Archive of Our Own

Oh no, I thought then. Here you are, all of you, and before I even knew what I was doing, I’d already let you into my imagination.
— Larissa Pham

We are left here until everything dissolves
Let me do what I want
Because we were too beautiful to be left behind
…
Even the sadness that will leak out from time to time
You could call it love
— I can’t run away, SEVENTEEN

How does it feel to set yourself on fire?

Everything is deliberate. It’s slow. Intentional. It’s grabbing the match and holding it to a flame and standing still enough that you start to catch fire. Don’t flinch when it jumps, from one thing to another, right onto you. At first, it’s just warm, this glowing flame that licks at air and settles down on hair, on skin. Anything that it can touch. It’s almost pleasant. Then: hotter. More intense. Sweat drips down your neck now, that’s how high the temperature has gotten. Pain prickles at the periphery of awareness. Ouch, it tells you. Something hurts. Then: the hurt builds, it’s all too much. Sparks fly. An acceleration. The fire grows out of control, it consumes, feeds more and more and more. It gets greedy. It starts to swallow you whole. Something is burning. The smell of it stings your nose. Something is burning. A grim, sick sort of satisfaction rises to the surface. Something is burning.

You wanted this. Didn’t you?

If given the choice, Wonwoo would have never wanted to meet Seokmin.

“It sounds like you’re just whining,” Junhui says nonchalantly, digging into his malatang. Wonwoo shoots him a dagger of a look, but Junhui is too busy blowing bubbles into his spicy soup to notice.

“You shouldn’t be playing with your food,” Wonwoo frowns. “We’re how old now?”

Junhui sticks out his tongue. “You read. What does it say on your driver’s license? Besides, this makes it taste better.”

“If you say so,” Wonwoo says sullenly, sipping at his own bowl, which is, to no one’s surprise, completely plain with no modifications made whatsoever. The smell wafting over from Junhui’s bowl makes his eyes water, and is plenty enough to make Wonwoo refrain from adding more chili oil to his.

Junhui points his chopsticks at Wonwoo. If it were anyone else, it’d be a threat, but because it’s Junhui Wonwoo knows to take it merely as a gesture of curiosity. “What happened between you and Seokmin?”

Wonwoo chokes on his spoonful of soup.

“Nothing.” He hadn’t expected Junhui to be so direct. In fact, the sole reason why he’d chosen to eat with Junhui today was because Wonwoo was counting on Junhui to not be serious. There’d been too much of it going around lately.

Junhui doesn’t drop the subject, like Wonwoo so desperately wants him to. Apparently, today is a day for miracles. Wonwoo should buy a lottery ticket.

Junhui patiently continues to stare. Wonwoo’s soup gets colder and colder.

Predictably, Wonwoo loses first. Junhui can be persistent when he wants to be, even if it’s in a way no one else understands.

Wonwoo drops his gaze and shuffles his spoon in the soup. “Seriously. Nothing happened. And maybe that’s the problem. Nothing’s ever going to happen.”

They’re silent once more, pondering the monstrosity of a situation that Wonwoo has single-handedly gotten himself into. Or maybe only Wonwoo is thinking about his situation, and Junhui is thinking about the next cat video he wants to send the group chat.

“You don’t really mean that,” Junhui says offhandedly, lifting the bowl up to his mouth, slurping it up noisily. When did he have the time to finish his meal? Wonwoo is still working on the early stages of his.

Junhui gets up to leave, dabbing at his mouth with his shirtsleeve. It almost looks like blood, the way the malatang stains it red. “Meeting Seokmin was the best thing that happened to the both of you.”

Wonwoo stares out the window as Junhui walks out, steps echoing on the tile floor.

Maybe that much is true.

Here’s the story, if you can even call it that:

Wonwoo meets Seokmin when he moves into his neighborhood. Wonwoo’s not quite eight, but he’s old enough to understand how the world works. No other kid his age should enjoy books the way Wonwoo does, diving headfirst into them and emerging hours later, only to find that everyone else had already made their friends and moved on.

Wonwoo’s mother calls him different, ruffling his head with a quiet, fierce pride. His noona, Seulgi, calls him weird, but only in the way that older sisters tend to do, with lots of affection and a mean punch in store for anyone else who dares to call Wonwoo that within earshot. Kwon Soonyoung is Wonwoo’s best and only friend, and even then, not really by choice: their mothers spent the entirety of their lives together and decided that their sons would too. Wonwoo’s just lucky that Soonyoung is hardheaded enough to stick by him throughout all these years, despite the hoard of friends the other boy always seems to be surrounded by.

The fact of the matter is, Wonwoo is lonely.

When he sees the moving trucks crowding the street, and the movers pulling kids’ stuff out of boxes — the new neighbors have got a boy around his age, by the looks of it — he gets excited despite himself.

Maybe this time will be different.

(Hope is a funny thing like that.)

Wonwoo is doing a good job of acting normal. Soonyoung coaches him about it all the time, and although Wonwoo’s not really sure about some of the things his best friend says. The whole ‘I’m a tiger’ gimmick seems to be working really well for Soonyoung, which probably says a lot more about the people that choose to keep Soonyoung company rather than Soonyoung himself. Despite his reservations, it’s the best Wonwoo’s got. He’s working with it.

Wonwoo stands on the street. He had even worn his best sneakers, carefully dusting them off before slipping them on, being sure to tie the tightest and neatest knot with the laces, the way Seulgi had taught him to.

He shuffles closer to his neighbor’s front yard, where all the noise is coming from (and only seems to get louder, scarily enough), carefully rehearsing. Hi, Wonwoo practices in his head. Hello. Nice to meet you. I live over there. My name’s Jeon Wonwoo, what’s yours? I think we’re about the same age. Can I play with you?

He lets a tiny pleased hum when he makes it all the way through without a hitch, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

Wonwoo makes it all the way to the mailbox separating the new neighbor’s house from fussy-but-secretly-adores-company old man Kim’s before his worries seize him again, stopping him in his tracks.

One step. That’s all that needs to happen. Wonwoo stares at the soles of his shoes, willing something, anything to propel himself into motion. Just one step.

When it comes down to it, Wonwoo makes a mistake. He moves forward only to trip and sprawl across the asphalt, tumbling so that his tiny little knees scrape themselves on the floor, gravel biting into his palms. The noise suddenly cuts out, air empty and devoid of all chatter. Wonwoo closes his eyes, face already coloring in embarrassment. Waiting for the inevitable.

Instead, the boy laughs. Wonwoo opens his eyes to see a grinning beaming face, hands outstretched. It is warm and dazzling and enrapturing.

“Hi, I’m Seokmin! Do you want to play?”

And for years after that, the same thing will happen over and over and over again.

Seokmin leads. Wonwoo follows.

“You want to what now?” Wonwoo asks incredulously, pushing up his glasses.

“Make a band,” Seokmin whines, tossing a pillow at Wonwoo’s head and knocking his frames askew. “Are you not listening to me?”

They’re in high school now. Both of them are gangly and awkward, slight echoes of each other, the way two people tend to be when they spend all their time together. Seokmin claims it’s because Wonwoo has a tendency to cling to the warmest body in the room, as cold-blooded as he is. Wonwoo says it’s because Seokmin has a hard time letting go of things.

The fact of the matter is, they’ve got each other. That’s all that matters at this age.

Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, fully intending to send Seokmin a discouraging frown that somehow morphs into laughter on the way out. “I’m listening. Are you listening to yourself?”

Seokmin giggles. “I am, I am!” He insists, eyes wide and sparkling. Wonwoo can tell he’s lost in the grandeur of the delusion all already. Wonwoo rolls his eyes, but the insulting gesture is familiar and wrapped with too much affection to garner any offense.

“C’mon, Nonu-yah,” Seokmin whines.

Wonwoo can already feel the tips of his ears turning red. “Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that?”

Seokmin blows a fat raspberry. His spit makes its way across the space to launch a very personal attack on Wonwoo. “Boo, you’re no fun.”

Wonwoo delicately wipes at his face with a sleeve pulled over his hands. “So I’ve been told,” he says drily. “Besides, I don’t even play an instrument.”

“You can learn!” Seokmin protests. “You’ve already beaten all my high scores in RockBand 2 on the guitar, what’s the difference?”

“A lot of things, actually,” Wonwoo grumbles, but ducks his head so that Seokmin can’t see the pleased grin that sneaks its way onto his face.

Seokmin had gotten the game for his twelfth birthday, complete with the extra microphone add-on. The summer before middle school had started, they had terrorized the neighborhood with late night jam sessions — though no one had actually threatened them with noise complaints. Everyone loved Seokmin too much to lay a finger on him, metaphorically or verbally. That was a problem, Seokmin and Wonwoo knew, but one that worked out in their favor, and so they’d spent this particular time in their lives taking full advantage of it. With Seokmin on the mic, Wonwoo had taken it upon himself to learn the guitar. When he put his mind to something he really stayed true to it. Of course, that meant he was over at Seokmin’s house every single day. Not that he minded.

Seokmin waves off Wonwoo’s complaints with another manic grin. Wonwoo has to stop inviting Soonyoung to their hangouts. They’re rubbing off each other in the worst way possible.

“Who’s going to be in the band? What about equipment? Isn’t band stuff expensive? Where are we even going to practice?” Wonwoo voices aloud, brows creasing the more time he spends running through hypotheticals and other very plausible situations in his head. If this band of theirs is going to be a thing, they have a lot of work to do.

Seokmin’s eyes glitter. “That’s the fun of it, isn’t it, Nonu-yah? Figuring it out as we go?”

Wonwoo continues to protest weakly, but the severity is lost on Seokmin, who is already leaping onto the next thing, voice absolutely theatrical. In this private little moment, Wonwoo has become a one man audience watching his best friend in the entire world talk about a dream.

Wonwoo smiles fondly. He settles in for the ride.

(“If we’re going to be doing this,” he grumbles, wrestling the laptop from Seokmin, “Might as well do it right.”

Wonwoo ignores the delighted gasp Seokmin lets out, and goodnaturedly weathers the exaggerated kisses that Seokmin peppers while he gets busy opening tabs, researching all the answers to the questions he had asked before. Wonwoo is the kind of person who has to have everything beside him before he leaps forward, even if that is never how it is when Seokmin is in charge.

Wonwoo jerks back when he feels a particularly wet glob of saliva lands on the side of his face.

“I’m going to boot you out this window.” He points a finger accusingly at Seokmin, who just beams up at him, as if he didn’t just drool on him like some overgrown puppy. Gross.

“You like me too much to make that happen.” Seokmin lays it on thick, with so much aegyo it should make anyone watching feel nauseous.

Instead, Wonwoo pinks. He turns back to what he knows, retreating to the safety of the computer screen. “Shut up,” he says lamely. The retort is so flat that Seokmin shakes with laughter for a good ten minutes after. Wonwoo’s so busy being pleased with himself for making Seokmin laugh that he forgets to be embarrassed.)

So they start a band.

It’s terrible at first. Downright horrific. They barely make it past the starting line before encountering a whole myriad of problems they didn’t even know they had.

First, they get into an argument about musical inspirations and possible sounds for their band. Apparently IU isn’t rock enough, according to Seokmin.

But she’s good, Wonwoo had grumbled, and even though that was true, and even though they had just been belting their lungs out to Good Day five minutes ago, Seokmin had shot Wonwoo A Look and that was the end of that. Fine, no IU.

Wonwoo continues to grumble quite a lot after that one, and they end up having to call it for the time being. It becomes increasingly obvious that nothing will get done after that dispute, because Wonwoo keeps sticking his heels into every other discussion they have for that day, like the brat that he is.

Then, they get stuck on a band name, because every iteration that Seokmin brainstorm sounds straight out of that dumb shoujo anime that Soonyoung and Seokmin had been binging for the better half of the year.

“So?” Seokmin had stuck out his chin belligerently at that. “What’s the problem?”

The problem is that Wonwoo doesn’t want his name tied to something that sounds so childish, but he doesn’t want to say that because it’ll hurt Seokmin’s feelings, so he clamps his mouth shut, teeth grinding, and refuses to say anything.

They finally settle on something else entirely, an English phrase that’s a play on both of their names (re: Wonwoo simultaneously suggests and settles down on it, refusing to budge). Compromise is his strong suit, obviously.

When Seokmin hears it, he laughs. Of course you would like something like that, you cheesy old man, Seokmin says when he sees Wonwoo get defensive. His eyes crinkle into twin crescent moons. No, no, don’t change it. It’s perfect.

It gets better, eventually — Wonwoo learns to let Seokmin win some battles. In turn, Seokmin is a little less insufferable about other things.

“You guys are too similar not to work,” Seulgi tells him, when he tells her how it’s going. “But I’m glad you guys figured it out, or whatever.”

They make room for each other. They learn each other’s habits, how they work, how to pull one another from uncertain minds and hazing worries. They do more than click. They’re absolutely phenomenal. When they’re in a room together, they set it ablaze.

They play small gigs at first, whatever place will take them. Mom and pop shops, on special nights, even as the entertainment at some of their classmates’ parties, though most of the time they get asked to play a set that doesn’t belong to them.

Wonwoo doesn’t mind. He gets to keep Seokmin to himself just a little longer.

Maybe he’s a little selfish for that. Maybe some part of him knows that when the world sees him, they’ll want him too. Wonwoo doesn’t think it’s too far from the truth — even in his godawful bangs (complete with bleached blond highlights he’d done himself in the bathroom) and terrible fashion sense, Seokmin is absolutely captivating.

Wonwoo’s eighteen now, just about to graduate, and although Seokmin doesn’t bring it up, he’s getting itchy. Wonwoo can tell. By the fifth time they’re booked to do a school event, Seokmin is a little more restless, fingers thumping up and down on his guitar case with unvoiced frustration.

Wonwoo gets it. Seokmin has always been too big for this place, their town. He belongs up on a stage, for the world to see, somewhere where people can look up and find him, shining and bright and beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Bigger,” Seokmin says breathlessly, determinedly. He’s holding a poster. “We have to go bigger.”

Wonwoo looks at Seokmin, hair freshly tousled by the wind, chest heaving up and down, cheeks flushed in exertion. It’s his eyes, though, that always get Wonwoo in the end. They’re determined. Sparkling and warm.

Wonwoo gets a peculiar feeling, like he’s been subject to this before. It’s the same one that he gets every single time Seokmin ropes him into another threadbare scheme, stitched together by a flimsy idea, flying only by the power of pure faith.

Who could ever say no to that?

“Of course,” Wonwoo grins, hopping up to his feet to sling an arm around Seokmin’s shoulders, head leaning in to squint at the paper Seokmin’s got in his hand. “Where to next, my wonderful, crazy friend?”

“Stay right here, okay?” Seokmin darts his tongue out to lick at his lips, eyes scanning the crowd. “I’ll go check us in.”

Wonwoo wants to drily point out that there’s no way he, Jeon Wonwoo, known beanpole (65 kilograms on a good day), could ever hope to maneuver both of their equipment (combined, a cool 110 kilograms) by himself, but. Seokmin is already nervous as it is, and Wonwoo had already thrown up on the train ride here. Someone has to keep their cool. The burden naturally falls upon Wonwoo’s shoulders, as he is the older of the two.

“Okay,” Wonwoo croaks, wincing at the crack in his voice. Seokmin squeezes Wonwoo’s hand once more before he leaves, hands warm and gentle. Wonwoo squeezes back lightly, thumb tracing the back of Seokmin’s hand before letting go.

“Don’t get lost,” he warns.

“I won’t!” Seokmin calls back brightly, disappearing into the throng of bodies.

Wonwoo plops down on the ground, all the breath expeling out of him as he drops his case on the ground. He fires off a quick text to his mom, and takes a picture of himself from the nose up to send to Seulgi.

His phone chirps with Seulgi’s response, even though she’s supposed to be working right now, and definitely not on the phone. Good luck, little brother. May you get rich and famous so I no longer have to work this godforsaken minimum wage job.

Wonwoo shakes his head, smiling down at his screen.

“Minhyuk, please! One last video, and then we can stop for today. I just have to get this one part right.” An exasperated whine splits the air, pulling Wonwoo’s attention away from his phone.

Two kids — middle schoolers, if Wonwoo had to guess — are chatting by the side, one of them struggling with a handheld camcorder while the other is fiddling with his button up and tiny little bowtie.

Wonwoo stops fiddling with his bass guitar case and looks on in interest, watching as the kid rights himself.

“Okay, okay. Whatever gets us the grade, I guess,” Minhyuk grumbles. “Recording in three… two…” He shoots a finger gun at the other kid, who beams right on cue to reveal a cute crooked smile, baby teeth still growing in.

“Right, right. I’m Lee Chan from Sinsa Middle School.” Here he does a little wave, complete with a wide smile and theatrical hand gesture. “We are currently here at Mecenatpolis Mall, as indie musicians and bands from all around Seoul compete for the opportunity to appear in JTBC’s Superband.”

He looks around, a little lost, then lights up when he makes eye contact with Wonwoo. Oh shit.

Wonwoo jerks his gaze away, but the kid smiles back encouragingly at him, gesturing something at the cameraman. They both hurry their way over to where Wonwoo’s set up. Wonwoo desperately looks around for Seokmin, but he must still be waiting in line. He can’t see him anywhere.

“Hi! Do you mind if I ask you a few questions for this assignment?” Chan pops his head into view, clasping together small hands.

“Sure?” Wonwoo doesn’t see Seokmin rescuing him anytime soon, and the kid has a charm to him that Wonwoo finds endearing.

“Great!” He makes a face and gestures to Minhyuk, who cuts the recording and starts a new one. Chan repeats his introductory spiel again, with the same sort of enthusiasm, and Wonwoo has to turn away to hide his huff of amusement. Cute.

“What’s your name?”

“Jeon Wonwoo.” Wonwoo shuffles awkwardly, not quite sure where to look. Chan subtly points at the camera Minhyuk’s holding with a grin, and Wonwoo lifts his gaze, looking at the blinking red light. He even tries giving an encouraging smile in gratitude, the way Seokmin taught him to.

“Jeon Wonwoo-ssi, what brings you here today?”

Wonwoo clears his throat, and says it the only way he knows how to. There’s only so many ways he can tell their story, without making it glaringly obvious. “Well, Seokmin — he’s my best friend — and I, we started a band. He had a dream. I wanted to make it happen.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Chan says, eyes wide, with perfect facial expressions to boot. Wonwoo stifles another smile. Chan has an earnestness to him that’s still untouched by the world. It’s something you can’t not be endeared by, one that takes you by the hand and has you giving up your heart, if you give him the chance.

“Yeah, well,” Wonwoo shrugs, smiling fondly at the memory. “Seokmin makes it easy.”

Chan grins. “He sounds like a real nice guy, Wonwoo-ssi.”

Wonwoo laughs at that, scrunching up his nose. “I hope so. If things go the way we hope they do, I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life with him.”

Chan laughs at that, a contagious joyous sound that bubbles right out of him. They continue on like that, Chan asking him questions, and Wonwoo giving the answers he needs.

“Sorry if it’s a bit awkward,” Wonwoo winces, head scratching the back of his neck. “I can be a bit unfunny, I’m told.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Minhyuk shuts the camcorder screen with a great sigh of relief. “You’re the funnier when you don’t try, you know.”

“Unfortunately, that one’s true.” Chan grimaces apologetically. “I think it’s because you have the humor of an ahjussi. My dad would have laughed at all the jokes you told today.”

“Your dad and I would have been great friends,” Wonwoo sniffs. “It’s not my fault you guys don’t know what’s good comedy.”

Chan rolls his eyes good naturedly, waving goodbye. “Thank you so much for your time, hyung! I hope you and Seokmin reach your dream someday! I’ll keep an eye out for you two.”

Wonwoo smiles. “You too, Lee Chan. I have a feeling that you’re going to make a great reporter one day.”

Chan looks surprised at this. “How’d you know?”

Wonwoo winks at Chan, right as he spots Seokmin running towards him in the crowd, participant number flying in the wind. “I can just tell with these things.”

When Wonwoo stumbles up on that stage, right next to Seokmin, he knows that this is where he was meant to be all along.

They lock eyes — they’re both in clothes too baggy for their bodies, thrifted from the local Goodwill, menacing outfits handpicked and patchworked together by Seulgi. Even if Wonwoo feels like the punk rock vibe is a little forced for him, it looks so natural on Seokmin.

Seokmin, his very best friend in the entire world. Seokmin, whose voice is so lovely, who sings with his heart and leaves pieces of it everywhere he goes. Seokmin, whose eyeliner is a little smudged because he accidentally forgot he had it on two minutes after Wonwoo had warned him not to touch his eyes. He’d rubbed them anyway.

Seokmin, who’s never looked prettier to Wonwoo than at this very moment.

Wonwoo grins. He counts them off, just like they practiced.

Ready?

One, two, a-one, two, three.

The music starts.

It’s a performance for the books.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

EXCERPT FROM A ROLLING STONES INTERVIEW, TITLED “ONE MIN & THEIR RISE TO FAME” BY LEE CHAN, MUSIC MEDIA REPORTER

TAGLINE: HISTORY (IS STILL) IN THE MAKING

…

JWW: (chuckles) We didn’t win, if that’s what you’re wondering. That would have been the better story to tell. No, what happened is that we got second place, missed the opportunity to appear on broadcast, went home and cried our hearts out.

LC: But it can’t end there.

LSM: (laughs) No, it doesn’t. But it almost did though.

JWW: (nods, smiling a little at the memory) We’re both here now, aren’t we?

Wonwoo gets so caught up in his head that he ends up missing the bus that’s supposed to take him to the company building.

“Sorry,” he says breathlessly, rushing into the meeting room. The excuse feels lame on his tongue. It’s only further exacerbated by everyone’s polite murmurs and platitudes. Wonwoo’s usually very on top of things like this. It only makes him feel worse. Another bad thing to add to his already not-so-great day.

“Here,” Seungkwan murmurs, sliding his iced Americano Wonwoo’s way. Wonwoo takes a sip of it despite knowing that it won’t end well for him. Predictably, he screws up his face at the taste.

“Thanks,” Wonwoo says anyways, because he was taught to have good manners. Maybe one day he’ll learn. It’s probably wishful thinking at this point.

Seungkwan hides his laughter behind a closed fist, and swivels back to face Park Jihyo, the media marketing team leader, before she can scold him for not listening.

“As I was saying before Wonwoo so kindly interrupted us, it’d be nice to have everything in by this Friday, so that we can all have the break we deserve. Then, it’s all in Seungkwan-ssi’s hands. And our two rockstars, of course.” Jihyo smiles sweetly, but her tone is sharp and precise.

Wonwoo is kind of terrified of her, as he is with all people who are dangerously pretty. He gets the hint, keeps his distance from people like that. It’s never ended well anyways.

He nods distractedly as Jihyo continues, fully aware that he’s going to have to spend extra time going through the plan with Seungkwan on top of the time he was already planning on spending, to make up for the part of the meeting he’d missed.

“Sounds good,” he says, poring over the laminated copies.

Before he knows it, the meeting is finished. It’s only when people start clearing the room that Wonwoo notices.

“Oh shit,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, hastily grabbing his things and tossing them into his bag. He gets up to go only to knock into Seokmin, who reaches out to steady Wonwoo with one warm firm hand.

Seokmin’s smile is polite, but it makes Wonwoo feel like he only gets further and further away the longer he has it on.

“Hi, hyung,” Seokmin tilts his head in greeting. “Rough day?”

Wonwoo shells out a harsh laugh. The sound of it grates on his ears. “Something like that,” he admits.

Here’s where Seokmin would offer his place, a kind smile, a warm meal. A laugh even. Wonwoo would riff back, something witty, something a little self-deprecating. Something, anything to keep the conversation going.

Instead, Seokmin makes a sound of sympathy, pats Wonwoo on the back. He tells Wonwoo he hopes it gets better, and leaves it at that, brushing past.

Wonwoo lets him. He thinks about a problem that’s not really a problem that is a problem. Wishes that a certain someone would be real with him, for once.

Seungkwan sees the entire thing happen. “Hey,” He stops Wonwoo on the way out, one delicate hand placed lightly on the lapel of Wonwoo’s coat. “What happened between you guys?”

Wonwoo shrugs it off. “Nothing.” Seungkwan makes a face like he doesn’t believe Wonwoo, and Wonwoo has to squash a brief flash of annoyance at the presumption that he would.

Just because he and Seokmin have known each other the longest? Because they were friends first, then whatever they are now? Does that make Wonwoo somehow privy to all of Seokmin’s thoughts, of understanding exactly when and why things have gone sour?

“Really,” he says so quietly, watching Seokmin’s entire face light up at the sight of the official unofficial company building dog, Kkuma, wriggling her way to his side. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Seokmin doesn’t look their way once, the entire time Wonwoo’s got his eyes trained on him.

Wonwoo’s heart hurts at the sudden distance.

They used to be so close, people had to fight to keep them apart.

“You spend too much time at Seokmin’s,” his mother whines at Wonwoo over the phone. He regrets picking up in the first place, and then immediately regrets the regretting, guilt trickling in. It’s not that Wonwoo doesn’t love his mom — he does, with his whole heart. It’s just so hard to face her these days.

“I do not,” Wonwoo responds childishly. It’s true, in the loosest sense. He goes home and sleeps in his own bed, after spending the entire day with Seokmin. “We have to,” he amends hastily. “We’re so close to making it, eomma. Any day now.”

His mother hums at that. Neither approving or disproving, though Wonwoo swears he can feel her disdain suffocating him at all ends. “Really now,” she says.

“Promise.” Wonwoo swallows past the lump in his throat.

And luckily, this time, Wonwoo doesn’t end up breaking his promise — unlike the last four Chuseoks that he’d gone home and had to explain, once again, to his parents that no, he wasn’t just bumming around, and that no, he wasn’t spending his life’s savings playing at PC bangs. That yes, he and Seokmin were actually good, like really fucking good, like potentially top of the charts good.

They just need a chance.

In the end, it’s Seokmin who gets them noticed. Wonwoo isn’t surprised — people love to love shiny things, and Seokmin is the brightest of them all. They’re busking in Hongdae late at night on the weekends, because it’s the only time they can scrape together, time that remains after their endlessly boring but unfortunately necessary part-time jobs.

Seokmin is doing their usual: YB covers to attract the crowd, popular songs that get everyone smiling and clapping along. Familiarity brings people together. Then, when they’ve got a big enough presence, he’ll look at Wonwoo under dazzling streetlights and he’ll instantly know to switch to their own music. Talking between songs helps Seokmin recover, and Wonwoo’s low tone is a balm to people’s ears, especially on winter nights. They slide out CD demos and hand them out to anyone who wants to take them.

They’re unplugging their equipment when two figures make their way up to Seokmin.

“Hi,” the man says, a little bit breathless. He hands out a card to Seokmin. Wonwoo studies Seokmin’s face intently, watching as his eyes widen comically once he manages to read what’s written there.

The small, hopeful part of Wonwoo, the one that never quite faded away at eighteen, starts whirring again.

“That was amazing.” His friend’s grin is gummy and wide, breath billowing out in the cold. “Do you have a moment?”

The Chwe Brothers, they call themselves, even though they’re not even related. An independent music label. Wonwoo looks at the card, at a little piece of paper hardly bigger than the size of his hand, and thinks this is how their life is gonna change. It feels vaguely surreal. It feels unreal.

“Don’t look at me,” Hansol says, rolling his eyes and gesturing to his business partner. “The name was all his idea. I’m just here to make some music.”

“You make me sound cheesy,” Seungcheol whines, one hand coming down to gently push at Hansol’s shoulder.

“That’s because you are,” Hansol laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He sobers up, as if remembering what they’re here for, looking Wonwoo with an intensity that belies his age. He’s two years Wonwoo’s junior, but he seems so confident, so proud of the work he’s doing.

“We don’t say this kind of thing lightly. You guys are honestly, truly good.” Hansol says. It’s kind of unnerving how little he blinks.

Wonwoo fights the uncomfortable itch crawling up his neck. “Thanks…?”

“Ignore him,” Seungcheol waves his hands between them, interrupting the intense staring contest that has somehow arisen between Seokmin and Hansol without Wonwoo even realizing it. “He gets kinda intense about the music.”

Hansol blinks once, slowly, at that, as if he hadn’t realized. “Oh, sorry,” he grins, all teeth, big hand held up in apology.

Seungcheol taps the card in Wonwoo’s hands again. “Here’s the bottom line: we want you. We want to sign you. You — you’re good, the both of you. You’ve got more talent than some of the people in this industry combined. Together, we can do some good.”

Hansol shrugs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Do what your heart desires. There’s a reason why you guys are here at this hour, on this street corner, aren’t you?”

Wonwoo looks at Seokmin.

Seokmin is already looking back at him, face open and mouth curling into that lovely, wonderful, terrible grin.

They sign the contract. Wonwoo and Seokmin do it together, because why wouldn’t they? They’ve been through everything important together — this is just another thing to check off that list.

“Hyung,” Seokmin pauses, pen hovering over the line where his signature is supposed to go. He’s chewing on his bottom lip again, a habit he has when he’s nervous. “Aren’t you a little afraid that things will be different when we sign with them?”

“There’s no way,” Wonwoo says resolutely, half to comfort Seokmin and half for himself. Besides, he’s already signed it, his loopy signature in all black and official looking on the paper. It’s happened. It’s happening. “No matter what, it’s us two. Always and forever.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Their lives are never the same after that.

“Here’s the recording studio,” Seungcheol says nonchalantly, waving a careless hand at the room before them. All of this is new to Wonwoo and Seokmin, so they take the time to stop and stare like idiots at all the fancy machines.

“They’re rich,” Seokmin whispers. “Like, rich rich.”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo hisses back. He had already surmised as such. When Seungcheol first approached them, he had been wearing brand name Balenciaga from head to toe in a way that made it seem like he’d wanted Wonwoo to ask about them, and Hansol had been wearing an atrocious set of sneakers that were priced at an equally atrocious amount (Wonwoo had sneakily looked it up when Hansol wasn’t paying attention).

“Oh, hi,” the man sitting in the chair shoves off his headphones and turns around so that he’s facing them. He’s wearing these bright red slides, and slips them off for… yet another pair of slides, these fluffy and lined with faux black fur, before making his way over to where they are.

It’s strange, but Wonwoo kind of gets it. Whatever works, right? He’s not here to judge.

“Whatever you do, don’t make any unnecessary comments about his height,” Seungcheol hisses, just before he shuffles Hansol out the room with a cheery, “Let’s let them get used to each other. Jihoonie, these are the new recruits you’re going to be working with from now on~”.

Hansol grumbles the entire way out at being manhandled, a resentful “I’ve got my own feet, you know,” making its way out his mouth.

Once they’ve left the room, Seokmin and Wonwoo turn back to the man, who wears an exasperated but fond look on his face. He shakes his head, chuckling.

“It’s just Jihoon. Seungcheol means well, but…” He trails off at this with a shrug. “You’ll get used to it. Working here is like one big giant family. Everyone’s in your business whether you want them to be or not.”

“Ah, I see,” Wonwoo says. He doesn’t, not really, but he figures he will soon enough. Pushing up his frames with a finger, he offers his hand out for a formal introduction. “Jeon Wonwoo.”

Jihoon shakes Wonwoo’s hand firmly. “Let’s make good music together.”

“In situations like this, don’t people usually say, let’s make you a star?” Seokmin jokes. “I think I saw it once, at the start of a really bad porno.”

Jihoon smiles once more. His teeth are really sharp. “Good music is where it starts. Fame will follow soon after. I guarantee it.”

Jihoon isn’t wrong.

They’re in the studio day in and day out, and if they’re not there they’re at the company building — apparently Seungcheol is, actually, really rich and his family owns a lot of real estate to make it happen. Wonwoo eats, sleeps, and breathes music. If he’s not experimenting with demo tracks, he’s studying how to make them, taking classes on composition and other technical jargon that he’s never had the luxury of accessing before now.

Whole teams of people are bouncing ideas off of each other, pitching concepts and song lyrics that Seokmin and Wonwoo used to just write on index cards and pin up cheap cork boards and argue about with each other. Now they’ve got the money to afford clear dry erase boards that span entire meeting rooms.

When they finally land on the right concept they want to execute, they’re in the studio 24/7. Wonwoo’s a perfectionist in the sense that he wants to be the best in the room, while Seokmin is one simply by virtue of being so unwilling to be the one who drags them down. Between them two, they’re never taking a break. It’s brilliant work ethic at high cost.

“You guys are a dream to work with, you know.” Seungcheol says to him one day, when Wonwoo accidentally falls asleep on the lumpy recording studio couch in the middle of a session. It’s way past midnight, and they’d been all ready to wrap up, but on the last listen through Seokmin had asked to re-record this one syllable because it sounded off. Wonwoo had nearly strangled him.

“But?”

“Take care of yourself sometimes, would you?” Seungcheol pats Wonwoo on the back affectionately, fondness and exhaustion coloring his tone. “Or do you need someone to do it for you?”

It pays off, though.

They top the charts with a single off their second EP, and then it’s like a dam breaks after that.

“Do it once, and the whole world will be looking for you to do it again,” Hansol says softly, with a tired grin. “Are you ready?”

Performance after performance, album after album, award show after award show. They’re all anyone can talk about, this rookie group, this dynamic duo, breaking out after five years of existence — another Brave Girls in the making, their manager Boo Seungkwan excitedly texts while constantly checking SNS feeds for reception. Whatever that means.

Wonwoo can’t quite believe it himself. He’s eighteen and in Seokmin’s garage, tearing up that tiny little cul de sac with his best friend. He’s twenty-three and sitting in Seokmin’s living room, thinking about ways to touch the lives of people they’ve never even met with a song that they’ve written.

Everything’s changed, and yet — nothing has.

He is still dreaming about his best friend. A boy he doesn’t dare touch.

Objectively, all things considered, Wonwoo’s life is pretty good.

Yeah, he thinks to himself, as Seokmin forgoes the couch entirely to lay on top of Wonwoo, snuggling in close for movie night. It can’t get any better than this.

It can, apparently, get worse.

Cue Yoon Jeonghan.

Yoon Jeonghan, ex-boygroup-idol-member-turned-soloist, is all anyone can talk about. His face fills up all the newsfeed sites and k-netizen gossip blogs, followed by a multitude of taglines with varying degrees of truthfulness to them.

Yoon Jeonghan, revealed to be dating Im Nayeon! Yoon Jeonghan, on his 2nd nose job? Is Yoon Jeonghan hiding a sickness (see: his hacking cough)? Yoon Jeonghan, secret chaebol heir, owner of an island at the age of 25?!?!

Wonwoo is pretty sure that the last one isn’t true. If it is, though, kudos to that Jeonghan guy. He deserves his fifteen minutes of fame.

“He’s so pretty,” Seokmin bemoans, throwing his phone onto the bed and following suit after.

“He’s handsome,” Soonyoung agrees dreamily, flopping right next to Seokmin.

“He’s alright,” Wonwoo says gruffly.

“You’re just jealous because you’re not the hottest person in the room anymore,” Soonyoung rolls his eyes, starfishing so that his arms and legs invade Wonwoo’s space.

Seokmin gasps, like he has come across a groundbreaking revelation. “Oh my god, you’re right.” He looks at Soonyoung and whispers, faux-pas, “Do you think he has a complex?”

“Look at the size of his head compared to the rest of his body,” Soonyoung whispers back conspiratorially. “It’s huge. I bet he does.” Wonwoo frowns, fighting the urge to run to the mirror to check.

Seokmin and Soonyoung take a wordless moment to exchange some sort of telepathic conversation that Wonwoo is so kindly left out of. He scowls, mouth twisting into a smile despite the way he’s trying so hard to keep an angry face. They break into twin peals of laughter.

“Oh god, he’s thinking about it, isn’t he?” Seokmin says around a mouthful of giggles.

“He’s totally thinking about it. I bet you he’s gonna check the moment we leave,” Soonyoung agrees, nodding sagely.

“Oh, shut up,” Wonwoo laughs, shoving both of them.

Wonwoo actually meets him a couple weeks later, as if their conversation had somehow manifested Yoon Jeonghan’s appearance. Some kind of sick twisted Bloody Mary, if Wonwoo believed in paranormal happenings. He doesn’t buy into that kind of mumbo jumbo, but this comes pretty close.

In hindsight, Wonwoo has to agree: Yoon Jeonghan is very pretty. And handsome.

It’s unfair how someone can be both.

Wonwoo’s at this new nightclub, invited there by his close friend who just happens to be the co-owner, a Kim Mingyu from way back when. It’s named M & M, the first initials of both the owners, which is the cheesiest thing that Wonwoo’s ever heard, but he’s not surprised. Mingyu is the biggest romantic Wonwoo’s ever met.

He can’t say anything else about Mingyu’s business plan though, because the place is bustling. It must be Xu Minghao, the other owner. Mingyu always did have good taste.

Wonwoo balks at the first sight of Jeonghan, which he must misconstrue as something else, because the other man pastes on a blank congenial smile. “Are you a fan?”

“No, not really.” Wonwoo comments.

Jeonghan’s smile stays in place. Not giving up one thing or another. “Oh, but you know me?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “I’ve heard of you. Not much else though.” He remembers his manners, last minute, and hastily adds a compliment that leaves a foul taste in his mouth. “Congratulations on your New Artist Award.”

“Is that a little jealousy I detect?” Jeonghan’s particularly good at this. Wonwoo feels himself bristling, on edge, like one extra push might send him teetering over.

“Don’t look too put out,” Jeonghan clicks his tongue softly, shooting Wonwoo a look of disapproval. “I know who you are too, Wonwoo-ssi.”

Wonwoo tries not to be shocked at that. He fails. And then, in an attempt to salvage face, he instead tries not to preen too much, tamping down a, Really? No use in looking too eager.

“You probably saw me on the news portals last week,” Wonwoo says loftily. Unwilling to budge. “Our band won quite a lot of awards too, you know.

“Oh, Wonwoo-ssi,” Jeonghan laughs. “So humble. You’re just a delight to have at parties, aren’t you.”

Wonwoo scowls. He hates the way Jeonghan makes him feel, like he’s reached right into Wonwoo’s head and decided to pick out the most terrible thing in there, pulling it out on display. It’s unnerving, having someone delight in looking at the worst parts of you.

Jeonghan’s attention is fleeting. He gets called by someone else, someone with flashy clothes and a strong cologne that butts between them, and Jeonghan just barely manages to peer over their shoulder to cordially mouth his farewell before he gets whisked away into the crowd.

Wonwoo can breathe easier now that Jeonghan’s not fixing his sharp gaze on him, but there’s something about the absence of it that makes Wonwoo want to try again, to reach back out and grab Jeonghan’s hand and say, hey, let’s do that over again.

Wonwoo shakes his head. Man, does he have issues.

He texts Seokmin against his better instincts, hey you’ll never guess who i just met.

Seokmin’s reply is instant, complete with an abundance of emojis: Who?? 🤔🤔

Wonwoo just barely sends out a yoon jeonghan before Seokmin’s contact photo fills up his entire screen.

“Stay right there,” Seokmin says breathlessly. Wonwoo can hear the rustling of sheets, like he’d just gotten out of bed. “What’s the address of the club?”

“Are you serious?” Wonwoo barks out a laugh. Seokmin is definitely the one with more of a do first, think later personality between the two of them, but Wonwoo never thought that a single text — no, a single person — would propel him into action. There’s no precedence for something like this between the two of them; it’s never happened before.

The squealing sound of clothes hangers being pushed aside, combined with a muttered “Shit, why did I choose not to do laundry this week?” confirms what’s left unsaid in the air. “Address, Nonu-yah. Pretty please? For me?”

Wonwoo takes one look at Jeonghan, who’s leaning against the bar with the ease of someone who has all the time in the world and all of it at his disposal. Oddly enough, like he’s got a sixth sense, Jeonghan is looking right back at him, that smile of his already plastered all across his face.

Wonwoo is the first to look away.

He sighs. “Fine,” he mutters, pulling the phone away to protect his ears from Seokmin’s high-pitched squeal. “You owe me.”

Wonwoo already doesn’t want to be here, and even more so now that he knows what’s to come. But Seokmin had begged and pleaded, and Wonwoo is always particularly weak when it comes to Seokmin.

Jeonghan has eyes like a shark and a mouth like roses. He spots Seokmin from across the club and he lights up, easily weaving in and out amongst the sweaty bodies. Wonwoo can already feel a bead of sweat crawl down his neck and slip into the collar of his shirt, but Jeonghan hardly looks fazed.

Jeonghan looks perfect, actually.

“Hi there,” he all but purrs, sidling up to them in a way that would surely look greasy on anyone else but makes Jeonghan look like a suave gentleman.

Seokmin beams. “Hi,” he says, already breathless.

Wonwoo grumbles hello, though he tries his best to be polite.

“I don’t think your friend likes me very much,” Jeonghan has that smile playing around his lips again. Wonwoo’s not sure if he has any other expression. “We met earlier.”

Seokmin frowns, looking back at Wonwoo. He fights the urge to bare his teeth.

“Wonwoo-hyung?” Seokmin is all pitchy and nervous and out of breath. It’s completely unlike him. “You don’t have to worry about him. He’s harmless. All bark, no bite. Right, hyung?” He nudges Wonwoo with an elbow for confirmation, laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and Wonwoo’s caught enough off guard by the sudden contact that he can’t keep the resulting scowl off his face.

Luckily enough, Seokmin’s already turned around, focused right on Jeonghan. Jeonghan’s looking right back at Wonwoo, though, intently, like he already knows what’s going on in Wonwoo’s head. Jeonghan’s smile curls up even wider after that.

Wonwoo dislikes him even more now, simply by principle.

“Shall we?” Seokmin grins, but his hands belie his nervousness. They won’t stop fluttering. Wonwoo refrains from reaching out to hold them still. If he’s noticed, surely Jeonghan has too.

Stop, Wonwoo thinks, but he’s not quite sure who it’s directed towards.

Jeonghan gestures at the bar, a large sweeping motion with his arm, ending in a half-bow. His tone is light and airy and pleasant. All Wonwoo hears is derision dripping down, mocking him. Taunting. “I’m all yours.”

Seokmin brightens up and grabs Jeonghan’s proffered hand.

Wonwoo watches.

Seokmin is definitely acting weird. Wonwoo is 99.9% sure, but he needs a second opinion to not seem like he’s making things up out of thin air, and Kwon Soonyoung is the only person Wonwoo is comfortable with knowing just how bad of a headspace he’s in right now.

“I’m not crazy right,” Wonwoo says, just as Soonyoung opens the door, decked head to toe in tiger regalia. “Um,” Wonwoo hovers at the threshold. “Is this some weird sex thing? I can come back.”

“No, you’re not crazy,” Soonyoung says out of pure instinct, reaching over to pull Wonwoo into his apartment. He thinks it’s interesting that Soonyoung elects to answer the former but not the latter question, but Wonwoo’s currently facing his own issue of enormous proportions, and Soonyoung had said he could come over, so.

Soonyoung’s busy pulling out the necessary ingredients for hot chocolate, head stuck in his pantry. “Sorry. Remind me why you’re not crazy, again?”

“Seokmin,” Wonwoo says, plopping onto the couch. He can almost hear Soonyoung roll his eyes. Wonwoo turns his head around to frown at Soonyoung. “Don’t make that face.”

Soonyoung pulls his head out from where it’s been, rearranging his features into a round orb of joyishness. “What face?”

Wonwoo takes his socks off. “You know what I mean.”

Soonyoung makes a noise of disgust when Wonwoo playfully launches them in his area. “Clothe those raw dogs, Wonwoo. It’s winter, and you’re hairy. No one wants to see that.”

Wonwoo wiggles his toes gleefully. “These bad boys? They keep me in business.”

Soonyoung heaves a long suffering sigh, carrying the hot coffee mix to his island counter. “And they ask why you’re still single.”

Wonwoo pretends not to hear that. He listens to the sounds of Soonyoung pattering around in the kitchen, the noises of pots and pans scraping against each other. He’s not sure if there should be this much noise for just hot chocolate, which could be made with hot water and water if they were desperate enough, but he enjoys it nonetheless. It’s a welcome distraction to the other noise going on in his head.

“When did you and Seokmin start having this, erm, issue?” Soonyoung says, flopping onto the couch when he’s done setting everything up.

“You’re not my licensed therapist, Soonyoung.”

Wonwoo gets a hand flapped in his general direction. “Like you would willingly go to therapy. Hush, Wonwoo, I’m taking creative liberties here. I’m making this fun for the both of us.” Soonyoung tuts. “Just answer the question.”

“First, you’re subjecting me to therapy, and now you’re insulting me,” Wonwoo whines, hands rubbing his face.

“I know, I know, I should be getting paid for this.”

The milk gurgles from where it’s being heated up on the stove. “Shit,” Soonyoung says, leaping over the couch to rescue it. He stands over the pot, worry creasing his brow as he pushes his lips into a concerned frown.

“What is it?” Wonwoo asks.

Soonyoung turns back to look at Wonwoo, face seriously grave. “You can burn milk. Apparently. Did you know that?”

Wonwoo feels a fond laugh bubbling up in his throat. At least he can count on Soonyoung to never change. “Yes,” He scrunches his nose up partly in amusement, partly because the smell of burnt milk starts to invade the apartment. “Yes, I did.”

Soonyoung makes them the hot chocolate anyways, while Wonwoo grabs a throw blanket (tiger print as well, if anyone’s wondering) to wrap himself with.

“Well,” Soonyoung purses his lips as he hands Wonwoo a mug and keeps one for himself, settling down on the lounge chair across from Wonwoo. “If it’s Seokmin, then there must be a reason why he’s acting the way that he is. He’s terribly transparent like that.”

They talk for a little longer, catching up here and there, but Wonwoo goes home with that in mind.

There must be a reason. But what? When did it start?

That’s one answer Wonwoo doesn't know.

All that he knows is that one day, Seokmin had started acting strange with him. Like one day he had just woken up and decided that there was going to be this wall between them. It started out as a little rock, and then it grew bigger and bigger every day. They could still see each other, sure, but there Seokmin stayed, on his side. Far, far away. Far enough that Wonwoo could no longer see the expression on his face. Far enough that Wonwoo could no longer reach for him, if he wanted to.

Wonwoo doesn’t know Seokmin like he used to. And it terrifies him.

He just wants everything to go back to how it was. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Here’s the thing about fires: when they’re in the middle of burning, you get too preoccupied with putting them out. It’s only after that you find out how it really started.

“Do you ever think you’ll ever leave me?” Seokmin asks, eyes wide. Wonwoo’s twenty-five now, freshly showered after another sold out venue, the adrenaline of performing in front of a crowd still running around in his veins.

Wonwoo scoffs, leaning his head down so that he can towel off. The answer is so obvious. He wonders why Seokmin even has to ask. He goes for something cool anyways, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

“You feed me. I have no reason to ever leave you. Plus,” Wonwoo pauses for theatrical effect. “It’s in our contract. I’m legally obligated to stay with you for four more years.”

Seokmin laughs from where he’s sitting on the bed, smile curling in on itself. “C’mon, Nonu-yah,” he whines, jostling his legs, “It’s only fun if you play along.”

Wonwoo snorts, settling down next to Seokmin, who automatically scoots over to make room for Wonwoo. “Why is it me leaving you? Isn’t it more likely that it’d be the other way around?”

“Don’t you think so? You’re the more handsome one out of us two.” Seokmin asks, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Aren’t I annoying?”

“Only sometimes,” Wonwoo grins, yelping when Seokmin pinches skin, hard enough to hurt.

“Yah,” Seokmin frowns, voice a little too bright. Brittle, like on the verge of cracking. “You’re too mean sometimes.”

Wonwoo stares at Seokmin, unsure as to the sudden change in tone. Sometimes Seokmin liked to make jokes to cover up his own hurts, jokes that seamlessly stacked together, one on top of another, and if Wonwoo leaned into them too much they’d topple, making a bigger mess. In the beginning, he had a hard time telling which was which. Now, he has no trouble discerning it apart.

“The only way I’d ever leave you is if you break my heart, Jeon Wonwoo.” Seokmin says it so solemnly.

“Okay,” Wonwoo finally says, a sudden lump in his throat. An unspoken apology. “I’ll try not to.”

Seokmin is at the bar again, which means Wonwoo is at the bar again, too.

Jeonghan is telling Seokmin a story, and Seokmin is eating up every bit of it.

Wonwoo tries not to be too obvious about it.

Joshua Hong, another up and coming singer-songwriter soloist specializing in guitar ballads and acoustic melodies, slides into the stool next to Wonwoo. He orders something Wonwoo doesn’t catch. The bartender is moving too fast for Wonwoo to comprehend, though maybe he’s just too miserable to care.

“You look like you need this,” Joshua grins, jerking his chin down meaningfully at the glass of liquor that’s being poured for him.

Wonwoo snorts despite himself. “Is it that obvious?”

Joshua just smiles warmly, and shoves the shot towards him. “I know what Yoon Jeonghan looks like, and this has got his name written all over it.”

Wonwoo regards Joshua with new eyes.

“I’ll drink to that,” Wonwoo says grimly, tossing the shot back with determination and a bravado that hardly exists. He immediately gags, wincing at the sharp taste as the alcohol goes down, insides catching on fire.

Joshua catches it, snickering. “I’ll take it that this isn’t your usual scene.”

Wonwoo shrugs. “What gave it away?”

Joshua just lifts an eyebrow.

“Fair enough,” Wonwoo mutters resolutely, ducking his face to hide his reddening cheeks. He feels sour. He shouldn’t have gone out tonight at all.

Joshua pulls Wonwoo out of his thoughts by jostling him gently with a warm, broad shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Joshua grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ve all been there.”

Wonwoo is obtuse on purpose. “What do you mean?”

Joshua just affixes him with a serene grin. It’s eerie. It reminds him of someone else that he’s just met, the same person who’s talking to Seokmin on the other side of the bar. Two sides of the same coin.

A line from the ‘Personal Life’ portion of Joshua’s Wikipedia page jumps out from the depths of Wonwoo’s fuzzy brain. Yes, he’d ended up there once, for reasons he’d rather not name.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” Wonwoo answers, the realization dawning on him.

Joshua doesn’t agree or disagree at that, humming pleasantly into his drink. “I used to date him, you know.”

Wonwoo blinks at the blasé way Joshua Hong, a complete stranger, chooses to reveal his personal affairs. “Why are you telling me this?”

Joshua smiles again. “You seem like someone who’s good at keeping secrets.”

Wonwoo makes a discontented noise. That much is true. It’s the nature of stardom. The world might be more progressive, but the Korean general public is still heavily wary of idols, singers —anyone in the spotlight, really — being that free, that open with their lives.

People do love their picture perfect idols.

Wonwoo has kept his fair share of secrets. Seokmin’s too, by proxy. It’s there in the shadows they’ll stay.

Wonwoo and Joshua turn their attention back to two men of the hour.

Seokmin and Jeonghan haven’t moved the entire time. Seokmin is completely enraptured, leaning a little into Jeonghan’s space, looking up at the older man with an adoration that Seokmin reserves for pretty people he is terribly infatuated with.

Wonwoo knows all of Seokmin’s faces so well it makes him sick. He jerks his head away, nearly knocking his third drink of the night over.

“He’s good at that,” Joshua says softly.

“At what?” Wonwoo frowns, dabbing at something sticky on his elbows.

“At making people feel special.”

Wonwoo frowns even harder at that.

It’s Wonwoo’s twenty-seventh birthday party. He feels old, like time has caught up to him, and not in a good way.

Wonwoo stares ruefully at the bottom of his glass, which is still tinged brown with whiskey. An old fashioned. Some things really don’t ever change, he thinks ruefully.

“Jeon Wonwoo, man of the hour,” Jeonghan interrupts his thoughts, sliding next to Wonwoo on the balcony. “I’ve finally found you, do I get a prize?”

Wonwoo looks at Jeonghan’s proffered hand warily. Wonwoo hadn’t even invited him, but here he is anyway. According to a very apologetic Seungkwan, Jeonghan has this way of weaseling information out of people without them even realizing it.

Wonwoo would respect the other man a lot more if he didn’t dislike him.

“This isn’t a trick, you know,” Jeonghan says cheerily. “I actually want to get to know you.”

“I would rather stick forks into my eyeballs.” Wonwoo promptly turns his head, turning towards the city skyline. His maturity was tossed out the door three drinks ago.

“How charming,” Jeonghan sniffs. Wonwoo can feel Jeonghan sizing him up, but he won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Instead Wonwoo takes another sip of his drink. He leans his wrist on the railing, letting the glass hang over the edge.

“I want to date Seokmin.” Jeonghan comments airily, then sneaks another look at Wonwoo, like he wants to be the one to bear witness to the fact that he gets to single handedly deconstruct Wonwoo’s life.

Wonwoo clears his throat, clutching at metal. “Are you asking permission?“ He tries to sound flippant. “Seokmin’s not mine. He can do whatever he wants.”

Jeonghan lifts an eyebrow and pastes on that smile again, the one where it makes Wonwoo feel like he’s looking right through Jeonghan, instead of at him. A glass person. Someone who just reflects everything being thrown at him. So perfect.

It is so annoying that Wonwoo can’t read Jeonghan.

Jeonghan isn’t facing him. “All I’m saying is,” he says quietly, “if you feel something for him, you should let Seokmin know. I’m not like you. If I want something, I’ll make damn sure I get it.”

Wonwoo clenches his fists. “For the record, I don’t think I’m anything like you, either.”

Jeonghan’s smile is brilliant in the dark. “I know. At least I get what I want.”

The unasked, Do you? follows Wonwoo throughout the party.

It haunts Wonwoo all the way home.

Maybe the most troubling thing about Wonwoo is that he likes to watch things burn.

“That’s your problem,” Seulgi would tut and say, waving her arm around. Giving advice as though being two years older gave her authority to talk about worldly things. “You get too engrossed in the stuff you’re interested in. You always have to see it through to the end.”

Wonwoo had frowned, rubbing at the spot she’d inadvertently smacked — though looking back on it, it seemed purposeful. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Seulgi paused, pondering this. “Sure,” she acknowledged. “Sometimes. But sometimes, you end up with all the smoking pieces in your hands. That’s no fun, either.”

I’m losing. Wonwoo thinks desperately, as he watches a pixelated version of Seokmin’s smile curve endlessly upwards.

They’re supposed to be calling to brainstorm lyrics for their next EP, but Wonwoo’s been so distracted by Jeonghan’s … threat? wake up call? that he offers pitiful excuses for ideas, ones that he immediately vetoes after saying them aloud. Seokmin isn’t much help either, eyes wandering to the left of the screen, constantly distracted by KaTalk notifications that pop up, the contents of which are currently making him giggle.

Wonwoo tamps down his annoyance, because let’s face it, Jeonghan is the reason for his inadequacy too, however loathe Wonwoo is to admit it.

It’s new, Wonwoo tries to reason. Jeonghan’s new, to both of them. A distraction. A plaything.

It’s not like they haven’t dated other people before. It just hasn’t affected Wonwoo’s professionalism. Not like this.

Wonwoo hears Seokmin’s muffled giggle before he sneakily types off a response, eyes glued to his screen.

Ugh. Either way Wonwoo looks at it though, he’s losing.

He says as much, when he and Seokmin have long ended the call. Wonwoo’s brain is spiraling from all the microanalysis he’s been running on in the background during their video chat.

His first instinct, as always, is to go to Soonyoung.

“Can something even be yours to lose if it was never yours in the first place?” Soonyoung asks mildly. Wonwoo’s pretty sure it’s just Soonyoung talking to talk. It’s not that Soonyoung likes the sound of his voice, it’s just that his thoughts need to have a way of coming out. Saying them aloud as he thinks them just happens to be the best way to achieve that.

Soonyoung doesn’t say it to be mean, but Wonwoo feels the sting regardless. Like it was that easy to spot in the first place. That the issue at hand was much more shallow than what Wonwoo had led himself to believe.

The thing was — the thing that made it a thousand times worse — Wonwoo had Seokmin. So many years ago, when they were painfully awkward and still growing into their skin. Before Seungcheol and Vernon. Before Jeonghan had even thought to come into their lives.

Seokmin kissed Wonwoo exactly once, in the middle of his family’s garage, on a ratty brown couch filled with questionable stains and reeked of air freshener (in an attempt to mask all the odors that accompanied those splotches), after Wonwoo made this big breakthrough in writing lyrics to a song they’d been stuck on for weeks.

It was the kiss Wonwoo had been dreaming of for ages.

He was also so terrified.

Where did they go from here? In books, Wonwoo knew — and in real life, he was starting to learn — you couldn’t have all your dreams and keep them too. One of the two would have to go, and well, Wonwoo could never give up Seokmin. He wouldn’t.

Something in Wonwoo’s face must have given him away, because all Seokmin had done was smile. It was a little sad.

“I get it,” Seokmin had whispered, patting Wonwoo’s cheek. He’d pulled away, and in a flash, it was like nothing had ever happened. They were sitting in that garage, friends again. Nothing more. Two boys in a band and that goddamned song.

But I hadn’t even said anything, Wonwoo wanted to say. What did Seokmin see that Wonwoo hadn’t? How was Seokmin so good at seeing him? What did Wonwoo need to do to be better?

“I should say sorry, right?” Wonwoo asks. He frowns, correcting, “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Soonyoung shoots him a look. “You know, if you invited me out here so I could listen to you talk to yourself, the least you can do is pay for my coffee.”

He punctuates that by pulling the straw up and down. The plastic screeches at him to stop, as well as some other cafe patrons, based off of the withering looks that they give. Wonwoo winces, and bows his head in apology.

They’re silent for a bit more. Soonyoung drums his fingers on the table, eyes trained on Wonwoo.

“Whatever,” Wonwoo sips at his drink, throat suddenly dry. “If Seokmin has a problem with me, he should tell me himself. We’re adults, right?”

“Wonwoo, you’re like, the most infuriating person I know!” Soonyoung bursts out furiously.

Wonwoo blinks. “No, I’m not?”

“Yes. You. Are,” Soonyoung groans, drawing out each word. “Wonwoo, look at yourself! You haven’t eaten for days. You talk nonstop about what Jeonghan is doing, what he’s planning to do, what his next move is. You’re obsessed!”

Wonwoo can feel his face getting red. He protests hotly, “I am not.”

Soonyoung gives him a glare. Wonwoo shrinks back instinctively, out of self-preservation. Soonyoung is usually round-cheeked and smiling — always smiling, really, when Wonwoo thinks about it — and the sharpness with which he holds himself right now scares Wonwoo. Just a little bit.

Okay, so it scares him a lot, actually. Enough to think that maybe, just maybe, Soonyoung’s right on this one.

“I am right,” Soonyoung says belligerently, softly, leaning over the table to flick Wonwoo gently on the forehead. “You’re insufferable, sometimes.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes, and waits for a blow that never comes.

Soonyoung huffs, pulling his hand away with dramatic flourish. There’s annoyance there, but it bleeds into a sort of fondness Wonwoo isn’t sure he deserves. “I’m not going to kick you while you’re down, Wonwoo-yah. That’s just mean.”

“Maybe you should,” Wonwoo says a little weakly, half joking and the other half all too serious.

Soonyoung surveys him, hands on his hips, with a sad little frown. “Oh, Wonwoo, what are we going to do with you?”

“Aish,” Wonwoo grinds his palms into his eyes, screwing them shut. “I don’t know either.”

It’s not like Wonwoo hasn’t tried.

Wonwoo has tried fixing it. But because he didn’t know what was wrong, it was like stumbling around in the dark, and maybe that inadvertently made things worse, flailing about all like this.

Wonwoo invites Seokmin over for a movie night, like they used to. They’d stopped for a reason Wonwoo really wasn’t sure about. Something about time, probably. Not having enough of it, being unable to find any of it. Those were the kind of excuses that created rifts of unimaginable sizes before Wonwoo even noticed.

He chews at his fingernails until he gets a response.

Finally, when Wonwoo’s already at the grocery mart down the street from his apartment, Seokmin sends him an apologetic text: Sorry Wonwoo, Jeonghan-hyung surprised me with a date! Can we reschedule for next time?

Wonwoo puts back the popcorn, and swallows down his sadness.

Yeah, he writes, gritting his teeth. Even if it kills him. It’s okay.

He contemplates his options, staring at the popcorn on the shelf before tossing it back into his cart and paying for it alongside two bottles of soju. The plain kind, of course. It is Wonwoo, after all.

He goes home and watches the movie by himself later that night, because he’s feeling a little bitter, and because he’d been curious about the title anyways.

It ended up being a thinly-veiled commentary on romance, and how fickle it was. How feelings could change over time, that it had to be maintained if you wanted them to stay the same. How sometimes the love you got wasn’t always the love you dreamed of.

Figures, Wonwoo scoffs, throwing his long cold popcorn at the credits screen. Of course he’d pick a movie like this.

He tries again about a week later. This time Seokmin is kind enough not to cancel. Wonwoo lets himself feel a little giddy at the thought of seeing him later. He’d missed Seokmin, truly.

Wonwoo gets there fifteen minutes early. Just when the owner directs him to a booth, it starts to rain suddenly. The downpour is absolutely torrential, coming down in droves. It pummels the roof of the restaurant with a vengeance that startles Wonwoo.

The ahjussi tuts his tongue, watching as the rain hits. “I hope whoever’s keeping you waiting doesn’t get caught out in the rain.” He shakes his head. “What an awful storm today. It didn’t show up in the forecast, either.”

Wonwoo nervously rearranges the silverware, and arranges it again as time ticks by. Then rearranges it again, for good measure.

He hopes Seokmin’s alright. Knowing him, he probably didn’t have an umbrella. Seokmin was the type to run in the rain, at full sprint. Wonwoo was the type to keep warm and dry under awnings, too afraid of catching colds.

The bell on the door rings, signaling someone’s arrival.

“Hi,” Seokmin grins, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair. The water droplets fly everywhere.

“Hey,” Wonwoo grins, the strength of which dims as he realizes Seokmin isn’t alone. His stomach plummets. Oh.

“Heya,” Jeonghan says slyly, waving slim crooked fingers at Wonwoo.

“It’s not a problem that Jeonghan-hyung’s joining us, is it?” Seokmin is oddly nervous again, eyes wavering between the two of them. Wonwoo notes the change in honorifics, and thinks, Huh.

There’s a moment where the three of them are stuck and stopped, staring at each other. Wonwoo could be mean if he wanted to. Just a little bit more selfish. Jeonghan’s eyes sparkle in the low light, as if expecting it.

Wonwoo doesn’t take the bait.

“Not at all! Please, take a seat.” He shakes himself out of it, gesturing to the seat across from him with what he hopes is a pleasant smile. Wonwoo deserves to win an acting award for that performance.

Seokmin takes the seat across from him, but not before pulling out Jeonghan’s chair for him with a shy smile.

“How chivalrous,” Jeonghan drawls, but the delight on his face is so obvious, pinks cheek with warmth. Oh, Wonwoo thinks again, as he holds up a menu and pretends to peruse it. It’s a pretense. He’s eaten here so many times, yet he orders the same thing every single time, without fail.

It’s weird with a third person there in the middle. Wonwoo doesn’t know where to step in the conversation, so there Seokmin remains. Still so far away. Unreachable.

Somewhere in between their appetizers and the main dish, Jeonghan has wrangled their server into bringing them bottles of makgeolli, and three glasses to accompany them.

Wonwoo can handle his alcohol decently, but not at the rate with which Jeonghan pours, which makes him hesitant about finishing his glass so fast. Seokmin doesn’t share any of these reservations, of course.

“I think he’s fine for now,” Wonwoo says quietly, hand on the neck of the bottle.

Seokmin pouts at him from across the table. “Hyung, I’m fine. Pour me another, Jeonghan-hyung?”

“See?” Jeonghan smirks. “He’s fine.”

As the alcohol flows, mouths get looser. Wonwoo can feel the conversation approaching something dangerous, something that they can’t ever go back from once they’ve crossed. Jeonghan knows this, of course, and keeps pushing anyways.

Wonwoo’s hands curl tighter, into fists, beneath the table where Jeonghan can’t see. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go.

“Who is Wonwoo to you?” Jeonghan asks, smile growing wide again. He’s holding a spoon in his hand for no viable reason that Wonwoo can perceive. Maybe he just really likes cutlery.

“Eyy~” Seokmin says, flushed. “What kind of question is that?”

Wonwoo is frozen. He knows what he wants to hear. He doesn’t know what he wants to hear.

“Someone very special,” Seokmin says quietly. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

He chases off the suddenly serious air with a joking wink and a loud, “But I don’t know who I am to him! Isn’t that too cruel, Wonwoo-yah!”

Jeonghan echoes the sentiment, pouting and leaning over to push lightly at Wonwoo’s shoulder with a closed fist.

Wonwoo bears it. He bears all of it. He pays for dinner with shaking hands, watching as Jeonghan fondly bundles Seokmin up, overly affectionate and full of warmth, taking him home.

Jeonghan’s hands linger as he pulls the zipper on Seokmin’s long coat up, fingers brushing lightly against Seokmin’s pink cheeks. When it’s just the two of them, or when Jeonghan doesn’t think Wonwoo’s looking, Jeonghan becomes unbearably honest. Wonwoo doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.

“He’s in safe hands, ahjussi, don’t you worry. I’ll get him home,” Jeonghan turns around, assuring Wonwoo with a two fingered salute. He doesn’t slur a single bit, each syllable perfect and crisp, even after all they drank. Wonwoo is a bit flushed himself.

Apparently Yoon Jeonghan is immune to alcohol, amongst other things. Apparently Yoon Jeonghan knows Lee Seokmin better than Wonwoo, now too. Well enough that it’s Jeonghan that gets to take him home, leaving Wonwoo alone in the rain.

Seokmin’s and Jeonghan’s silhouettes eventually merge into one as they make their way out into the dead of night.

It turns out that Wonwoo’s umbrella has a small hole in it. It’s miniscule enough that Wonwoo doesn’t really notice it until he has to use it, and by then it becomes an awful nuisance. Rain gets everywhere.

He gets to his apartment soaked to the bone, teeth chattering. It takes ages for him to warm up.

The thing about holding a piece of the sun, is that you forget sometimes, just how wonderful the thing you have in your hands can be. And how other people might want it for themselves, one day, too.

Wonwoo thumbs through Seokmin’s private instagram, and looks at all the pictures Seokmin has posted. Because he’s extra pathetic, Wonwoo has his post notifications on for that account, so that he can be one of the first — if not the first — to like them.

Then, to be extra malicious, he looks at Jeonghan’s public instagram.

Put side by side, they’re perfect puzzle pieces. Together, they make one whole.

Seokmin looks happy. And Wonwoo doesn’t have the years and years of history that lets him know Jeonghan the way he does Seokmin, but Jeonghan looks happy, too.

There’s no room for Wonwoo here.

Wonwoo turns off his phone and watches the screen go dark.

Wonwoo walks into the recording studio with the zipper of his jacket drawn all the way up, bucket hat draped low, all but obscuring his face.

Jihoon barely looks up from where he’s tapping away at some samples. “Hey,” he says, and not much else.

That’s fine with Wonwoo. He prefers it actually, and his relief at Jihoon’s professionalism — by god, how he’s missed that — helps him make it through the necessary lines and recordings.

They finish up in the studio with little to no complications, in record time. Wonwoo’s picking up all his stuff again, getting ready to go, when Jihoon coughs awkwardly.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat, fiddling with the keyboard in front of him. “I’m worried about you.”

Wonwoo grimaces. “Please don’t.”

Jihoon scratches the back of his head and gives a halfhearted shrug. “I promised Seungkwan I’d try.”

Wonwoo wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. Whether it’s from a place of gratefulness for being seen, or from a place of deep shame for being so fucking transparently in dire need of help, he doesn’t know.

Instead, Wonwoo pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stuff down all the feelings stuck in his throat. “Well, thank you.”

Jihoon looks just as uncomfortable as Wonwoo feels. “Okay, well. I’m here. If you need me.”

Wonwoo’s nose stings, but he lets out a watery laugh anyways. “Thank you.” He says again. This time he means it.

There’s nothing else he can say.

“Do you like me?”

When Seokmin finally asks, Wonwoo never has to think twice about his answer.

Yes, yes, yes. Yes. I like you. I like you so much it hurts. I like you so much. I’m terrified how you haven’t caught on yet.

Do you like me? The question is so childish. It’s more than that, really, at this point. 

Deep down, Wonwoo knows he just has to say it. Just once. To open his mouth and unfurl his tongue and throw it out there into the open. He always manages to get here: staring Seokmin squarely in the face, palms sweaty and heart pounding but gaze unflinching, eyes tracing familiar creases and edges and grooves. Staring at the tiny mole underneath his left cheek, the one Seokmin used to complain about growing up but Wonwoo had always secretly adored.

It’s different when Wonwoo actually speaks.

They say that you don't really need to hear what people are actually saying to understand what’s going on. That the human body has a million tells. That if you took the moment to examine it in all its entirety, it will never lie to you. The body is a terrible liar.

It always feels like that, the moment Wonwoo opens his mouth.

He’s never quite sure what makes it out. Seokmin’s entire face twists itself into something like sympathy when Wonwoo tries to speak, and the sight of it makes Wonwoo’s stomach turn with dread, so awful and heavy it weighs on Wonwoo’s chest.

Do you like me?

In his dreams, Seokmin is always kind.

Maybe that’s the worst part about it all.

Jeon Wonwoo is a crazy bastard after all. In love with his bandmate for 7 years and never realizing it until now.

He wakes up in cold sweat.

All alone, in an apartment meant for two.

Maybe the universe is incredibly kind. Maybe it’s incredibly cruel. Whatever it is, it sends Junhui calling.

“You picked up,” Junhui comments absentmindedly.

Wonwoo swallows. “I did.”

“How’s the weather?”

“I live in the same apartment complex as you,” Wonwoo points out futilely.

“I know.” Junhui hums, making shuffling sounds. A stray meow makes its way to the receiver. Wonwoo wonders if Junhui’s told the landlord; they’re not really supposed to have cats in the building. “It’s still nice to ask.”

The conversation continues like that. Aimless, drifting in the wind, with no particular direction, flowing this way and that. Wonwoo braces himself for the question— any sort of incriminating question, really— but it never comes. In his own way, Wonwoo thinks, Junhui is asking Wonwoo if he’s alright.

“Okay,” Junhui says softly. Just before Wonwoo hangs up, Junhui hesitates. Wonwoo copies him, if only because Junhui hardly ever hesitates. Junhui is everything at once, all the time. “Wonwoo? I’m only three stories up, okay?”

“I know,” Wonwoo says, awkwardly, a beat too late.

“Just making sure,” Junhui chuckles. Then, because Junhui cannot restrain himself from doing anything if it’s already gotten into his head, he adds slyly, “You know so much nowadays.”

Wonwoo laughs. The sound of it is startling and strange. Scratchy, too, from misuse. “Bye, Junnie.”

It’s raining again. Wonwoo is running.

He sprints up the steps without bothering to look up. He already knows the way by heart.

“Wonwoo,” Seokmin blinks in surprise when he opens the door, in a t-shirt four times his size.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” he pants out, resting his hands on his knees. God, he needs to work out. He gulps. “He’s not good for you.”

I am. He doesn’t say. It’s me.

Seokmin’s face remains politely guarded. “Oh?”

Here’s where Wonwoo would lay into the thick of it, just unrolling everything he dislikes about Jeonghan and peeling it fresh, laying it out for Seokmin to see. Once he gets started, Wonwoo can’t stop. He feels so strange spitting so much vitriol, how he can’t stand Jeonghan and how he got the one thing that Wonwoo had wanted more than anything, even more than the incredible dream that he’s living now, and how even in the end, Wonwoo wasn’t even good enough to roll over and let Jeonghan have his victory.

Wonwoo blinks and Seokmin is still looking at him. He hasn’t said a single thing.

Seokmin takes a shaky breath. “Is that all you’re here to say?” He crosses his arms. “He treats me well, Wonwoo. You don’t get to come here to say this to me, when you don’t know him like that.”

“But I know you,” Wonwoo says impatiently, frowning. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

“Do you? Really?” Seokmin asks, gentle even in his hurting. Wonwoo can see it scrawled over his face, plain as day. “Because it hasn’t felt like it lately.”

Wonwoo clears his throat, gaze dropping uncomfortably. Wipes his hands on his pants. He didn’t think this far.

“You can’t not speak to me for weeks, then show up here and have your first words to me be about Yoon Jeonghan.” Seokmin looks like he’s struggling to get the right words out, brows furrowed, fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “It hurts, Nonu-yah. You must know that, right?”

Wonwoo blanches. He starts to think about it all again, in a slightly different light, and realizes just how terribly twisted things could get between two people. The shame starts to set in.

What exactly did he think he was going to get, barging in here like this?

Seokmin bites his lip, eyes shiny. “I’m not like you, Wonwoo, okay? I’m not smart. I’m not. I can’t read between the lines.” He looks away, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t know what you want. I’m tired of not knowing what you want. You have to tell me.”

“What?” Wonwoo’s eyes widen. “I just—”

“Just what?” Seokmin jerks his head back at that, so that Wonwoo can see tears gathering in his eyes, on the precipice of falling. Seokmin’s softness turns sharp in the air. “You have so many words in you, Wonwoo, you know that? Sometimes it hurts that you never use them. Sometimes I feel like I talk and talk and talk. You’re never talking back to me.”

Tiredness lines Seokmin’s features, covering his entire body, as if showing kindness was a burden in itself. And maybe it was, in this case.

The words are right there. Wonwoo should say them. Should say something. Anything.

Nothing comes out. Wonwoo’s shoulders slump.

Seokmin sighs, and closes the door. Wonwoo lets him.

Wonwoo rings the doorbell.

He hears a beleaguered groan, followed by the pattering of bare feet across linoleum.

Wonwoo considers bolting. Or launching himself off of the staircase. Five flights should be enough to seriously maim, if not kill him, right?

“Wonwoo!” Junhui hums, only just managing to keep his surprise under wraps. “What a delight.”

“I did something terrible,” Wonwoo confesses.

“We all do terrible things,” Junhui’s mouth tilts up little by little. “You’re not that special.”

“Correction,” Wonwoo winces. The mere act of admitting it wounds him. “I am terrible.”

“Well, well, well. Congratulations for noticing.” Junhui is fully grinning now, teeth on display. Bastard.

Wonwoo is highly considering making a break for it now.

“Kidding,” Junhui shakes the smile off his face, pulling Wonwoo inside before he can do anything else.

“You’re not supposed to have cats here,” Wonwoo says, bending down to pet the beautiful orange tabby weaving between his legs. It butts his hand with an inquisitive head, purring all the while.

“Talk to me or report me to the apartment supervisor,” Junhui speaks from above him. “Either way I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” Wonwoo says, while Junhui leaves to finish preparing his cup.

“I told Seokmin that Jeonghan wasn’t good for him. That I knew him, and knew that Jeonghan wasn’t it for him.” Wonwoo screws his eyes shut immediately after he finishes recounting the night. It was, by far, not his best moment.

He startles at Junhui’s sudden reappearance. He stands so tall that he blocks all the light in the doorway. The shadow he casts is dark and ominous, nearly swallowing Wonwoo whole.

Junhui just affixes Wonwoo with a look, as if to say, haven’t we been over this enough?

“There isn’t just one way to know a person,” Junhui says carefully, like he’s scared of breaking Wonwoo. Maybe that’s what gives Wonwoo the most pause. Junhui is never scared.

“I know that,” Wonwoo says apprehensively. Defensively.

Junhui takes a sip of his oolong tea. It’s still steaming. “Do you?”

“I heard you and Seokmin got into a fight,” Jihoon says idly, clicking around on his circular mouse.

Wonwoo shoots Jihoon a look, who holds both his hands up in surrender.

“It’s not really a fight,” Wonwoo relents ten minutes later. “Me and Seokmin… we’re not the type to have fights. Disagreements, maybe. Disputes. Disappointments, too.”

“Ah,” Jihoon nods. They’re quiet for a bit more, before Jihoon speaks again.

“So which one was it?”

Wonwoo thinks about it. “A disappointment.”

“You, or him?”

“What do you think?”

Jihoon’s answer is immediate. “You.”

Wonwoo winces. “Ouch. Is it that obvious?”

Jihoon laughs, though it’s a little rueful. “No, but I recognize the signs,” he says, teeth glinting sharp. “Pitiful people, aren’t we, for watching others living the sort of lives that we want.”

Wonwoo knocks his shoulder into Jihoon’s. “Aren’t those the best, though? For our line of work, anyways. The songs never stop writing themselves.”

Jihoon shrugs. “It depends who you ask, I think.” He swivels his chair to look at Wonwoo, to really look at him. “Are you okay?”

Wonwoo bristles at the question out of pure instinct alone. Jihoon just sits patiently, hands steepled together. He’s been through enough of these to know that Wonwoo doesn’t do well with these kinds of invasive questions, the ones that are deceptively surface level but run deeper. Wonwoo’s the type to make mountains out of molehills, Jihoon the type to let sleeping dogs lie. Together, they do just fine, two parallel lines that never truly intersect, happy to belong in their own corner.

Once in a while, though, they’ll dip towards one another. When they get lonely.

Finally, Jihoon tilts his head, lips tilted into a half-grin. “There’s your answer, isn’t it.”

A question that isn’t quite a question. There’s no trace of malice in there, just a kind of understanding that makes something inside Wonwoo curl up inside a little. It’s a thousand times worse, being seen. There’s just a landscape of things to dislike.

Wonwoo sighs, staring at his phone screen. He tries typing a million different things, a million variations of the same thing, only to delete them over and over again.

He settles on this: i’m sorry.

The response comes back, almost immediately. Now that’s something I don’t hear often. Am I dead?

Wonwoo bites his lip. He types back, keep on dreaming. like i’d let you go without me. thought we were in this shit for life?

He only lets out the breath in his lungs when he sees the infamous ellipses text bubble pop up, which indicates that Seokmin is still there on the other end of the line with him.

“Hey, stranger,” Seokmin smiles. “Come here often?“

Wonwoo lets out a laugh, unbridled and unburdened. He’s surprised at how little he shatters when it leaves his body. Seokmin shoots Wonwoo a grin, and reaches over, hands seeking warmth. When Wonwoo takes it, his heart doesn’t sting. Jeonghan is somewhere here in the middle of all this, too, but that’s another thing to unravel for another day.

“I’d like to start.” Wonwoo makes a big show of looking around, leaning against the door frame. He’s sure his smile is taking up half of his face. He doesn’t care. He’s missed Seokmin — this Seokmin — so, so much.

“Good,” Seokmin’s eyes crease lovingly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Wonwoo, for real this time: “Where else would I be?”