Chapter Text
Beomgyu is late once again.
It's become the most common event of his daily-life, sitting away clicking at his keyboard until the clock strikes 5 and he has the freedom to go back home. But that's not how it's been going these days. Because 5pm now meant that his boss will lazily cross over to his cubicle, give him that corporate-friendly smile and ask him to do overtime.
Despite the fact that Beomgyu has been working in this hell for almost a year, he's still considered a newbie. Which means refusing would land him without a job, and that he cannot afford right now.
It's 9pm and he's still at the office.
He dreams about his bed, comfortable and warm, dreams about having something hearty for dinner. He dreams about having a beer with it, the perfect combination to end this grueling Monday.
He's not supposed to be dreaming in the first place.
He had dozed off. He jolts awake and decides that he's worked enough for the day, shuts his computer down and clocks out. Shrugging his coat on he walks out towards the elevator, not paying much attention to a few other poor souls still hunched over their desks.
Taking the subway back home is a little easier way past rush hour. There are plenty of seats vacant and he sits down on the farthest end, bag on his lap and his head over it. The stop and start of the train sways him at every station.
He counts the seconds backwards between the doors opening—four, three, two, one—and closing and then opening again.
Two stops before he gets off, a cluster of loud and breathless people spill in. They look all shades from tipsy to drunk, like stumbling back from a party or maybe going to one. One of them nearly trips over the gap and gets dragged upright by a friend but the effort is futile, and they both drop into the seat across from Beomgyu with a dramatic sigh, head thrown back, still grinning.
They look alive and embarrassing and like they don't have a care in the world about it and they don't look much younger than him.
At his stop, he clutches his bag and gets off, stomping like some stupid teen.
The security guard is awake when he makes it to the apartment complex and he doesn't spare a glance at Beomgyu who's a familiar figure at this hour. Most of the time the guy's dozed off to even care if it's not Beomgyu. Perhaps he should complain to maintenance about it, but he’s hardly in a position to judge someone for falling asleep on the job.
The elevator ride up is silent save for the hum of the machine going up. In the mirror, Beomgyu looks—good, somehow? His hair's disheveled, yes, and his tie is askew. His suit is wrinkled from hours of sitting. But his friends have always insisted that the workplace look suited him. He purses his lips in the mirror, looks at his side profile.
He ignores the faint shadows beneath his eyes, though.
The building is new. There aren’t enough tenants per floor for noise to ever become a problem. There are only two apartments on the twelfth floor, 112 and 122, Beomgyu's and the door across from his.
The unit was empty for the first few months Beomgyu lived here. About three months ago, someone moved in as quietly as ever.
He never runs into the guy who lives there, in fact, Beomgyu has never even seen him. In his head, he calls the guy 122 for lack of knowing his real name. Perhaps their schedules never overlap.
Beomgyu is almost grateful.
From what he has gathered from conversations with the cleaning lady, 122's some post-graduate student. Mid twenties, maybe late.
No real job, as far as Beomgyu can tell. Still, he occupies a two bedroom unit alone.
A spoiled trust fund baby. If his habit of abandoning the trash bags a little too close to Beomgyu’s door instead of being taken down the chute and not even bothering to acknowledge Beomgyu's existence right in front of his door have any say.
And it's not like Beomgyu didn't try—he knocked on the guy's door once just to say hello. Maybe make awkward small talk even if he dreaded it. When he did it, there was no answer. Just radio silence even if Beomgyu could hear sounds of movement from inside.
He waited five minutes, then grumbled to himself, What a dick. Didn't try to reach out to the guy again.
The elevator doors open smoothly and quietly.
There's a figure slouched at the end of the hallway against door 122. Beomgyu squints and hesitates momentarily. The man is wearing an oversized jacket, sleeves loose around his wrists, and denim shorts that leave his knees bare against the tile.
The first thing that comes to Beomgyu's mind is the floor must be really cold.
Up close, the guy has his eyes closed. Head tipped back against the wall. His lashes are visible against his cheeks, the book on his lap lies open and unread. There's a tote-bag lying next to his leg, Yuri!!! on Ice said the print on it in bright colors.
Beomgyu stops at his door. His keys jingle as he pulls them out.
The man's eyes open. When he looks up, they are doe-like and expressive. Dark circles that look natural and different from Beomgyu's own. For a fleeting moment Beomgyu forgets how out of place just finding a guy sitting on the floor in front of your apartment is.
Right.
Beomgyu shifted his weight, fingers tightening around his keys. "...Do you live here?" He asks, then internally backtracks. What a stupid question. He knows who lives here.
The guy's demeanor broke momentarily. "Uh, no," he said in a soft voice, straightening to look up at Beomgyu, his business casual suit that's too askew after his long subway ride. "I'm— I'm waiting for my boyfriend." The guy has dimples that show at the slightest twitch of his lips.
Boyfriend, Beomgyu thinks. Sitting here, at 122's door.
122 has a boyfriend?
Beomgyu nodded thoughtfully, still slightly curious. "Would you like to come inside? The floor is really cold."
The offer barely goes across between them before Beomgyu regrets it. First, he thinks selfishly, that he's too tired to have a visitor. And then he cringes at how weird it sounds. You don't invite strangers into your home at first sight, especially strangers who are entangled with the neighbour you absolutely, definitely, totally do not resent.
The guy blinks.
Beomgyu clears his throat, already half-turning his key in the lock. "I mean— just until he gets here. Or not. It's fine."
The key gets stuck once. The man watches Beomgyu struggle with it. There’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth, like he's amused. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, adjusting the book on his lap with his fingers slipping between the pages to mark his place. “He's usually late. I don't mind waiting.”
Beomgyu nods once, halfway into the inviting darkness of his apartment. "Okay," he presses his lips together. "Um, yeah. Goodnight."
And the guy offers him a small wave before leaning his head back against the wall again. "Thanks for the offer, though."
"No problem," Beomgyu mumbles and he's pretty sure he's not heard. Then he shuts the door behind as softly as he can, and then winces as the sound echoes anyway.
He adds one more thing in what he knows about 122: not just a bad neighbour, but an even worse boyfriend.
And, absurdly, he finds himself thinking the guy on the hallway floor could do better.
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The next time he sees the guy, it is Wednesday and it's not on the hallway floor. He's standing this time with the same book as the other day in his hand. This time, Beomgyu catches the title but doesn't recognise it.
122's boyfriend is tall. And he's standing way too close to the elevator. When they open, Beomgyu almost stumbles back into the parted doors. He has to crane his neck up to catch the man's eyes.
"Careful," the man warns. He's dressed up tonight. Oversized button down dropped for a black dress shirt and pants. But the tote bag is the same, slung over his shoulder.
Beomgyu directs his eyes away from the way the shirt sits on the man's form and walks past him. The elevator doors close.
Keys in hand, Beomgyu turns back to look at the man who has seemed to follow him to the door. He leans against 122's door. Beomgyu spends some time collecting the keys. "Occasion?" He asks without looking at him.
The man nodded and looked down at himself, at his neatly pressed shirt and pants that fit unfairly well. A little shy if Beomgyu's not too tired to misjudge the expression. "Yeah, it's our anniversary."
It takes three attempts of twisting his key to open the door. It's getting jammy, he thinks. Behind him, the man's perfume is invasive. Expensive, by the smell of it.
"And he's making you wait?" Beomgyu asks, keeping a scoff at bay.
The man only chuckles awkwardly and Beomgyu can imagine the curve of his dimples, "He texted." There's a strange mellowness in his tone. Like he doesn't mind, but he does. Difficult to pinpoint. "You know how traffic can get."
Beomgyu doesn't know. He takes the subway to and from work and he doesn't own a car yet. He could, if he saved up this year. His pay can definitely handle it. Unlike 122, who probably just got it from his dad's card or something.
He keeps his back half-turned, his fingers linger uselessly against the edge of his unlocked door instead of pushing it open and stepping inside. “You should ask him for a key,” he says, finally pushing his door open a little wider without stepping through. “It really is cold out here.”
The man’s gaze settles somewhere near Beomgyu’s loosened tie as his fingers flex around the strap of his tote bag, the fabric creasing under the pressure before he smooths it again. A quiet chuckle slips out of him. “Yeah, I'll mention it,” he says lightly.
It seems to Beomgyu that he won't.
For a moment he considers inviting the man inside again. But the man looks at ease, not even slightly upset at being left waiting on what he assumes is supposed to be a special night. Whatever. Beomgyu has had enough things to worry about as it is. His job. His stupid, pretentious and annoying boss.
He certainly does not care about his just as annoying neighbour's boyfriend being left alone on cold nights, no matter how awkwardly charming and good looking he is.
Beomgyu mumbles his half-hearted goodnight and steps into his apartment, the air comforting and familiar, and closes the door. He toes off his shoes and tries to undo his tie, gives up halfway and just takes it off over his head. He's still in the foyer when there's shuffling of footsteps outside his door. A pair, instead of the man's alone. Then laughter, soft and bashful, followed by the twist of a doorknob and the sound of a door shutting.
Beomgyu hovers, coat in hand, his suit jacket halfway off his shoulders. Waits for the hallway to fall silent.
He presses his lips together and finally forces himself toward the kitchen. Whatever happened across the hall is none of his concern. He is tired. He has work in the morning.
Inside, he feels at ease. He's always loved this apartment, it's his in a way that's undeniable. When he moved here it was almost sterile, a freshly constructed building with little to no tenants. He liked the quiet, no upstairs neighbour and from the 12th floor the city shined in a dazzling manner.
It took some time to make the place lived in, but now it seems like it's one of the only reasons Beomgyu hasn't quit the job yet. Yeonjun had helped him set everything up, the lamp, the shelves, a full body mirror that's more for the guy than Beomgyu. Pictures of them in college, arms slung around each other from when they both had long hair.
He likes having his friend's spirits be evident in his living space. It's comforting.
He earned this. Worked his ass off in college to end up in the top 5% of his class, a boring business degree he would have never thought to get, but he did.
In his bed, showered and fed, he couldn't care less about his stupid neighbour or his even more stupidly handsome, stupidly sweet boyfriend that he clearly neglects. Typical for someone like 122.
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The next morning Beomgyu is already late and acutely aware of it. He gives up on his coffee to dress himself in something that would at least look like he tried. His shirt is beyond saving, his jacket hastily taken from the back of his chair instead of an iron hanger.
Fuck, this might just be his last straw as his damp hair refuses to cooperate in the mirror. He looks exactly like an idiot who sacrificed his looks for a few hours of sleep. He skips the tie for today and slips his shoes on, already calling his superior with an apology that will sound fake and an excuse that won't save him.
Beomgyu fumbles with his bag and locks the door in the same breath. Turns too fast into the hallway and nearly collides with someone solid and warm.
Expensive perfume that's somehow sharper than last night.
It's him.
Beomgyu jerks back on instinct, one hand flying out to steady himself against the wall. His phone nearly slips from his grip.
Big hands come at his side, one flat against his waist and the other curved around a warm travel mug pressing into Beomgyu's lower back. Up close, the guy looks unfair. His lips are rosy, hair unstyled but somehow still better than Beomgyu's. Breath smelling of coffee. The same dress shirt from last night on his frame, sleeves pushed up unevenly.
"Careful," he says in voice that's rough but low enough it doesn't sting against Beomgyu's morning-sensitive eardrums.
He becomes way too aware of his own reflection from ten minutes ago—damp hair that refused to sit right, wrinkled jacket and no tie. Clearing his throat, he ends the call before his superior can pick up. He’ll deal with it later.
“Rough morning?,” the man asks shifting back half a step to give him space.
Beomgyu is not in the mood for small talk. Perhaps the only good thing about 122 is that they never really run into each other, but now he's standing here in front of the guy's boyfriend who's too polite and way too nice for both of their own goods.
He nods, adjusts the strap of his bag. “You’re blocking the exit.”
The taller man smiles with his eyes and with his mouth, like this is amusing.
It's pretty. Beomgyu's eyes flick down and back up before he can stop them.
They both step forward at the same time and nearly collide again. The taller man lets out a quiet laugh, stepping back first this time, gesturing for Beomgyu to go ahead. He hesitates for half a second, not wanting to be in an enclosed space with this man. Contemplates to act like he forgot something and go back inside, then the time on wristwatch almost pushes him into the elevator as the other man follows.
It's too small in here, smells like coffee and cologne and Beomgyu's senses are overwhelmed. And it is too silent.
“You’re up early,” Beomgyu says, staring straight ahead at their reflections in the mirrored wall. When did he put glasses on?, he thinks.
“I feel like we haven’t properly met,” comes the reply.
Beomgyu shifts the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. “We’ve met,” he replies. “Twice."
He sees a reflection of a dimpled smile in the mirror in front of him, sheepish, almost. Like he's excited about this. "I'm Soobin."
The name fits him. Beomgyu's eyes run over the man's appearance in the mirror, to his eyes and his mouth, bunny teeth peeking out shyly when he speaks. That's Soobin.
"Beomgyu," he nods once.
"I know," Soobin says.
That makes Beomgyu blink, "Huh?"
The elevator doors open, sunlight spilling into the lobby from the large entrance doors of the complex. There's a few people here and there, some going about their day and some looking like they just started it. Beomgyu steps out of the elevator and Soobin follows behind closely. In no time, their steps match.
They walk outside the complex building, where the gates remain opened and the way to the parking lot descends underground. “So,” Soobin says, shifting his weight, coffee cup untouched and warm between his fingers. Eyes way too soft to be directed towards a stranger. “Now we’ve properly met.”
Beomgyu checks the time on his phone and grimaces. “Congratulations,” he says dryly. “Milestone achieved.”
The subway is a ten minute walk away, which Beomgyu always carries out on foot. It keeps him fit, he tells himself. He doesn't have time to hit the gym other than on weekends. It is usually pleasant, in fact he cherishes the slowest ten minutes of his day, watching the world wake up and all. Today, those ten minutes feel overwhelming. He's phenomenally late.
Soobin laughs under his breath and its softer outside in the daylight. He digs into his bag and fishes out a key. "Let me drive you," he offers. "I don't have any morning classes."
Beomgyu pauses, turns almost comically slowly. “You have a car,” he says, because that’s the most immediate offense. And then: "I'm not letting some college kid drive me to work."
“So dramatic,” Soobin replies lightly, followed by half a huff. "I'm pretty sure I'm older than you." He spins the key once before catching it again. "And this is not mine."
Right, how could Beomgyu forget. He doesn't want to be driven to his workplace in 122's car. Someone who's a total stranger, and a stranger who Beomgyu dislikes at that. He hates that Soobin is standing there offering, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
He remembers his own offer to let Soobin wait in his apartment the first night. And then pettily remembers Soobin's kind refusal.
"No thanks," Beomgyu checks the time again and feels his stomach drop. If he walks, he’ll be sprinting halfway through. If he takes a cab, he’ll lose another five minutes.
"You're late," Soobin reminds gently. Not helpful at all, except for the ride he's offering. "It's on my way only."
He doesn’t like this. The idea of getting into 122’s car. The idea of owing Soobin anything. The idea that this feels strangely… intimate. Morning light and Soobin's rumpled dress shirt and forced proximity. He's starting to get irritated, not particularly at the pretty man offering him a hand. "I'm fine, really." His resolve is weakening literally by the second.
Soobin's expression shifts, a micro change that could have been missed or misjudged. "It’s just a ride.”
At last, the quickly passing time takes another victory over Beomgyu.
They cross the short stretch of pavement together, back into the elevator and down to the basement parking lot. Beomgyu's never really been in this area more than two times. Thankfully, Soobin only steers him silently in the direction of the car when Beomgyu misjudges the sliding door for one that needs to be pushed.
The first few seconds inside the car are silent. Soobin pulls out of the dark space into the roads.
“So,” he says, adjusting the mirrors, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel. Soobin drives a bit like an amateur and Beomgyu itches to comment on it. Morning light catches against the line of his jaw. It's not sharp and cutting like Beomgyu's own, but he finds himself wanting to reach out and trace it. “Where am I dropping you?”
Beomgyu turns to stare straight ahead through the windshield, "I'll tell you when to turn."
Soobin hums once in acknowledgment and pulls the car into traffic. "Okay." It is already building, but the car moves smoothly, slipping into a side street before the main road clogs completely.
"I didn't tell you to turn," Beomgyu points out. Soobin glances at him briefly before signaling and making a clumsy turn back to the main road.
"This was quicker," he explains.
Beomgyu clicks his tongue. “You act older than me.
"What makes you think you’re older than me?” he adds, turning slightly in his seat now.
Soobin doesn’t look rattled. He keeps his eyes on the road. "Because I am," he says simply. There's a small smile playing at his mouth as he straightens the wheel.
Beomgyu narrows his eyes. "What year were you born in?"
“2000,” Soobin replies without missing a beat. “And you’re 2001.”
What the fuck? Beomgyu thinks. He's all of a sudden all too aware of the fact that he's in a car with a total stranger whom he's met a total of two times. Did he forget everything his eomma told him about not taking candy from unknown people? He doesn't know what the candy is in this situation, though.
Beomgyu turns fully toward him now, but avoids looking at the dimple that's annoyingly persistent on Soobin's expression. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“I was…” Soobin starts, and for the first time since getting into the car, there’s hesitation. “…told.”
And then, as if Soobin had been avoiding talking about the guy this whole time, "My boyfriend talks a lot."
Beomgyu doesn’t answer immediately. He tells Soobin to make another turn, eyes focused ahead. The faintest crease appears between the other man's brows before it smooths out again. He doesn’t know what unsettles him more—that 122 talks about him, or that Soobin listens and bothers to remember.
Before Soobin can speak again, Beomgyu beats him to it.
"What are you studying?" he asks. Bad timing. He can already recognise the street to his office building.
Soobin glances at him briefly before focusing back on the road. “Post-grad,” he says. “Linguistics.”
Beomgyu blinks. “Wow." He doesn't know what to say to that. It sounds kind of nice. Part of him is fascinated, another almost jealous.
If he hadn't landed this placement and the pay wasn't as good, perhaps he would have been doing the same thing, getting another degree or still searching for his true passion. Maybe art, maybe in music like he used to toy with in high school, maybe something that sounds boring and over-thought like linguistics.
Like Yeonjun, who was saving up for opening his own dance academy while working a job that paid significantly less than Beomgyu's. And he still looked happier and livelier than him.
They roll forward, closing the last stretch toward Beomgyu’s office building. He almost misses the sunlight illuminating the side of Soobin's face when the taller buildings hide it. His profile is soft, and part of him wants to stare a little longer. He wonders what Soobin looks like when he isn’t composed—when he’s laughing properly, when he’s frustrated, when he’s focused on something he loves.
Instead, he points towards their right. "Stop over there." Outside, the building looms ahead.
Beomgyu opens the door before he can sit with any more thoughts about Soobin any longer. "Uh, thanks for the ride," he manages out. And then, maybe to sound more human, "Soobin."
He's responded to with another smile. Soobin does that a lot, just smiling. At first, it was a little ominous. Now Beomgyu thinks that maybe this is just the guy's default response. “See you around, Beomgyu.”
He watches with mild confusion as the light reflects from the roof of the sleek black sedan as Soobin makes a U-turn, because he could have sworn him mentioning how Beomgyu's office was already on his way.
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He meets his supervisor the moment he steps onto his floor. A man in his late thirties, always phoney in a way that ruins Beomgyu's mornings. He's never rude, not really. That smile alone is enough to ruin the rest of his morning, and of course it’s aimed directly at him. He's pretty sure he's had nightmares about it.
He gets the usual lecture, about how he can be let go easily but they won't actually let him go over one late-in and how lucky he is to be here when there are seven replacements waiting for him to slack off. Beomgyu listens to it with his head bowed, hearing it with one ear and letting it go out of the other.
By the time he's at his desk he's officially really pissed at everything. He works with half a mind somewhere else and pointedly ignores the look the girl in the next cubicle gives him when he tabs the mouse a little too harshly against the tabletop every few minutes.
Break is a relief. He finds Taehyun in the cafeteria in their usual place, his tray in front of him and he looks as put together as ever. Beomgyu walks up to him and sits down on the chair opposite to him. Taehyun regards him suspiciously.
"What is it?," Beomgyu asks.
Taehyun clicks his tongue and swirls his yogurt around casually. His eyes settle on Beomgyu's propped open and tie-less collar. "You come in late and looking a mess." He says slowly like some fucking sitcom detective putting clues together. "And I didn't miss the flashy car that dropped you."
Beomgyu pauses mid bite, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Seems like today everyone either knows everything about him or just straight up resorts to assuming.
"It was Yeonjun," he finds himself lying. For what reason he himself doesn't know. "He dropped me."
"Yeonjun hyung doesn't have a car," Taehyun deadpans.
"And how would you know?"
The man crosses his arms, a little smug. "Because if he did you would have told me."
Which is…. true. Taehyun is his only friend here. Despite being in different departments—Taehyun a part-time intern in IT, who's also getting a degree and Beomgyu in management—they still gravitated towards each other naturally.
He likes Taehyun: kind, observant, and definitely one of the sharpest tools in the kit. Talking endlessly with him over breaks and by the water dispenser may just be Beomgyu's last ways to remain sane inside this building. And subsequently, he tells the guy every little detail of his life.
Beomgyu avoids his eyes, "Okay, It was someone else."
A gasp, maybe a little dramatic too. Beomgyu thinks it is definitely not that big of a deal. "Don't tell me you finally got laid."
"I did not," Beomgyu shoots him a tired look. "Can we eat?"
Taehyun ignores the latter part of the sentence and leans forward, "You are being secretive." He narrows his eyes, "I'm suspicious."
Really, screw Beomgyu and his habit of running his mouth everywhere, especially in front of his friends. He sighs. "It was my neighbour's…" he hesitates, but there is no real way to make it sound good. "Boyfriend."
Taehyun looks at him. A blank stare from his big eyes that unsettles Beomgyu. "You finally met the guy? I thought you didn't like him."
"No," he replies, trying not to shift in his seat. A feeling of being exposed creeps up his neck, and he wants to hide away from his conversation.
"But his boyfriend's driving you to work." Taehyun spells out, a little confused and maybe unimpressed.
Beomgyu's patience wears out thin. He runs a hand through his hair, trying very hard to not sound mean or defensive but ends up failing on both. "Listen, I was late and he was offering. It's nothing, okay? So drop it."
Taehyun looks at him, stunned. The guilt comes immediately, sharp against his stomach the longer the younger man stares at him. Beomgyu feels like a dick, he feels awful about being a bad friend and an even worse employee and maybe even a weirdo who jumps to take favours from strangers.
Silence stretches thin, and the guilt in Beomgyu's chest thickens. He puts his chopsticks down, appetite gone, "I'm sorry."
Taehyun nods and looks way, "No hyung, I shouldn't intrude like that."
But you can, Beomgyu wants to say. He is the one who tells Taehyun everything about his life, no wonder the guy pressed. He sighs, exhaustion finally catching up to him, pressing down on his shoulders. "No, I'm being a dick. It's been a rough morning and then my supervisor yelled at me and I'm just—" He trails off, the words slipping away as the fatigue settles deep in his bones. He needs a break that's longer than 30 minutes lunches with Taehyun.
Taehyun clears his throat like, shelving the previous topic and launches into something about his cat knocking over a plant, and how his sister is coming over this weekend and will absolutely judge the state of his apartment.
This is good and familiar territory. He lets Taehyun complain about the impending interrogation from his sister about whether he’s eating properly and seeing anyone.
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The next week stretches with some other fleeting encounters with Soobin. Sometimes Beomgyu would see him in the lobby and wave at him with a smile. Once, he was walking out half-asleep to hit the gym and met Soobin by the gate, holding the same cup of coffee from the other day.
He offered it to Beomgyu who took it hesitantly. Really, I don't even like coffee. The man had insisted, again.
Soobin was quieter up close than expected. Really thoughtful, too. And he was annoyingly easy to talk to. Sometimes, Beomgyu would catch himself rambling about a nightmare client from work or something else mundane and realized halfway through that Soobin was watching him with this steady, unreadable focus that made his throat go dry.
It was addicting, coming from Soobin.
122 returns to being what he used to be, footsteps outside his door and a soft click of a lock turning, music low enough to pass as background noise in the well insulated walls of his apartment. Beomgyu is almost grateful.
On Friday, late to come home again, Beomgyu almost hopes to see a tall figure outside 122's door, maybe left waiting. Doesn't answer his own question to himself as to why. Maybe this time he will finally insist on letting Soobin wait inside his place.
Saturday is his day off. He wakes up late, late enough that he knows the whole world has already woken up. Maybe he should go outside, a park or something. He turns off his alarm and scrolls through his phone for a few hours.
It's afternoon by the time he drags himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth. An offending pile of dirty laundry almost glowers at him from the hamper. Toothbrush in mouth, he picks it up and decides to get it over with. His suit jacket is in the foyer, tossed tiredly next to the coat hanger. When he goes to get it, he hears the rustle of fabric outside the door. He freezes without meaning to, toothbrush hovering mid-air, foam gathering at the corner of his mouth like an idiot.
Then the same soft voice, maybe over the phone since Beomgyu can't really hear someone else speaking. Although faint and incomprehensible it is definitely Soobin.
There’s a dull thud against the shared wall. Just the sound of Soobin leaning back, maybe. Followed by the click of the door and it's silent again.
His mind fills in the rest without permission.
He imagines Soobin turned toward someone—toward 122. The body in his head is blurred and faceless. Imagines those long fingers resting absentmindedly at someone else’s waist. Pressing in just enough to close the space between them. Imagines dimples appearing, that small private smile offered just as freely and easily like it did with Beomgyu.
This is ridiculous. He feels like a creep.
It is then decided that laundry shall be postponed for the day after. Beomgyu finishes showering, dries his hair and he's out of his apartment and the building.
The park is nice. It's a cold day, but mercifully the sun's out these days. He spends hours sitting there, headphones in and doesn't think much. Then thinks anyway.
It's nice.
Coffee from the in-park cafe is overpriced but sweet. He sips on it on his walk back home, the day having gone by faster than he could have sensed. Evening is already evident by the pink-purple clouds in the sky.
Back at home, he looks at his abandoned pile of dirty clothes and finds his most frayed tee to slip into and shorts that are hardly visible under it—his last pair of clean home clothes. He looks like he's dressed like the lead of a bad porno.
It's not like he's getting any visitors today.
At about eleven o'clock, the doorbell rings in the middle of the fifth episode of Reply 1988. Beomgyu sighs and pauses the TV, runs through his brain for something like having a delivery coming up but there's nothing. He walks to his door and opens it.
Soobin in a tank top and sweatpants, feet shuffling with socks against the floor. There's a laptop balanced on his palm and forearm. He looks up from the screen and at Beomgyu and then down to his legs.
Beomgyu's way too aware of the length of his shorts all of a sudden. And how his shirt is too big, falling off of one shoulder. He hastily fixes it.
"Hi," Soobin says with that same awkward smile.
In all the three months 122 has lived across from Beomgyu, not once did he show up even in the hallways let alone coming to knock on his door. But here Soobin is, looking mildly hurried. "I'm sorry," he says for nothing. "My—" he throws a thumb behind his back, at 122's closed door.
"The WiFi router's busted," Soobin explains. He shifts the laptop higher against his palm, screen still glowing. "And if I don't submit these assignments within today's date I might just have to drop out."
Beomgyu's too focused on the man's soft appearance, completely devoid of any sharp edges, wrinkled top and glasses that are a thicker frame than he's seen before. Shoulders, broad shoulders and and the same expensive cologne that seems to always cling to his unblemished skin. Beomgyu instinctively hides back behind the door and cringes at how useless the action is.
"Sure," he takes a deep breath and opens the door wider. "Come in."
Soobin steps inside carefully, stepping around Beomgyu but their side's brush anyway. He watches his eyes move, trying to take it in without being obvious about it. Most people do that when they visit him. It's obvious from his living space that Beomgyu has a knack for decorating.
“It’s pretty,” Soobin says after a second, almost surprised. “Your apartment.”
Heat burns in Beomgyu's cheeks at the genuine wonder in Soobin's eyes. He suddenly sees the place the way an outsider would. Lamps in each corner, dispersed lighting because overhead lights give him headaches. Plants here and there, gifts from Taehyun from when he was trying out gardening. Pictures of him and Yeonjun in college, long hair and guitars slung over their shoulders.
He clears his throat. “Thank you.”
They sit in the living room, Beomgyu's paused frame from Reply 1988 still on the screen. Soobin looks at it and lets out a breathy chuckle. The couch is the only thing he dragged with him from his college dorm to this apartment because it was too comfortable to give up. It creaks faintly whenever someone sits too quickly, a sound he’s long since tuned out.
Now, it echoes as Soobin sinks into it, laptop balanced over his parted legs and one knee bouncing absently as he adjusts the screen. He looks up at Beomgyu. "Password."
"Daddyyawnzzn13," Beomgyu says in the most unimpressed tone he can muster up. "Please don't ask follow ups on it."
Soobin types rapidly but there's a smile twisted in his expression, "Okay."
Damn dimples. Beomgyu doesn't want to look away at all but has to for his own good.
He chooses the armchair across from Soobin. From here, he has a clear view. For nothing, because he's pointedly not looking.
When he does look at the man after what he thinks is an acceptable time gap of acting way too interested in the paused frame of a drama he has watched countless times, Soobin's looking back at him with the eyes of a lover.
For a moment, Beomgyu's entranced. Soobin leans forward slightly, brows furrowing this time not at whatever is on the screen. His eyes travel over Beomgyu, towards his legs again and back up to his face. Glasses slipping. Tank top stretching across his chest as he shifts. The light from the lamp catches against his dark eyes.
Soobin looks unfairly attractive in his space. On his couch and surrounded by his things.
"Have you moved in with him or something?" Beomgyu asks just to break the tension. Watches as Soobin blinks once, twice as he shakes out of…. whatever was passing between them.
It’s subtle. A micro–pause you’d miss if you weren’t already watching him too closely.
“With him?” he repeats lightly, like he needs the clarification.
"Your boyfriend," Beomgyu feels petty, territorial and stupid and fucking turned on because fuck—Soobin is beautiful and totally unfair for looking at him like that while being promised to someone else.
"Oh.” Soobin leans back, laptop tipping slightly before he steadies it. “No.”
“I just… stay over sometimes,” he says after a beat, eyes back on the screen. His knee starts bouncing again. “It’s closer to campus.”
Beomgyu squeezes his legs together before crossing them. "How did you two meet?"
Just once, but it’s sharp enough to be noticed. Soobin's shoulders pull back a fraction too stiffly. The laptop slides a little on his thighs before he catches it and then puts it aside altogether. Beomgyu's eyes automatically fall to his lap.
“We—” He clears his throat and tries again. “He's in my class.” Soobin winces almost imperceptibly and adjusts his glasses to buy time. “It wasn’t, like, a big cinematic thing.”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t mind?” Beomgyu asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “You coming over here.”
That makes Soobin stop entirely. He doesn't know why he's doing this. Interrogating him where he has no right to.
"Mind?"
Beomgyu shrugs and pulls his knees up to rest his chin on them, "You know, you’re at another guy’s apartment at eleven.”
"He couldn't care less," Soobin says. The logo stitched near the hem of his top glints faintly under the lamp. Some obnoxiously high-end brand Beomgyu would never buy for himself. Soobin is wearing it like sleepwear.
Maybe that's the kind of relationship Soobin and 122 have. It all makes sense now, the expensive perfume, driving his car around without a care. Waiting outside his door like some puppy and somehow not even being upset.
Something in Beomgyu wants to rile Soobin up, see how far his thick patience can go. Wants to draw a reaction out of him that's not subtle and overwhelmingly pacifist. "Generous boyfriend," he comments, planting his feet back on the floor. Almost enjoys at the way Soobin's eyes fall to his legs for the nth time this night.
He can see the flush on his neck. Part of him wants know if it reaches Soobin's chest.
“Would it make it better,” Soobin continues, voice lower now, “if I told you he’s not really around much? Or that we're not very serious.”
Beomgyu shrugs but his pulse is loud in his ears. "Make what better?" He's still your boyfriend.
He's offered a staged shrug. Soobin has shifted from the farther end of the couch to the one right next to the armchair. Right next to Beomgyu. The couch creaks softly as Soobin shifts closer to the edge of the cushion, the distance turned into inches instead of feet.
The oversized tee has slipped again, exposing Beomgyu’s shoulder fully this time. Soobin’s gaze drops to it and lingers. In one smooth motion, he's off the couch and on the ground.
Between Beomgyu's legs.
Looking up with those same doe-like eyes and the angle reminds him of that first night they met in the hallway, Beomgyu standing and Soobin on the ground.
Cold harsh floor.
And now, Soobin's knees on the soft fur of Beomgyu's carpet. Hands on Beomgyu's knees. Parting them wider so he can be fully between them.
He'd never let a man like this wait, fuck, if Beomgyu had him Soobin would never have to speak on his wants again. He'd already have it.
He doesn't care if he can or cannot buy the shirt Soobin's wearing. His heart is beating so fast he's scared it's visible through his shirt.
“If I told you,” Soobin says quietly, voice almost steady but not quite, “that there isn’t anyone—”
Beomgyu's doesn't want to hear it, if 122 is there in his apartment or somewhere else or anywhere at all. He didn't want confirmation or explanations that will make it any more right than it isn't. Excuses that won't make them two weak men.
His hands come up to rest on either side of Soobin's head, fingertips in his hair.
They tighten. “Don’t,” he cuts in, because if he hears it said outright, concretising the existence of a man he had reduced to a number so he won't have to think about it.
A strange expression passes through Soobin's features, like he's struggling with a thought. Weighing something in his mind and coming short every time. Beomgyu runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
The action makes Soobin's lips part, a deep breath sucked through that inviting mouth.
He wants to lean down and take. So he does.
Beomgyu can feel the warmth of him. Soobin's lips are as soft as they look, lower lip so bite able and inviting and the sound Soobin makes is downright sinful. He parts his lips to let Beomgyu lick inside his mouth, tongue lapping the outline of his upper teeth and then pushing deeper to entangle with his own, soft and velvety.
He tastes of mouthwash and his hands come to squeeze Beomgyu's thighs, making him almost whimper into the older's mouth. It's like satiating yourself on an offering, Soobin between his legs and he's not doing anything other than letting Beomgyu take. His lips move to the corner of his own, sucking where Beomgyu knows a faint mole lies.
Downward, his hands creep higher and higher until they lie just so of the hem of Beomgyu's shorts.
The kiss is messy. Beomgyu's neck hurts from trying to lean down and work his lips in tandem with the other. Spit pools in his mouth, and gravity lets it drip and get mixed with Soobin's as he breaks into a gasp but doesn't pull away.
How does one kiss like a man starved but also completely pliant below him? Soobin is sitting on his heels, legs parted and he's not doing anything but letting his mouth fall open for Beomgyu. But there's need, hot breath that brushes over his face whenever Beomgyu pulls back a centimeter to change the angle and dive in again.
When Soobin is the one who attempts to sink his teeth into Beomgyu's lip, his fingers tighten in silky hair that borderlines a pull.
A soft, breathy whimper slips out, pitch high enough to sound helpless, tugging for attention. "Mhm," Soobin makes a sound. "Beomgyu."
Then his hands clamp around Beomgyu's thigh, fingernails digging into the meat of it. The action makes his dick twitch.
He pulls back with a gasp but their hands remain on each other. Breathless, Soobin looks the epitome of a mistake waiting to happen. His mouth hangs slightly parted, lips swollen pink and waiting to be full of something, maybe Beomgyu's tongue, maybe more. Breathing shallow. He’s chasing the taste of something he doesn’t want to end.
Beomgyu takes his hands off of him like he was burned.
"No, no," he shakes his head, having to put physical effort to get away from Soobin when his body screams for more. He doesn't know what's worse—that Soobin is ready to throw away a year-long relationship for him or that Beomgyu was totally onboard with letting him.
He feels like such a bad person.
Even if he doesn't like 122.
Even if he thinks Soobin deserves a million times better than someone who leaves him waiting or wouldn't care if the man ends up in Beomgyu's bed tonight.
Even if he thinks he can somehow treat Soobin like he deserves to be treated.
Below him, Soobin is still catching his breath, lips bitten and swollen and pupils blown wide. He doesn't miss the very obvious bulge in Soobin's sweats, and it takes everything to not just jump back on the man and give himself up.
He stands up abruptly and thanks whatever god there is that his shirt is big enough to cover his crotch. Steps around to put distance between them.
Soobin turns to look at him, breaking out his reverie, running a hand through his hair to tame it. "Beomgyu—"
"Did you submit your assignment?" Beomgyu cuts him.
For a moment, Soobin looks stunned. Then realisation dawns on his face and he looks back at his abandoned laptop. "Yes."
"Then I think you should leave." His body is burning, he can feel his core shaking—with need, with breakable resolve and with hunger because Soobin is still on his carpet and still half-hard and Beomgyu might just be the weakest man on the planet doing the strongest thing he can ever do, "Please."
The lines of his face are tight like he didn't think things could lead to here when Soobin stands up on unsteady legs. Beomgyu crosses his arms, looks away as him pulls his top down.
The silence is mortifying. The slow movements as Soobin picks up his laptop and shuts it, tucks it under his arm. The walk to the main door. At last, the man turns to hover just by the exit, "If you would let me explain.."
Beomgyu inhales sharply, fuck, how persistent can Soobin be? "I don't want to be a part of this, okay?" He finds himself saying. "I don't care how serious you and your boyfriend are. I won't do this."
He was definitely, one-hundred percent willing to do this literally five minutes ago.
There's hurt somewhere in Soobin's face. Beomgyu looks away because he's a liar who will give in, if Soobin insists one more time. But he doesn't.
"Good night," Soobin says finally. "And— yeah. Thank you."
Beomgyu doesn't reply or look. He hears the door shut, then hears 122's door open and shut again.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
He thinks about it before bed. Days go by where he avoids Soobin and starts staying later on purpose. Volunteering for small, useless tasks that no one asked him to do. If he leaves after ten, the hallway is guaranteed to be empty. If he leaves before seven in the morning, nobody bothers to stop him for morning small-talk. It only gets worse, even Taehyun gets suspicious when Beomgyu spaces out during break for the third day in the row.
It only gets worse.
Every night, his bed feels wrong. His sheets feel like sandpaper on his skin as he tosses and turns. He flips the pillow and kicks the blanket off only to drag it back over himself five minutes later.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself not to think about it.
It spreads anyway, tightening his skin and sharp enough to call it sickness.
It only eases when he gives in. Hands between his legs where he didn't let Soobin go. It feels wrong when he lets himself replay the kiss without censoring it. Thinks about what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t put a stop to it.
He comes stifling the name of someone he definitely shouldn't want.
Perhaps the worst part isn't even wanting Soobin. But knowing Soobin wanted him just as much, the way his mouth opened without hesitation, the soft, needy sound he made like this had been building for a while. There was no confusion in it, no guilt or pause.
It keeps him up even after he cleans himself up and tries to sleep afterward.
It's Friday night again and his boss deliberately made sure that he left the building at 5 o'clock. I'm not paying you any more overtime, Choi Beomgyu! The old man said and Beomgyu almost wanted to hiss at him. So now he's being nice.
That's how he finds himself sitting at the bar's counter at 10 o'clock.
It's so cliché. Overworked guy who has fucked phenomenally, hates his job and now somehow cannot even go home and be at peace so he's nursing the worst drink Yeonjun could have concocted up. Because being at that couch is torture, like Soobin has branded his home with his presence.
Yeonjun approaches his smoothly, slides another glass towards him with something that tastes minutely better. "Come here often?", he drawls.
Beomgyu rolls his eyes. "I'm not in the mood."
His best friend straightens. Yeonjun's wearing a mesh top and a denim skirt that's invisible from Beomgyu's place on the bar stool—it's Friday night and he probably dressed up to perform. His hair is now longer than Beomgyu. In college they both rocked longer versions of it, but got haircuts together on graduation night with kitchen scissors and too much alcohol involved to be considered safe.
Yeonjun had let his grow again, while Beomgyu resorted to getting regular haircuts after that. They kept falling into his eyes at work otherwise.
"What happened?"
Beomgyu weighs with how much he can tell Yeonjun.
He’s never hidden anything from Yeonjun. Not when he had his first kiss or when he lost his virginity and called Yeonjun at two in the morning just to say, “I think I did it wrong.” Not when he was so paralyzed before graduation he couldn’t study for finals because he had no idea what came after.
Yeonjun helped him find that apartment.
Helped him hang the stupid full-length mirror and every other decor that makes it his.
It would feel like a bigger deal if Beomgyu doesn't tell Yeonjun. And it's not a big deal, or at least he's is not trying to make it.
“I think,” Beomgyu says finally trying to keep his voice flat, “I have a crush on my neighbour’s boyfriend.”
Yeonjun blinks once. “Rich brat's got a boyfriend?” he asks immediately.
Beomgyu shoot him a look. “And he’s hot,” he adds, because if he’s going down, he should go down being honest to his closest friend. "Like, really fucking hot."
Yeonjun sighs dramatically, tipping his head back, “Why is God only kind to the rich?” He shakes his head, acting genuinely bothered.
There's a pause where Beomgyu only stares at his drink. He kinds of feels off, because every time he thinks about Soobin and anything related to him he doesn't want to joke anymore.
Yeonjun squints at him over the rim of a glass. “Darling, I think you need to get laid.”
Beomgyu’s eyes light up on reflex.
Yeonjun points a finger at him instantly. “Not by 122's boyfriend. I've seen the guy from the back." He touches his own arms and shoulders, flexes them. "Tall guy, shoulders are no joke. I can't let my little friend like you get beaten up by that.”
He did not need 122's description and how built he is right now. Beomgyu runs a hand through his hair and exhales through his nose. “I don’t have time to get laid.” That’s the pathetic part. Between work and avoiding his own hallway like it’s cursed, he barely has time to think, let alone spiral like a normal person.
Yeonjun softens a little. “You should come here more often,” he says, nudging the better-tasting drink closer. “I miss you.”
Beomgyu grimaces. This is not the time for guilt tripping him for being a workaholic.
“And,” Yeonjun continues smoothly, “some of my regulars are totally your type.”
Beomgyu opens his mouth to scoff. His type. Soobin’s face up close. Glasses sliding down his nose and dimples carving deep when he smiles like he knows something.
Kneeling and looking up at him like that. The heat of his mouth and the soft drag of his tongue.
The idea of someone else — some random bar regular with decent hair and decent arms — trying to touch him while that image exists?
Yeonjun watches the entire internal turmoil happen in real time. “Oh no,” he says slowly. “You’re gone….” And then because Yeonjun somehow can read him like a book. "Something happened between you two."
Beomgyu only sighs because there's no point in denying.
"You are thinking about him right now."
The rest of the drink is knocked back in one go. “I told him to leave.”
“Of course you did," Yeonjun takes his glass and refills it without hesitation. "Did he try to explain?"
"Yes," A part of Beomgyu wants to defend himself. "I didn't want to hear it." And for emphasis, because with the look Yeonjun is giving him he has to clarify: "I'm not a homewrecker."
Silence stretches between them.
Yeonjun’s expression shifts, and he brings his own glass out to down it. Then winces at the burn.
“Okay,” he says. “So he’s a cheater.” He pushes another drink—a peculiar color this time—towards Beomgyu's direction. "Sleep with him."
Beomgyu pauses mid gulp, "What?"
“I said sleep with him,” Yeonjun gestures vaguely with a bar towel. “You clearly want to. He clearly wants to. Get it out of your system.”
He's lost his mind. And Beomgyu's is not drunk enough yet. “He has a boyfriend.”
"And?" he shrugs. "That's not your mess."
"This is absolutely my mess if I'm involved."
“No,” Yeonjun counters, leaning forward. “It’s only your mess if start falling in love and start picking out bouquets on your way back from work. I’m saying have sex. You don't even have to see him again.”
Beomgyu grips his glass tighter and scoffs. "You're unbelievable." He ignores how his throat is suspiciously dry.
Yeonjun just leans back into his own space and shrugs. "Kissing him and acting like a Saint after clearly isn't working."
He's only slightly light on his feet when he makes it back to his apartment complex.
Yeonjun's words echo around his head, hitting at sharp angles inside his mind, making it ache. He clutches his tie and pulls on it to undo it halfway. There's no one in the lobby. Even the guard is asleep again as usual. Beomgyu gets the urge to smoke despite having quit in college. He's pretty sure there are no cigarettes in his bag.
The guard dozed off on the chair stirs awake. His baseball cap falls onto the ground with a thud and Beomgyu who had been waiting for the elevator turns to look at it.
The man takes out a cigarette. Lights it, blows the smoke skyward. It makes an odd shape in the air before disseminating into nothing, just a sting at the back of his nose.
Beomgyu's fingers itch. One cigarette for the first time in a year wouldn't hurt.
He walks over to the man, hovers a little in a distance until the attention is on him. The security guard regards him with a tired nod, "May I help you?"
This is embarrassing. Beomgyu feels like an addict who couldn't even wait to get back to his house before hitting a smoke, and he's smelling of alcohol. How obviously a wreck. "Mind if I borrow one?" He gestures to the cigarette.
The guard also looks at it, then back at Beomgyu. A little surprised as if this is something weird when he does it. "Yeah, sure." The guy digs out another cigarette from his pocket and extends it forward.
Beomgyu takes it and hardly mutters a thank you before he's running away with his tail tucked.
Not here.
He gets into the elevator and presses the B instead of the 12. The parking lot feels a more fitting place to smoke. Nobody will see him, and he can comfortably pretend it didn't happen afterwards. The doors open and Beomgyu steps into the signature basement smell. A little damp, weirdly cold. There are cars lined up on both sides and Beomgyu pointedly doesn't look at where 122 parks his own.
But that space is empty. So he's out late again, and really, what could a college student even do out so late at night every goddamn day?
He goes to stand in that vacant space and lights his cigarette. The first drag is as unpleasant as he remembers. Bitter, and after a whole year of not smoking the smoke burns all the way down from his throat to his lungs. He blows it out.
The hum of an engine is especially loud at this hour when there isn't anyone in the parking lot. Beomgyu's doesn't look up to see who it is until the car drives right into the empty space he has chosen as his smoke spot. He stumbles away, a curse on the tip of tongue and his half-done and only cigarette almost slipping from his fingers.
122's car. The same one Soobin drove him to work in is right in front of him.
It's confirmed. The universe or God or whatever omnipotent Being controls everything hates him. This is the most wrecked he has looked in months, and this is when he finally actually meets 122.
The car stops a few inches away from Beomgyu. The engine turns off, covering the place back into silence that now feels eerie. The headlights turn off and he braces himself to see the man, finally, after months of mildly disliking him and then straight of resenting him once he met Soobin.
The door opens and Beomgyu makes no move to hide his cigarette. He's a grown man who was smoking to forget his worries and he's the most cliché nine-to-five guy 122 will ever meet. Not that he could relate to Beomgyu.
Instead, he's met with a pair of eyes he hasn't been able to forget, in his dreams and on his sleepless nights.
Soobin looks just as stunned with one hand still on the car's roof like it's his. "Beomgyu?", voice soft as always. Then his eyes go over Beomgyu's state, tie undone and hair probably just as disheveled due to running his hands through it, smelling of alcohol and smoking. Meanwhile Soobin looks fucking unaffected as ever, for which Beomgyu is a little hurt because how is he so unaffected? File in hand, same tote-bag and a different book and he's so handsome real tears need to be shed over him.
Tears are being shed. One, then two. This is mortifying. It's okay to hate your job and your life and not knowing what to do with it while your friends are exactly where they want to be and willing to not stay there forever. It's not okay to pine and obsess over someone you cannot have, and Beomgyu is not okay. Cigarette in hand, alcohol faintly in his system and he's crying like a child because of—
What, exactly?
Everything. Just everything.
There are arms around him again like when Beomgyu stumbled that morning, a body all too familiar and he's being hugged. It's all consuming, the warmth of Soobin's chest as Beomgyu sniffles into his sweater while his pride burns out and disseminates like the ashes falling from his cigarette.
Over a kiss. He feels fourteen not twenty four.
He steps back, pushing Soobin away but it's not harsh. There's a struggle between what he should say. Hi, all good? Remember that time last week you kind of cheated on your boyfriend with me. Funny time, hah!
The chance to say anything doesn't come. Footsteps approach them, heavy and slow like someone has been waiting for them to get done with whatever they were doing and then interrupt.
For a moment, Beomgyu's heart sort of drops. He turns to look at whoever it is.
Their housing secretary. A short man with no sense of appropriate timing. Sometimes he's knocking on Beomgyu's door at 6 o'clock on a Sunday. He approaches them and gestures to Soobin.
"Mr. Choi!," he says. "I'm glad I ran into you."
Beside him, Soobin goes very still very quickly.
"About the monthly maintenance, actually," the secretary fixes his glasses. "You paid it twice in one month!"
Beomgyu watches the exchange, confused and trying to run his head a mile a minute. Why is Soobin paying the monthly maintenance for his boyfriend's apartment? He thinks.
Soobin looks rooted to the spot. The man goes on, "I could just add it under next month's or should I refund it back?"
No answer.
"Mr. Choi?"
It's like a zap of electricity goes through Soobin. He doesn't look at Beomgyu as he speaks, tone shaky but still calm. "I'll— yeah. Just add it under my name for next month."
The secretary nods and laughs. "O-okay, don't worry. Mess ups happen. I'm quite impressed, you haven't missed a date ever since you moved in." Then the man looks at Beomgyu especially. "Very rare with some other residents."
There are no words for Beomgyu to retort with. There are no words in his head other than the equation that forms—obvious and shattering.
Apartment 122.
Soobin.
Soobin is ……. 122?
Beomgyu steps back, cigarette falling onto the ground. He leaves the conversation he wasn't part of in the first place. Goes to the elevator and presses the button again and again. It won't fucking open.
He'll take the staircase. Turns around and comes face to face with Soobin.
"Beomgyu," Soobin says and he's tall enough to block his way. "Just let me explain it to you." He sounds panicked himself, like Beomgyu is sand that will slip from his fingers if he doesn't clutch harder now.
"I don't know what game you're playing," the words feel animated leaving Beomgyu's mouth like he's reciting the dialogue to a film. "I don't know.
He has never been more confused. "You were lying to me?
"Why?"
Seriously, he cannot come up with one reason why Soobin would make up this whole lie. Maybe he's a voyeuristic creep who enjoys watching men go into moral spirals over him. Fucking linguistic majors. He should have known.
Soobin opens his mouth to say something, but thankfully that's when the elevator's doors open. Beomgyu steps inside like it will save him. "Don't follow me." He almost commands.
He presses the close button and Soobin—with an expression that looks sad, and disappointed and almost panicked—disappears from his view like the ending frame of the worst film Beomgyu has ever watched.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦