to give in. His restraint hangs by a thread, fragile and already fraying.
“San…” Wooyoung’s voice dripped against his lips, his whisper was hot, meant to burn. His mouth hovered just above San’s, brushing the ghost of a kiss without granting it, a cruel tease that left San gasping.
Strong and tapered hands slide from his shoulders, fingers dragging down slowly, until they skimmed the edge of his chest. Wooyoung’s touch was light, but the effect was brutal—every nerve in San’s body snapped awake, trembling beneath the careful pressure.
“How much do you want me now?” Wooyoung murmured, his eyes dark, glittering, devouring him whole.
San’s pulse thundered in his veins. His body was already betraying him, straining with need, heat pooling lower with every second Wooyoung lingers. He swallowed hard, voice breaking into something raw, almost pleading.
“I want you,” he rasped. “So bad. Just— let me touch you."
Wooyoung’s lips curled into a smirk, slow and dangerous, his teeth catching the corner of his mouth as if savoring the desperation dripping from San’s words.
“Mm… you want me that bad?”
His hand drifted lower, brushing along San’s pecs, then trailing down the hard plane of his torso until it stops just above the waistband of his pants. His fingers toyed lazily with the fabric, circling, testing, knowing exactly the reaction it sparks.
San couldn’t hide it anymore—the evidence of his desire strained against his pants, hard, aching. Wooyoung notices instantly, his gaze flicking down, a dark laugh spilling from his throat. The sound was almost playful, dripping with satisfaction.
He pressed his palm flat against San’s chest, pinning him harder to the wall, leaning in until his lips almost graze San’s ear.
“I can feel it…” he whispered, voice low, sultry. His breath was hot against San’s skin, making him shiver. “Are you sure?”
San’s head fell back against the wall, his lips parting on a sharp breath, desire consuming every shred of his restraint. His answer was immediate, broken.
“Yes… so much. Just—don’t stop.”
Wooyoung’s smirk deepened as his hand finally slid lower, crossing the boundary of hesitation. His fingers pressed over the hard outline straining beneath the fabric, rubbing slow, strokes that made San’s knees buckle.
San gasped, a sound caught between pleasure and surrender, his body jerking at the first real contact. Wooyoung chuckled darkly, savoring every reaction, every tremor of weakness.
"Stay still." Wooyoung said. San’s hands remained clenched into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles white from the strain. He didn’t touch him—he can’t. It was not allowed. The weight of restraint dug into his bones, making his whole body ache with the urge to reach out. Every part of him screamed to cradle Wooyoung’s face, to pull him close and kiss him until the world outside ceased to exist. But the unspoken rules between them chained him in place, and his body trembled under the pressure of denying itself.
His arousal throbbed painfully, trapped beneath layers of clothing that felt suffocating, useless—barriers that only intensified the torment. He could do nothing but stand there, watching Wooyoung’s every movement like a man possessed, entranced, unable to look away.
And then, suddenly, Wooyoung shoved him lightly, creating a sliver of distance between them. It was subtle, almost gentle, but the effect on San was brutal. His eyes flew open wide at the sudden absence of warmth, panic flickering across his features as though his very life has been stolen from him in that small separation.
“Show me what’s underneath, San,” Wooyoung murmured, his voice a command laced with seduction, soft but unyielding.
San didn’t hesitate. Not for a heartbeat. His fingers fumbled only for an instant before they found the buttons of his shirt, tugging them open one by one with a swiftness born of desperation. His gaze never left Wooyoung—not once. He couldn’t look away if he tried. Every flicker of Wooyoung’s eyes, every subtle curl of his lips felt like judgment, like a test, and San was desperate to pass.
When the last button slipped free, the shirt fell soundlessly to the floor. San stood there, chest bare, breath uneven, the soft light catching on the defined lines of his toned torso, the hard ridges of his sculpted abs. His skin prickled under Wooyoung’s scrutiny, every inch of him burning as though his body has been set on display.
Wooyoung’s gaze dragged slowly across him, studying, drinking him in with silent intensity. He didn’t speak, and the silence was suffocating. But San didn’t take the lack of words as rejection—he took it as permission. His heart thundered with the certainty that this is right, that he’s giving Wooyoung exactly what he desires.
He swallowed hard, the tension thrumming in his veins like electricity, and straightens his shoulders as though presenting himself fully, offering his body without shame. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, but his eyes… his eyes never wavered.
For the first time, San felt stripped not just of clothing, but of every defense he has ever clung to. Standing before Wooyoung, bare and trembling, he was both terrified and alive.
And deep down, he knew—he was doing exactly what Wooyoung wanted.
His fingers fumbled at the buckle of his belt, trembling slightly with anticipation, each movement weighted with the knowledge of what he’s about to reveal. The metallic click of the clasp breaking open seemed deafening in the silence between them.
“Is this what you want to see?” San asked, his voice low, breathless, the words almost breaking apart as they left his lips.
He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze burning over him, searing into every inch of his skin. There was no hiding under it—no escape. San knew the hours spent at the gym have carved his body into hard lines and definition, but right now, strength feels meaningless under that stare. It stripped him bare in ways the removal of clothes never could.
With one smooth motion, he pushed his jeans down, dragging his boxers with them in the same desperate sweep. The fabric pooled around his ankles, forgotten. He stood frozen in place, completely naked now. Vulnerability crashed over him in waves, making his breath shallow, but the arousal throbbing between his thighs refuses to be silenced. His erection pulsed, heavy, twitching with every beat of his racing heart, suspended in the open air between them.
Wooyoung didn’t move. He only crossed his arms over his chest, still fully clothed, his eyes dark and unreadable. There was something devastatingly erotic in that imbalance—in standing naked, stripped of everything, while Wooyoung remained untouched, above him, untouchable. The power shift was suffocating, intoxicating.
“Maybe,” Wooyoung murmured, voice dripping with cruel amusement, “I want you to beg me. On your knees.”
The command left no room for argument. His tone was casual, but his expression was carved into something emotionless, sterile—as if the game had evolved beyond San’s expectations into something sharper, more dangerous.
San’s chest heaved. He drew in a deep breath, his body vibrating with tension as he weighed the words, the request, the humiliation wrapped in desire. And then—without another second’s hesitation—he lowered himself, falling to his knees before the boy standing above him.
The floor was cold beneath him, his pride slipping away with every movement, but his need eclipsed everything else.
“Would begging get me something?” he asked, voice stripped of pretense, shaky but sincere.
Wooyoung’s hand found its way into San’s hair, fingers tangling roughly, forcing his head back so he had no choice but to meet his gaze. From above, Wooyoung looked down at him with merciless dominance, eyes sharp and burning.
“Are you really that desperate?” he taunted, the words a blade dressed in silk.
“I am desperate,” San admitted, shameless. His voice quivered with honesty, with a mix of longing and humiliation that tightened his chest.
Naked, on his knees, every ounce of control surrendered, he felt exposed in the most dangerous way—and yet, he could not stop himself.
His eyes locked on Wooyoung’s with an intensity that begged for mercy and indulgence all at once.
“Please,” he whispered, every syllable dripping with desire and vulnerability. “Consider it.”
Wooyoung released his grip on San’s hair, his fingers slipping away slowly before he rose to his feet. His movements were quiet, measured, as he walked across the room. San’s eyes followed him desperately, tracing every step, every shift of his body. When Wooyoung pulled a chair closer and lowered himself into it with unhurried elegance, San felt a hollow ache expand in his chest at the sudden distance between them.
His arousal throbbed mercilessly, harder than he could remember ever being, the swollen tip flushed red, dripping steadily as though even his body couldn’t endure the torment any longer. Every vein strained, threatening to burst under the pressure. He didn’t remember ever being this undone, this consumed by desire for anyone.
Wooyoung sat back, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, roaming over San’s kneeling form like a predator savoring the sight of its prey. His hands moved slowly to his belt, fingers unfastening it with precision. He raised his hips just enough to shove his pants open, and in a sudden, almost casual reveal, his cock sprang free into his hand. Hard, pulsing—he gripped it firmly, stroking once, slow, before his voice cut through the silence.
“Now watch me, San.”
San didn’t even consider disobeying. He never had. Since the very beginning, he hadn’t been able to do anything else. His eyes fixed on the sight before him, drinking in every detail like it was the only thing that mattered.
He watched the steady movement of Wooyoung’s hand sliding along his length, watched the way his face shifted—pleasure softening his sharp features, his lips parting just slightly as a low sound escaped him. San’s jaw clenched, tension flooding his body as his hands flew behind his back, bound by instinct, by discipline, by need. He wanted—achingly—to touch, but he knew he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Wooyoung noticed, and his lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. He dragged his fist over the slick head, using the pre-cum gathered there to glide more easily, creating a wet, obscene rhythm.
“Did you like what you see?” His voice was velvet and commanding.
San swallowed hard, throat dry, and nodded quickly. His eyes darkened, heavy with lust, but his voice betrayed him—no words came out. They died in his throat, strangled by uncertainty. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to speak.
The sound of Wooyoung’s hand stroking himself filled the room, loud, wet, echoing in the silence like a cruel soundtrack. San felt his own cock twitch violently, untouched, leaking shamelessly, droplets spilling onto the floor beneath him. The frustration of it was unbearable, but the sight in front of him kept him rooted, enslaved.
Wooyoung matched the glide of his hand with slow thrusts of his hips, fucking his own fist, turning the act into a performance—dirty, private, and meant for San alone. His chest heaved as his lips parted wider, glossy and red, glistening with spit as he exhaled.
“San…” The name fell from his lips like a moan.
His eyes fluttered closed, his head tilted back, exposing the line of his throat. He looked lost in his own pleasure, and yet in control of everything—because even like that, San knew every movement, every sound, every gasp was meant for him.
San felt like he’s on the edge of madness. His whole body screamed to move—to crawl forward, to shove his face between Wooyoung’s thighs and take his cock down his throat until he can’t breathe. But he can’t. He isn’t allowed. He has to watch.
He was frozen, unable to move a single muscle, unable to think with anything close to reason as he witnesses Wooyoung’s hand pumping faster, his grip tightening mercilessly. The wet sounds, the sharp hiss of breath slipped from his parted lips, the raw, filthy noises of pleasure—they all hammered into San’s skull, intoxicating him. His gaze was unshakable, locked on the storm of lust playing across Wooyoung’s features, the dark, consuming intensity in his eyes.
And then it happened—Wooyoung spilled over, thick white streams painting across his fist and streaking his own abdomen in messy ropes. The sight was obscene, almost too much for San to process.
When Wooyoung rose from the chair, San followed every motion with aching hunger, his chest heaving. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only watch. He’s paralyzed by need.
Wooyoung tucked himself back into his pants with an easy flick, casual in a way that made San’s desperation feel all the more unbearable. Then he stepped closer. Closer. Until he was standing right above him. His hand, still wet and dripping with his own release, lifted slowly toward San’s face.
“Open wide,” Wooyoung commanded, his voice low, dangerous, predatory—the voice of a lion cornering its prey. His eyes locked into San’s like he was nothing more than a trembling lamb before the slaughter.
San obeyed instantly. Of course he does. His lips parted without a second thought, his gaze locked upward, desperate, waiting.
Wooyoung slid his cum-slick fingers past San’s lips, pressing them firmly onto his tongue. Heat enveloped him immediately; his mouth was warm, wet. San closed his lips around the intrusion and began to lick with slow care, tracing every drop, savoring the bitter taste with a reverence that feels almost holy.
His body trembled. His mind fractured. He could feel himself spiraling beyond control.
“You’re so fucking sexy, San,” Wooyoung murmurs, watching with heavy-lidded eyes. His fingers thrust in and out of San’s mouth in a steady rhythm, mimicking something dirtier, crueler. San moaned around them, a guttural, desperate sound vibrating in his throat.
Every word of praise, every filthy compliment, seems to bypass his mind entirely and shoot straight to his cock. Still swollen, still neglected, still leaking shamelessly onto the floor, it throbs painfully with every movement of his mouth, with every drag of Wooyoung’s fingers over his tongue.
San can’t think anymore. He can’t hold himself back. His hips began to rock, thrusting helplessly into the empty air, chasing friction where there is none, searching desperately for relief. He was a mess—aching, begging without words, his body betraying him completely.
“Good boy, Sannie,” Wooyoung praised again, his smile slow, wicked, victorious. His fingers fucked San’s mouth at the same pace as his hips grind forward, syncing their movements like he was orchestrating him completely.
“Cum for me.”
The words broke something inside him.
A hand tangled in San’s hair, gripping tightly, forcing his head to move in rhythm. Wooyoung’s control was absolute—he dictated the pace, every pull and push.
“Show me how good you are,” he said, his voice dripping with authority, burning straight through San’s chest. His words melted into the air, merging with the ragged sound of San’s breathing. “Can you do that?”
San was completely lost. He couldn’t even form a thought anymore. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know how he looked—he only knew the way Wooyoung felt, the sound of his voice, the way his grip anchored him. His entire being was reduced to raw need. His orgasm hovered dangerously close, unbearably sharp, even though he hadn’t even touched himself.
His hips moved faster, grinding into nothing, as though his body had taken over and refused to wait any longer. His pulse was deafening in his ears.
“Cum for me,” Wooyoung repeated, softer now, as he pulled his fingers from San’s mouth. His fingertips trailed across San’s wet lips, smearing spit and heat, and the touch was all it took.
The moment their skin connected, San shattered.
A strangled sound tore from his throat, primal. His head fell back violently as his entire body convulsed, breaking under the weight of it. Release ripped through him, uncontrollable and brutal. He spilled hard, thick streams painting the floor, his trembling hands, his stomach—everywhere. His body arched as though possessed, trembling under the force of the orgasm that felt endless, merciless, leaving him completely undone.
His chest heaved, his lungs fought for air, his vision flickered white at the edges. He felt dizzy, ungrounded, like his head was no longer attached to his body.
And then—softness. A gentle pat against his head, Wooyoung’s hand still cradling his hair but now with a tenderness that cut through the chaos. His touch was almost affectionate, grounding, calming the storm inside San’s body.
“Good boy,” Wooyoung murmured, the praise rolling over San’s wrecked body like warmth after fire.
The words sank deep.
San realized he had just come untouched, like a trembling virgin who had been pushed past his limit with nothing but command and control. The humiliation should have burned, but it didn’t. It felt right. It felt perfect.
He liked it. He liked being Wooyoung’s good boy.
Notes:
Work (or rather, jobs—since I juggle two different ones because I’m a woman striving for her independence😭) is starting to get quite heavy, but I’ll try to write on weekends 🩷 Even if I’m late, I’ll get there!
Thank you so much for every comments & kudos!
ddddddd_woo on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 11:30AM UTC
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v1p3rg05 on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 11:39AM UTC
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ddddddd_woo on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 03:56PM UTC
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ateeny (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Aug 2025 09:37AM UTC
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ddddddd_woo on Chapter 2 Thu 28 Aug 2025 04:12PM UTC
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ddddddd_woo on Chapter 2 Wed 03 Sep 2025 06:23PM UTC
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ddddddd_woo on Chapter 3 Thu 28 Aug 2025 08:53PM UTC
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