Archive of Our Own

sunday, 9:03 PM.

If looks could kill, Park Seonghwa and Kang Yeosang could very well be two of the most powerful people in the world.

Seonghwa thinks that’s true of them, even now. Even when Seonghwa’s in his house clothes, hair messy, eating a bowl of cereal for dinner at 9 PM. He plops next to Yeosang, his roommate curled up on the couch, face smooth and glittery with makeup and body hugged by skin-tight fabric in all the right places, and he looks miserable. Downright miserable. But he still looks good, and they both know it—everyone does. Seonghwa and Yeosang use it to their advantage—that they’re beautiful. The drop-dead kind. In different ways and for different reasons, but it gets them by.

“Sweetie.” Seonghwa starts off, casual enough, bringing a spoonful of Froot Loops into his mouth. They’re kind of bland. Must be expired. “Are you okay?”

Yeosang quirks his lips up into a curt laugh, turning his head to look at him, cheek resting on curled knees. “No. Dunno. Just tired.”

Seonghwa sighs. Tired. That can mean a whole lot of things for Yeosang. Never anything particularly good, so Seonghwa pries. “What kind of tired is it tonight, hm?”

Yeosang shrugs, bats his eyelashes with a pout. With a noncommittal hum, he continues. “Hollow. I don’t know. I feel like this… empty shell.”

Yeosang says the last words with his hands up in the air, motioning around some obscure shape. Like Seonghwa could imagine the outline of an actual shell in between his hands. Yeosang brings them down quickly, though, going back to staring at Seonghwa’s bowl of cereal.

“You don’t have to go out tonight, baby,” Seonghwa says, hoping his tone sounds pacifying enough, sweet more than chiding with the accompanying pet name. “It’s a Sunday evening. HBO’s playing Iron Man 3.”

“I’m fine, hyung,” Yeosang chuckles, expression lightening in that same way it always does whenever Seonghwa tries to take care of him. Seonghwa raises an eyebrow in concern, but Yeosang just laughs it off. “I swear. I can handle this, no big deal. You know me.”

“Okay, Yeosang-ah,” Seonghwa concedes, decides not to push. Yeosang’s right, anyway. Seonghwa just never really stops worrying about him—but it’s enough that Yeosang still lets him, at least. It isn’t as if his concerns are baseless. “Who are you meeting tonight, anyway? A regular?”

“Yeah.” Yeosang sits up straight as he answers, readjusting himself on the couch. He looks more like he’s trying to get comfortable than preparing to leave, but Seonghwa doesn’t comment on that. “The married guy.”

Seonghwa huffs out a laugh. “Mhm?”

“I mean, he’s nice and everything,” Yeosang starts, opening up on his own. “You know that. You don’t have to be worried about that. I’m just exhausted and want to just do my job tonight without thinking about, you know. His wife.”

Seonghwa takes another spoonful of cereal, keeping his eyes intently on Yeosang all the while. “What, do you normally think about his wife?”

Yeosang rolls his eyes fondly as he laughs, turning to face his entire body towards Seonghwa on the couch. “No, hyung. That’s kind of the issue tonight, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” Seonghwa nods. “Gotcha.”

Seonghwa continues eating his cereal when Yeosang doesn’t respond.

Yeosang’s expression looks a little more at ease now, at least, still chewing on the inside of his cheek but his brow no longer pinched. He’s fidgeting with the choker around his neck, pressed in a way that must be uncomfortable under his adam’s apple, glancing over every once in a while to where Seonghwa’s scrutinizing him with his gaze. Again, he lets him, used enough to Seonghwa’s doting, and more often than not Seonghwa doesn’t let it go beyond that—because Yeosang’s not some damsel in distress, because Yeosang can take care of himself. 

Both of them use what they have to their advantage, after all. Different ways, different reasons—but they understand each other. They have to, in order to survive.

That doesn’t stop Seonghwa from wanting to reel Yeosang back in a little sometimes, whether or not he believes he has the right.

“Don’t you think you’re seeing too many clients?” Seonghwa raises an eyebrow, his voice sounding much more small than he’d intended it to.

“Don’t you think you should be eating real food for dinner?” Yeosang retorts, tone teasing, taking it as his cue to get off the couch. Typical, Seonghwa thinks with a sigh; it’s not as if Yeosang runs away at every chance he gets, but if he can, then he probably will. Seonghwa knows better than to fight him on it, so he resigns himself to the accused bowl of cereal when Yeosang waves his hand dismissively. “There’s still rice in the cooker. You should have some.”

“I’ll do that,” Seonghwa promises, watching as Yeosang moves across the apartment, gathering things up to put in a designer bag he’s never seen before. “Is that new?”

Yeosang hums. “I was gonna give it to you, actually. Do you like it? Married guy got it for me last time I saw him, but it’s more your style. I figured I’d just show it off to him once, then you can have it, if you want.”

“I appreciate that,” Seonghwa says sweetly, sincerely, affection washing over him in easy waves. Yeosang’s smiling at him, too, and Seonghwa’s voice stays pillow-soft. “But I wish you’d rest, Yeosang-ah. I’d appreciate that more than these expensive things.”

Yeosang answers with a chuckle, moving to sit down nearer to the middle of the couch, right beside where Seonghwa has his legs folded up. He has his lace-up boots with him, sets them down on the floor to put them on. 

“Oh, Seonghwa-hyung, I wish I did this job just to get you expensive things,” Yeosang teases, eyes trained on the floor, laces done-up in between skilled fingers. “I do love doing that, don’t get me wrong, but you know it’s not the main goal, either. It’s rent and it’s groceries. And really, I’m fine.”

“Hey. We can afford rent and groceries if you skip one night,” Seonghwa scoffs, playfully nudging Yeosang in the thigh with his foot. “I’m not some kind of bum, you know. I have work tomorrow.”

“I know that. But, well, it’s always nice not to be on a tight budget.” Yeosang shrugs, smiling as he swats Seonghwa on the ankle in retaliation. He moves on to lace up the other boot. “I mean, I love rice and meat and soap—I do—but I enjoy being able to get ice cream and foaming hand soap and shit without worrying, too.”

“I guess.” Seonghwa agrees, rolling his eyes. “Life is kinda depressing without ice cream.”

“We can get some better cereal, too,” Yeosang comments, frowning at the fruity cereal bowl in Seonghwa’s hands. “Don’t worry too much, hyung. I know my limits, and this guy’s a piece of cake. He’s not even paying for a full night. I’ll be back before you even leave for your shift.”

Yeosang stands up at the last word, both boots laced up, perfect and ready to go. Seonghwa eyes him up and down, from the smoked eyeliner on his eyes to the dipping neckline of his shirt to the way his pants hug his calves. The all-black makes him slender, accentuating the cinch of his waist, and, yeah—all these things make him powerful. Yeosang uses them to his advantage quite well.

“Do I look good?”

Seonghwa quirks his lips up in a smirk at his friend, scoffs because they both already know the answer—but they’ve always been partners in crime, after all. Some part of both of them always seeks, thrives on the other’s approval, and Seonghwa won’t deny him that now. 

“The best.”

Yeosang beams at those words, shoots Seonghwa a confident smile back. “I’ll see you later?”

“Mhm,” Seonghwa puts his bowl of cereal down on the coffee table, standing up to see Yeosang out the door. “Be safe.”

Yeosang only responds with a nod as Seonghwa follows him from a distance to the front door, turning back as he turns the handle. “Good night, hyung.”

“‘Night, sweetheart,” Seonghwa says with a little wave of his hand, his smile only faltering a little when Yeosang closes the door behind him, and disappears into the night.

monday, 2:27 PM.

“You never told me why you became a paramedic,” Hongjoong  suddenly utters after a good five minutes of silence, still just nonchalantly chewing on his corndog in the passenger seat. 

“Should I have?” Seonghwa asks in response, taking a bite from his own stick while he turns his head. “Are you just asking so you can tell me yours?”

Seonghwa doesn’t really mean to be abrasive about it, and he’s sure Hongjoong knows that. They’re just making conversation—as they always do on slow afternoons—finding anything and everything to talk about to pass the time in the ambulance. They’d just finished responding to a call where this middle school student somehow stabbed a pen into her own hand, and after bringing her to the hospital, they stopped by a street food stall nearby where Seonghwa gave Hongjoong some money to get them both a late lunch. Hongjoong waited for him while Seonghwa drove a little bit to get to where they are now, the ambulance parked in a residential area near the firehouse where their ambulance is stationed. They started eating in their comfortable silence around five minutes ago, until Hongjoong decided he wanted to fill the empty air today.

Hongjoong laughs when he responds, “No. Mine’s not that interesting.”

Seonghwa laughs, too, out of courtesy, because he seriously doubts that. Hongjoong has been his partner since they both started this job, having trained for it right out of high school, and he’s a cool guy. They don’t actually know a lot about each other outside of work—not for lack of trying, at least on Hongjoong’s part—but Seonghwa’s quite sure that Hongjoong’s plenty interesting. “I’m sure it’s interesting.”

“Well, either way,” Hongjoong shrugs. “I asked first.”

“Okay.”

“So?”

“What?”

“So why did you become a paramedic?”

Seonghwa chuckles quietly, amused at Hongjoong’s persistence. It’s only kind of sinking in now that he might have to actually answer that. “Why do you want to know?”

“It usually comes up, like, way before this point,” Hongjoong says like it’s obvious, with a light chuckle to match Seonghwa’s. “Isn’t this the kind of stuff that long-term partners tell each other?”

Seonghwa sighs, rolling his eyes fondly. He turns his head to look at Hongjoong, wondering if that alone will be enough to get him to back down, but his partner looks dead-set on pursuing this line of questioning. Seonghwa just sighs, turns his head back to look out of the windshield, takes another bite of his food. “It just happened to be what I was interested in when I graduated high school, so I did it.”

Hongjoong nods slowly, eyes kept forward now as well. “It kinda makes sense you wouldn’t have some cliché, ‘I wanted to help people’ story. Although, I was also betting on some kind of formative childhood experience with an emergency responder, or something. No offense, if that’s offensive… somehow.”

“Offe—” Seonghwa starts, amused, laughing as he turns his head to look at Hongjoong. “Why would I be offended by that? Since when did you tiptoe around me?”

“You’ve always been kinda touchy!” Hongjoong shrugs, giggling when Seonghwa’s eyes widen in disbelief. “No, but, I mean—I don’t mind. I just can’t tell with you sometimes, you know?”

“Well, I don’t have some formative childhood experience.” Seonghwa disregards that last comment, simply shaking his head and moving on. “This just happened to be where my mind was at, at the time I had to start working. If it was teaching, then I would’ve become a teacher. If it was cooking, I would’ve picked up shifts at restaurants. I never wanted to be a doctor or anything, I just saw the paramedic training program and said fuck it.”

Hongjoong looks at him with an amused expression, nodding his head as he continues to eat. “Okay, I don’t know that that’s true.”

“It’s true,” Seonghwa answers.

“So you would’ve just done…” Hongjoong gestures vaguely with his hand and his corndog, “Like. Anything.”

“Yeah.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

Seonghwa shrugs, taking a bite off his own stick. His tone is serious when he comments, “It’s ‘cause I’m just good at everything, so it didn’t really matter.”

Surprisingly, Hongjoong’s expression mirrors the seriousness of Seonghwa’s. Seonghwa kind of expected him to just laugh, brush it off and let it go, but it seems Hongjoong’s actually keen on pressing for more. “I don’t know how you say that without making it sound like a brag.”

Seonghwa turns his head toward him again, brow furrowed in curiosity. No one’s really taken this much interest in him before, (no one besides Yeosang), tried to move past Seonghwa’s veiled, subconscious attempts at self-sabotage whenever anyone seems like they could get close. It’s kind of an odd feeling, but Seonghwa doesn’t try to fight it. Hongjoong’s harmless, anyway. 

“That’s ‘cause it’s not,” Seonghwa replies simply. “It’s just true.”

“So you’re good at everything, huh?” Hongjoong chuckles.

“It’s not the gold star you think it is, you know?” Seonghwa opens up, taking another bite of his food and talking as he chews. “It just means I’m not great at anything. I could probably quit today and have a new job in a month, no problem. There’s just nothing I’ve ever, like, wanted to do.”

“Really?” Hongjoong tilts his head, pursing his lips. “I’d believe it if you told me you liked this job, though.”

“Why? ‘Cause you’ve seen me fight for patients before?” Seonghwa looks back at him, a knowing smile on his face. He takes the last bite of his corndog, and refuses when Hongjoong offers him his own, still unfinished. “That’s not liking this job, Hongjoong-ah. It’s just being a good person.”

“It counts for something,” Hongjoong utters thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on his knee. “I don’t think good is the default for being a person. So that’s… that’s still something. You’re a good person.”

Seonghwa makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. That’s enough to prove that Hongjoong doesn’t know him the slightest bit. 

(It’s still nice to hear, though, in some inexplicable way. Seonghwa supposes that there’s at least one way that Hongjoong’s conclusion makes sense—so he decides to store it in a lockbox for later instead of just throwing it away.)

“I don’t think I actually answered your question,” Seonghwa says placatingly, bringing them back around to what they were talking about in the first place. Hongjoong looks at him as he takes the last bite of his corndog, listening with intent. “There’s two types of people in the world: people who have jobs for money, and people who have jobs for passion because they already have money. Guess which one I am.”

Hongjoong furrows his brow. “Yeah, I got it.”

“The jobs are very different on the two sides of the plain. Paramedic’s somewhere in the middle, I guess, but my point stands. I’m a paramedic because it’s a job—” Seonghwa emphasizes the last word with a smug smile, “—and jobs get you money, and money lets you survive. And when you’re poor and just average at everything, you make up for it with charm and wit.” Seonghwa pauses after that, turning his head back to stare out the windshield. His mind suddenly drifts back to Yeosang, who he’d left sleeping peacefully at home just this morning, and his chest tightens with some unknown ache. “I’m sure people would pay me for being pretty, if I tried. My skin’s just not thick enough for that… so. You’re stuck with me for now.”

Hongjoong’s responding chuckle is low and somber, but he doesn’t really look at Seonghwa any differently when he reaches out to take the corndog stick out of his hand. Seonghwa loosens his grip easily, letting Hongjoong wrap their trash in some tissue and hand him some to wipe his lips. Seonghwa doesn’t often get sentimental—he kind of hates the times when he does, because emotions interfering with this kind of job is just never the best and Seonghwa has a lot of them—but for some reason it just hits him, and now everything that can be on his mind, is on his mind. Yeosang at home, Hongjoong beside him here. They’ve been partners for nearly five years; Seonghwa can’t deny that a lot has happened in that time, regardless of how much he’s actually kept his distance. Working out of the ambulance tethers them with some kind of trauma bond, too, he’s sure.

Either way, it’s a strange feeling. Having someone Seonghwa feels like he can rely on, somehow, in a different way than how he relies on Yeosang. Seonghwa doesn’t really trust people, and maybe that’s the thing—Hongjoong seems to trust him. But he never asks or pushes Seonghwa to trust him back.

“Do you consider us friends, Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong’s expression is almost comically affronted when he looks at him, punctuating his words with a scoff. “After five years? Uh, yeah, I guess I do. Don’t you?”

“I do,” Seonghwa finds himself saying, and he sighs as he wills himself not to break eye contact. “I know there’s… you’re… I— ugh.”

“Take your time.”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa retorts at being teased. “We’ve never really talked about the things you’ve done for me, but… thank you.”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow. “For what, exactly?”

“I know you’re not stupid,” Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Inventory mistakes are not a joke,” he lowers his voice, “especially morphine.”

Hongjoong blinks at him twice, lips parting. Yeah. He knows what Seonghwa means. “Well. I don’t know anything about that.”

Seonghwa nods appreciatively, lips in a thin line. It’s the first time he’s really acknowledged it, that’s for sure, and it feels… strange to be thanking Hongjoong for it now. Seonghwa never asked him to turn a blind eye back then, after all; Hongjoong just did.

“Why bring that up all of a sudden?” Hongjoong asks after a beat of silence, voice soft and whispered now, too. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he chuckles lowly.

“I can't keep doing this lone ranger thing.” Seonghwa responds, some kind of invitation embedded in that declaration. It feels new on his tongue. “Eventually, it’s gonna bite me in the ass.”

Hongjoong just purses his lips, nodding slowly. He lets Seonghwa’s words sink in, and Seonghwa tries to bounce a new word around in his head. Friend. Friend. Seonghwa has allies, and Seonghwa has Yeosang—he wonders what it means to have a friend. 

He supposes he’ll find out.

tuesday, 8:57 AM.

Seonghwa and Yeosang arrive home at the same time this morning, the distinct pattern of Yeosang’s footsteps coming toward Seonghwa from their dingy apartment’s elevator while Seonghwa fumbles sleepily over the combination on their lock.

Yeosang is just approaching when Seonghwa manages to get the door unlocked, holding it open for Yeosang without a word. The two of them don’t speak as they walk inside, only exchanging meaningful glances as they take off their shoes and shrug off their coats. They’re both still in their work clothes—Seonghwa in his paramedic uniform and Yeosang in his glittery, midnight blue cropped sweater and ripped jeans—though they probably don’t look as worn out as they probably feel. Yeosang lets Seonghwa take his bag before crouching down to loosen up the laces of his boots, Seonghwa trudging over to the couch and setting the heap of their things down on the floor.

“Spent the night?” Seonghwa asks from the couch, eyeing Yeosang as he slips out of his shoes by the front door.

“Yeah.” Yeosang walks over groggily, making his way to sit with Seonghwa on the other side of the sofa. “You?”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. Yeosang and his fondness for making fun of paramedics and firemen and their day-long shifts. “Funny.”

It gets a smile out of Yeosang, though. So it’s fine. “Yeah. I am.”

“Did you sleep well?” Seonghwa asks, smiling softly at him now, too.

“Not so much. You?”

“Me neither.”

“Mm,” Yeosang hums. He shifts a little uncomfortably on the couch, and it doesn’t slip Seonghwa’s notice. “You wanna go to bed?”

“Not really,” Seonghwa lies. “You?”

Yeosang chuckles. “In a bit.”

“Body pains?” Seonghwa asks, doing his best to level out the tone of concern.

Yeosang closes his eyes and nods. He laughs it off to play it down, but he answers honestly. “Yeah.”

“Massage?”

Yeosang only hesitates for two seconds, but he answers when he finds Seonghwa already moving closer on the couch. “Okay.”

Seonghwa scoots closer, bringing his legs up with him and meeting Yeosang in the middle. One of his hands comes up to Yeosang’s shoulder, brushing softly over the sequined fabric before tapping twice, still gentle. “Take this off.”

Yeosang obliges easily, lifting the sweater up by the hem to pull it off of himself in a series of calculated motions. They’re used enough to this, so it doesn’t take any of them by surprise, no pretenses of shyness or nerves when Yeosang turns to drape the fabric onto the armrest behind him. 

“Did you sleep with a vacuum cleaner?” Seonghwa jokes, taking in the state of Yeosang’s torso. There’s (what Seonghwa would call) an excessive amount of purple and greenish marks all over his skin, ones that Seonghwa knows weren’t there before he left for his most recent shift, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s telling Yeosang, “Turn around.”

Yeosang just giggles as he turns to face his back towards Seonghwa, and he lets out a deep sigh when Seonghwa begins to press his thumbs in between his shoulder blades. Yeosang lets out a satisfied exhale, starting to melt into the touch. “How are you so good at that?”

Seonghwa only hums in response, focusing on the task at hand. Softly, he initiates, “How was work?”

“Not bad, actually,” Yeosang answers, relaxed.

“Yeah?” Seonghwa laughs lightheartedly. “Nothing weird?”

“Well, he wanted me to call him Master, but that was it.”

“You’re into that though, aren’t you?”

The chuckle that Yeosang gives him is tired but still genuine, about as mellowed down as Seonghwa would expect. “I’m not opposed.”

Seonghwa simply continues working out the kinks in Yeosang’s back after that, (no pun intended), moving onto kneading his shoulder blades and finding way too many knots in the muscle. Yeosang lets out low, appreciative hums whenever Seonghwa presses on a particularly good spot, and they’re enough to fill the silence until either of them find something else they’d like to talk about in their tired, lazy morning haze.

“How was your work, hyung?” Yeosang asks after a while, turning his head just a little to look briefly over his shoulder.

“It was good,” Seonghwa answers with ease, trying to recount anything interesting that had happened in the past day. “There was a student who stabbed herself in the hand with a pen.”

“That was good?”

Seonghwa huffs out a laugh, though none of the exasperation makes its way into his still-careful touches. “No, dummy. Just interesting.”

“I’d say it’s more interesting than a Master kink, yeah,” Yeosang chuckles, breath faltering when Seonghwa moves his hands down to mid-back. “How’s your partner?”

“Hongjoong?” Seonghwa says, more just to say it than to actually ask. He tilts his head in thought, absently presses the tension out from in between Yeosang’s vertebrae. “He’s fine. We talked, actually.”

Yeosang looks over his shoulder again, intrigued. “Well, yeah, I’d assumed you didn’t just sit in silence during every shift.”

“I meant, we talked more,” Seonghwa clarifies. “Yeosang-ah, relax your shoulders.”

Yeosang lets his shoulders slump down obediently. “What did you talk about?”

“He asked me why I became a paramedic.”

“And what did you tell him?”

Seonghwa doesn’t know why he’s talking to Yeosang about this so easily, honestly—but in hindsight, they do share everything with each other, anyway. So. Seonghwa just shrugs. “I said I did it for money, that’s why.”

Yeosang huffs, looking over his shoulder again, his expression one that Seonghwa can best describe as playful disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Seonghwa defends, knuckles pressing into some dips in Yeosang’s lower back, right above his tailbone. “It’s true.”

“You like being an EMT, though,” Yeosang laughs.

Seonghwa, for the life of him, would rather not dignify that with a response.

But this is Yeosang, of course, so Seonghwa plays along. They indulge each other. And they’re a little less inclined to make too simple these more complicated things. “Maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence again, and Seonghwa can feel the satisfied smirk radiating off of Yeosang, even if he’s facing away. Seonghwa only juts his lips out in focus, mulling over the thoughts that have resurfaced in his head. His hands don’t falter when he hesitates over what he wants to say next, but Yeosang seems to pick up on it anyway.

“I can practically hear you thinking, Seonghwa-hyung. Spill.”

Seonghwa purses his lips, tries his best not to click his tongue. His shrug makes him seem more guarded than nonchalant when he utters, “Hongjoong said we were friends.”

Yeosang looks over his shoulder a little more committally this time, narrows his eyes at Seonghwa the same way he looks at the raccoons that eat out of their dumpsters. Rude. “...Okay?”

“Is that weird?”

“Is what weird?” Yeosang faces back to the front. “Have you not been friends all this time?”

“Well, not, like… I don’t know?”

“It’s not weird to have friends,” Yeosang laughs, rolling his shoulders in circles while Seonghwa’s focusing on the small of his back. “What’s really bothering you?”

Seonghwa bites on his tongue, always impressed by the way Yeosang can coax these things out of him. The way he can figure out the things that Seonghwa struggles to put into words. Seonghwa doesn’t know what irks him about getting close to Hongjoong—or, more likely, what irks him about getting close to anyone. He doesn’t know. “I think Hongjoong likes me.”

Yeosang huffs. “Like, romantically?”

“No,” Seonghwa answers instantly, eyes widening in shock upon realizing his choice of words. God, stupid— “Like, as a person.”

“That’s surprising to you?” Yeosang laughs—actually laughs, like, crinkling his tired eyes and all—and his tone softens the slightest bit once he turns to look at Seonghwa again. “I think you like him, too. As a person.”

Seonghwa mulls it over, and his hands stop their motions for a moment, palms resting flat on either side of Yeosang’s spine. If Yeosang is bothered by the sudden halt, he makes no mention or quip about it, and Seonghwa simply lets himself feel the way the skin moves under his fingers with every even breath. He picks the movements back up again when he mutters, quietly, “I don’t really know him.”

“Maybe you should try.”

Really—Seonghwa doesn’t know how he does this. Yeosang just has him under his spell. Seonghwa can never deny him anything. “Maybe.”

There’s a measured pause of silence again where Seonghwa simply travels his hands back up Yeosang’s back, returning to his shoulders and watching the defined muscle give under his touch. He doesn’t quite know how long they’ve been on the couch now since they got home, but Yeosang starts to relax more as tiny yawns escape him every once in a while, and before Seonghwa even knows it, they’ve gotten so, so much closer—one scoot forward and Yeosang’s back would be pressed into his chest.

And it happens soon after Seonghwa has the thought, a half-awake Yeosang leaning his weight back into Seonghwa’s steadily opening arms. Seonghwa lets him—even pulls him back firmly when Yeosang tries to flutter his eyes back to full openness and wiggle out of his hold—and he rests his palms feather-light on Yeosang’s shoulders, places a kiss on the top of his head. “Tired, sweetheart?”

Yeosang responds with a sound that’s half-hum, half-groan, eyes fluttering open as he responds. “Worth it, though. New client, and guy was a big tipper. Like, there’s enough money in my bag for you to go to a SEVENTEEN concert, if you want.”

Seonghwa swallows thickly at Yeosang’s words, the way he says them with the gentlest, softest smile. It’s a lucky thing that Yeosang also lets his eyes fall shut after, lest he see the concern that floods across Seonghwa’s. They both value their independence, he knows; but that doesn’t make it any easier for Seonghwa not to worry about the fact that Yeosang has gone out three consecutive nights this week, and it’s not difficult to see how exhausted it’s gotten him. Seonghwa gets the familiar urge to ask Yeosang if he can rein it in—he still just has never mastered the art of how.

“Yeosang?” Seonghwa says softly, moving a hand up to caress his hair and hoping he’s still at least a little awake. “Will you rest for today, please?”

Yeosang cracks an eye open at the question, and for a second, Seonghwa fears he’ll flat out say no, and then Seonghwa will just have to be okay with it. Because he can’t deny Yeosang anything, after all.

But after just a couple of seconds, Yeosang mumbles sleepily, “Yeah, hyung.”

Seonghwa smiles. Trying his luck, he adds, “Tomorrow, too?”

It takes Yeosang longer to respond this time, so Seonghwa tacks on a little bit more.

“We can go to the bar,” he giggles, hoping he sounds enticing enough. “Have some fun.”

Yeosang smiles at the proposition, leaning his head further into Seonghwa’s touch. He opens his eyes for a moment to really look at him, gaze sparkling with… something. Seonghwa would like to think it’s fondness, affection—more than Yeosang usually shows—but he chalks it up to the fatigue.

Yeosang answers not long after, right as he closes his eyes. “Alright, hyung.”

Seonghwa smiles down at him, fingers still carding through his hair. 

Yeosang can never deny Seonghwa anything, either.

wednesday, 8:49 PM.

Yunho has known Seonghwa and Yeosang since they first moved into the neighborhood, when all they could afford at the bar was a bottle of the cheapest beer and soju each.

“Target locked,” Yeosang says with a glint in his eye, Seonghwa looking at him with an indulgent smile. “What do you think, me or you?”

Seonghwa tilts his head as he takes his time to consider, sneaking a subtle glance at two guys on the other side of the bar. “The brunette seems like he’d be into you.”

“And the blonde seems like he’d be into you,” Yeosang thinks out loud, speaking as if he was solving a math equation, instead of guessing at their next victims’ tendencies. Yunho no longer tries to hide his laugh. “I have a theory. They’re into each other.”

Yunho can confirm that theory, but he wouldn’t give that away unless they asked. He knows it would ruin Seonghwa and Yeosang’s fun, because he’s done it before. Anyway, the brunette and the blonde are actually named Yeonjun and Soobin—Yunho had heard when he was on their side of the bar, making their drinks—and they’re not from this part of town, and there was definitely some kind of tension going on between them. Even Yunho could tell.

“I think you should go,” Seonghwa says calculatedly, smirking at Yeosang as he leans over the bar, elbows on the counter, chin resting on his hands. “You think the brunette would want to make the blonde jealous?”

Yeosang smirks back, hopping off his barstool. “You read my mind.”

Seonghwa watches with amusement as Yeosang waltzes over to where their victims are, ready as always to tilt his head and bat his eyelashes when Yeosang invites them over.

“What should I make for you?” Yunho asks with a chuckle.

“The usual,” Seonghwa responds, giving a little wave when Yeosang looks their way. “Put it on their tab for us, will you?”

“I know the drill,” Yunho muses, already reaching for Seonghwa’s margarita glass. “You two having fun tonight?”

Seonghwa smirks coyly when Yeosang comes walking back with Yeonjun and Soobin now in tow, and sends Yunho one last wink before they arrive. “Oh, you know we are.”

Yunho shakes his head at their antics, dropping the conversation when Yeosang arrives with their victims, already flirting with Yeonjun and introducing Seonghwa to Soobin. Yunho pulls out some strawberries for Seonghwa’s drink and gets the whiskey ready for Yeosang’s old fashioned, listening absently to the group’s conversation while he works.

Yunho was just a waiter back when Seonghwa and Yeosang had started showing up at the bar, content with getting drunk on whatever was cheapest and keeping mostly to themselves. That wasn’t bound to last long in hindsight, though—Yunho has learned since then that Seonghwa and Yeosang had a penchant for expensive things, and true enough, they didn’t settle for cheap beer and soju for long. 

Suffice it to say that Seonghwa and Yeosang—they’re attractive. Pretty. And, sure, anyone can be pretty. It’s often something you’re born with. But the thing about Seonghwa and Yeosang is that they know it, and they quickly learned to exploit it—to use it to their own advantage. If looks could kill, Seonghwa and Yeosang would be Bonnie and Clyde.

This is how they have their fun. They get dressed and dolled up, walk into the comfortable territory of their neighborhood bar, and they set their sights on the people who come in that they know aren’t from here. Their victims fall to their knees at Seonghwa and Yeosang’s feet so easily, because they have eyes, and Seonghwa and Yeosang get unassuming men to buy them all the fancy cocktails they want, all the time. Even now that they’re no longer those broke kids that they were before, they never stop doing it, and Yunho just lets them because it’s entertaining. He’s helped them out many times, too, ever since he got promoted to bartender, always listening in the background to make sure none of the dudes that Seonghwa and Yeosang seduce get hostile or violent, and promptly cutting them off and getting the bouncer to kick them out in the unfortunate situations that they do.

Luckily, it doesn’t seem like tonight is going to be that kind of night, but Yunho keeps his eyes peeled and ears alert nonetheless. He serves Seonghwa and Yeosang their first round of drinks and then Soobin and Yeonjun their second, observing them from afar as he begins to wipe down glasses behind the bar. Their assessment had been pretty much correct, Yunho muses in his mind—Yeonjun is flirting with Yeosang, who’s flirting shamelessly back, and Seonghwa sips on his strawberry margarita in between small talk with Soobin, their conversation more demure. 

There’s a difference in the kind of attractive that those two are, and it didn’t take much for Yunho to learn that they know how to use that to their advantage, too. Seonghwa is a delicate balance of sharp and soft features: high cheekbones, plush lips, always finding a way to show off his collarbones, curvy figure, long legs. He’s wearing some kind of lacy, see-through top tonight under a thin black blazer, lace crawling all the way up to his neck and a belt tightened around his waist, wavy hair growing long and framing the sides of his face. Yeosang, on the other hand, is fierce like licks of blue flame: sharp jaw, big eyes, defined muscles, deep voice. His button-down is navy blue, too many buttons undone, sleeves stopping just above his bicep to show off well-sculpted arms. The top’s tucked at the waist into black jeans that hug his thighs, and the boots he wears make him a couple of inches taller. His hair is slicked back unlike Seonghwa’s, enough to show off a small pair of icy blue drop earrings, only a couple strands of hair falling into his doe eyes.

The four of them talk over their drinks, and it’s clear that Seonghwa and Yeosang are enjoying themselves. Yeonjun and Soobin, not so much, especially when Yeosang ups the flirting considerably and Soobin starts paying much less attention to Seonghwa, who does nothing but sip on his margarita and smirk. They’re devils, honestly. Seonghwa seems happy to sit back and relax while Yeosang does the talking, satisfied with the free drink in his hand that he’d gotten just by looking like that. 

Seonghwa eventually seems to take pity on Soobin, though, after about the fourth time that he takes a swig of his beer right after Yeonjun laughs at one of Yeosang’s jokes. He even shares a knowing look with Yunho over the bar before he actually speaks up—as if to say look at this poor guy, Yunho, I can’t watch this—to which Yunho chuckles and shakes his head. Eventually, he does hear the low whisper of, “Hey. Soobin. Are you just gonna let my friend take off with your man like that?”

Soobin goes red at the question, sputters as he tries to defend himself. “I— What do you mean? I’m not— He’s not—”

“Darling, you’ve looked at me a grand total of four times in the past twenty minutes,” Seonghwa says, more playful than scolding. Soobin gulps, and Seonghwa softens his tone. “Stop staring like an idiot. You’re a good catch, Soobin-ah. Your boy’s had his eye on you the whole night, too.”

Soobin huffs. “No, he hasn’t.”

Yunho tries to push down his smirk. Bingo.

“Trust me.” Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Now, go steal him back. He’ll probably like it. And Yeosang here won’t mind. I promise.”

Now, Yunho can’t tell if Soobin is normally easily convinced or if he’s just tipsy, but those words prove to be enough for him to get a determined look in his eyes and step off his barstool, suddenly gaining the bravado to interrupt Yeosang and Yeonjun mid-conversation.

Yunho can’t hear the words that are whispered before Yeonjun and Soobin run off somewhere towards the back of the establishment, muddled under the music and noise, but Seonghwa and Yeosang both break into laughter when they’re out of earshot, and Yunho butts in to hear the scoop.

“And what happened there, you menaces?” Yunho asks with a grin.

“Blondie’s feisty,” Yeosang comments teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows and then taking a sip of his drink. “They’re totally gonna make out in the bathroom.”

Seonghwa snorts. “We are so going to hell.”

“‘Course we are. Together.” Yeosang nudges Seonghwa in the shoulder, holding up his glass for a toast. Seonghwa obliges, clinking their glasses against each other, but not without a fond shake of his head. Seonghwa takes another sip of his drink, and Yeosang downs the rest of his—and Yunho tries to hold his tongue. “Yunho, do you think you can put a daiquiri for me on Yeonjun’s bill?”

Yunho raises an eyebrow at him in exasperation, grimace only deepening when Yeosang pouts his lips and tries to use puppy eyes on him. Seonghwa’s not even trying to stop him, just laughing heartily at Yeosang’s antics as he continues sipping on his own drink, and eventually he scrunches his nose at Yunho as if to say let him off the hook, just this once. Yunho knows it’s never just this once. “Fine. But just one more drink.”

“You’re the best,” Yeosang declares, immediately retracting the puppy eyes to wink at Yunho over the bar instead. He hops off his stool right after, announcing to them both that, “I’m gonna go see if someone will want to buy me french fries.”

Seonghwa and Yunho lock eyes as Yeosang walks off into the sea of people, adjusting the loose strands of his hair, and the moment he’s out of earshot—they break out into amused laughter.

Seonghwa comes out of it first, regaling his earlier statement. “God, we’re really going to hell.”

“You think?” Yunho teases good-naturedly.

“Okay, I mean, I also can’t believe we had to help those two get together,” Seonghwa laughs again, pointing his chin vaguely in the direction that Yeonjun and Soobin had gone. “They look really good together, and they’re both so obvious, and I had to help them out?” Seonghwa shakes his head. “Hey, do you think that cancels out, though?”

Yunho bites the inside of his cheek, needing to hold his tongue again. He resists the urge to look Seonghwa in the eye, shake him by the shoulders, ask him when are you two going to get together, hm? Maybe you should look in a mirror, hm? “What?”

“Like, do you think it cancels out going to hell. Since we seduced them but also wingmanned them, and all.” Seonghwa repeats, and—oh, right, that. He doesn’t seem to be looking for an actual answer, though, so Yunho's off the hook. At least until Seonghwa switches the flow with, “Better get started on that daiquiri, Yunho.”

“Got it, Your Highness,” Yunho nods his head, giving Seonghwa a teasing, two-finger salute, to which the elder just chuckles. “Can I get anything else for you, then?”

Seonghwa looks over his shoulder onto the crowd, eyeing Yeosang where he’s now chatting up some guy who’s alone at his table. When he looks back at Yunho, he’s wearing a softer, more sobered smile.

“I think I’ll just wait on those french fries.”

thursday, 4:03 PM.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Wooyoung asks the question when he walks back into the bedroom, and Yeosang looks up from under the covers, cocking his head to the side. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“The reason.”

“Curiosity?”

Yeosang straightens out a little as Wooyoung situates himself on the edge of the mattress, keeping a decent amount of distance between them. Yeosang appreciates it, though he doesn’t say that out loud. “I guess curiosity’s fine. As long as you don’t have ulterior motives.”

“What?” Wooyoung snorts upon hearing that, but Yeosang thinks it’s fair. After years of doing this job, everyone has ulterior motives. Wooyoung’s lucky there’s something about him that inclines Yeosang to even think about giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Ulterior motives? Like what?”

“I don’t want you thinking we’re close, when we’re not.” Yeosang says it with just the right amount of snark, Wooyoung having been his client long enough for him to have a proper gauge of how much he can get away with. 

Wooyoung grins, playful. “We aren’t?”

“It’s unprofessional enough of me to let you get away with calling us friends,” Yeosang says flatly, playing with one of the fluffy squares on Wooyoung’s weighted blanket. “Definitely don’t need you deluding yourself into assuming more.”

Wooyoung scoffs and rolls his eyes, and Yeosang mirrors the gesture, even if he’s dead serious.

Wooyoung has been one of Yeosang’s steady, long-term clients for three years now, and Yeosang would probably go as far to say that he was the nicest, if not only for the fact that Yeosang just got along with him the best because (he’s pretty sure) they’re around the same age. When Wooyoung had just started hiring him, Yeosang had wondered a lot about why a guy like him would even need to pay for an escort—Wooyoung was attractive, charismatic, clearly rich—and if he wasn’t someone who was paying for his time, Yeosang might have teased him for not embracing the playboy lifestyle he so clearly was made for. But that was back then—and since then, Yeosang’s learned a lot more about Wooyoung, begrudgingly or not, that proves he’s not all the things Yeosang might have initially assumed him to be. Yeosang shudders at the thought that he’s developed some kind of affinity for him—no matter how professional he still keeps it—whatever the hell that would mean in this context.

Yeosang had learned pretty early on that Wooyoung was the second son of one of those untouchable, too-rich families, which explained the lavish lifestyle and perhaps the loneliness that would lead to him seeking out an escort to satisfy his needs, no strings attached. That made enough sense to Yeosang, sure—but he also learned quickly after that Wooyoung just wasn’t very good at that, the whole we-fuck-and-that’s-it thing—and it leads to great sex and always being pampered excessively when Yeosang is on Wooyoung’s time, but it also leads to conversations like this that make Yeosang wonder when he signed up to be a pillow talk therapist. Not that he’s made the effort to stop it from happening, though. Wooyoung’s a good fuck, and he’s basically a sugar daddy at this point. Yeosang can deal with the fact that he just really likes to talk.

“Do you know Blossom?” Wooyoung asks, snapping Yeosang back to attention.

“Is this your personal question?” Yeosang raises an eyebrow.

“It’s rhetoric, Moon. Play along.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Do you know Blossom?”

“Like, the powerpuff girl?” Yeosang jokes questioningly as he looks up, still playing with the blanket. He immediately gets what Wooyoung means, though, after hearing his own work name uttered out to him. He does know Blossom—Choi San, if he remembers correctly—though not very well. They’ve been hired for the same parties a couple of times before, and he seemed nice enough. “Yeah, I know Blossom. Why?”

“He’s more my type,” Wooyoung muses, sheepish, and Yeosang tries not to let his concerned wariness show. This was certainly not territory he’d meant to get into. “So you don’t have to worry about me falling in love. At least not with you.”

Yeosang tries his very best not to completely gawk at that, because it sounds like a disaster waiting to happen that is just not in Yeosang’s wheelhouse to deal with, thank you very much. It ties into how Wooyoung seems like such a sucker for… well, intimacy, real connection, and Yeosang doesn’t want to feel sorry for him, but he does. And he tries his best just to tiptoe around it, and maybe it’s why he lets Wooyoung get away with paying him probably 40% for sex and 60% just to talk and listen. Seriously, even when this guy fucks, he treats Yeosang like the holiest thing in the world, and then he spends all the time after giving him food and gifts or just letting Yeosang lie in his soft, king-sized bed. Even today, they’d gotten through three rounds of amazing sex, and now Yeosang’s just lying naked under Wooyoung’s covers, a glass of rosé and some chocolates for him on the bedside table, and Yeosang wouldn’t put it past Wooyoung that he might have actually fallen for another one of the escorts that he sees on the regular. For San. Jesus Christ.

“Are you gonna ask me your question?” Yeosang just asks after a while, eager to abandon that entire train of thought completely when he can’t figure out for the life of him what to say.

Luckily, Wooyoung doesn’t ever really mind, so he brings his legs up onto the bed and promptly moves on. “Do you have a dream?”

Yeosang imagines that if he were sipping on the rosé right now, he would’ve spit it right onto Wooyoung’s extravagant sheets, because who the hell just asks shit like that?

Well—Wooyoung. Wooyoung does.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to become a charity case right now?” Yeosang asks, sitting up straighter in the bed.

“You’re not,” Wooyoung shrugs, his tone so innocently genuine, reminding Yeosang that people like him really, actually exist in the world. “Like I said, it’s pure curiosity.”

The thing that really gets Yeosang is that it actually, probably is pure curiosity. Wooyoung’s so naive sometimes, having lived in his tight, high-class social bubble his whole life, head sometimes empty of his own thoughts. Yeah, that’s really not Yeosang’s problem or responsibility—and he probably shouldn’t let it slide that Wooyoung talks to him like he’s something to be studied sometimes—but Wooyoung is just… earnest. The guy’s well-intentioned and somehow so open to letting Yeosang see him like that, fumbling around like the rich, out-of-touch fool he is.

And, well, while this really isn’t in Yeosang’s job description, some people really do need someone patient enough to take that foolishness in stride instead of giving up on it altogether.

“I don’t know what you mean by dreams,” Yeosang responds after a moment of silence, and it seems to surprise both of them a little bit that he’d responded—well, at all.

Wooyoung clears his throat, intrigued. “I mean… this job. Is it really what you want to be doing?”

Yeosang can’t help but giggle at the shy way that Wooyoung asks, still fumbling so much, trying to be careful. It’s cute. “There are some people who do love this job, you know.”

Yeosang says it just because he feels like he should, and Wooyoung promptly looks down at his knees on the bed, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “Well… yeah, I suppose so.”

Yeosang nods, trying to temper the tension with a lighthearted chuckle. He’s too soft with him, god damn it, quickly deciding to put Wooyoung out of his misery. “I’m not one of them.”

“Oh.” Wooyoung looks up again, seemingly confused. Carefully, he continues. “Then… what, then?”

“Mmm…” Yeosang hums in thought, breaking eye contact to play with his blanket square again, attempting to string together something coherent, but still fairly vague. “I don’t know. I just do it. It’s not like this was a Plan B or anything, you know? It’s just what happened. I didn't really have a path to stray from, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Wooyoung just huffs, probably trying to piece it together. Yeosang remains patient, just digging his thumbs into the corners of his puffy square. “There must have been something you wanted to do, no?” Wooyoung asks delicately. “Anything?”

“I don’t know?” Yeosang answers shyly, still only making eye contact with the sheets. He really, really shouldn’t be letting himself be this vulnerable with a client. He has every right to refuse, and he knows that Wooyoung wouldn’t even fault him for it—but his words have a mind of their own, tumbling out of Yeosang’s mouth. “I don't really remember thinking about it that much, and I don't think about it any more now.” Yeosang shrugs. “I was good at math in school, I guess.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung answers encouragingly.

Yeosang just brings his lips into a thin line of a smile, reaching over to the nightstand and taking a sip of the wine, just so he has something else to do. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows isn’t so much awkward as it is just—well, kind of loaded—as Yeosang mulls over Wooyoung’s weird question in his mind. He can’t fathom what Wooyoung could get out of asking Yeosang about dreams. The two of them are much too different for this line of questioning to be useful for Wooyoung’s own dreams. Then again, that could still make sense, actually. People that are lost tend to hold onto everything they can find. Yeosang would know.

“Do you have a goal, then?” Wooyoung picks up again after some thinking. “Is there an endgame to this?”

“Endgame?” Yeosang laughs, amused that this is really how Wooyoung thinks. He tries to keep it lighthearted anyway, without seeming like he’s talking to a child. “The endgame’s money. Just like any other job.”

“Money’s a means to an end, though. You don’t really get a lot out of having it as much as you get out of spending it.”

“I—” Yeosang internally berates himself for faltering, but honestly… Honestly, he’s kind of surprised Wooyoung thinks like that. What with the amount of money he does have, and all. But what does he want Yeosang to say? Does he want to know what Yeosang spends on? He could text Seonghwa and ask him for the grocery list—

And then Yeosang’s fingers stop in the middle of squishing around the stuffing of the blanket square, the mere thought of Seonghwa suddenly opening up a whole new pathway in his brain.

If Wooyoung notices, he makes no mention of it. “I have a hypothetical question, then. Purely hypothetical, I swear.”

Yeosang just nods his assent, thoughts of money and dreams and Seonghwa still busy muddling together, rattling around in his head. “Okay, what?”

“You said you don’t exactly love this job,” Wooyoung starts, pausing until Yeosang gives him some signal to continue, “Then, if you got the chance to switch jobs, right now, instantly—something that you’re passionate about, really want to do—would you?”

Yeosang stares at Wooyoung with intrigue—because what. What the hell. How did they even get this far?

The question joins all the other thoughts racing around in his mind already, and Wooyoung seems to pick up on the fact that Yeosang’s contemplating this lot more than he expected to. Wooyoung just leaves room for silence, patiently awaiting whatever conclusion Yeosang comes to, and suddenly Yeosang’s being hit from all sides with this wave of surfacing, subconscious thoughts.

He wonders. Would he stop doing this job? No. Why? ‘Cause he’s good at it? Well, yes, but also no. For the money, for the gifts? Maybe. But then what? Designer bags and diamond earrings don’t actually make him happy, even though they’re nice to have. He spends most of his money on groceries, on rent. And on ice cream. Baskin Robbins rainbow sherbet, a liter’s worth in pints, Seonghwa’s favorite.

“No,” Yeosang answers shakily, and Wooyoung just raises an eyebrow in question.

Yeosang thinks of Seonghwa, who’d tucked him into bed last night after their night of fun at the local bar. Seonghwa who’s on shift right now, probably driving around and saving people all over Seoul with Hongjoong. Seonghwa who’s been growing his hair out for a while, and told Yeosang before he left for work this morning that he was planning to get it cut tomorrow after his shift, though he hasn’t decided on a style. Yeosang had suggested returning to cotton candy pink, and Seonghwa said we’ll see.

Yeosang thinks about Seonghwa, and then he thinks about Seonghwa and dreams, and that makes sense to him, somehow. Seonghwa who he knows drowns himself in worry every time Yeosang goes out to see a client, but always helps him out with makeup and outfits anyway. Yeosang has this flash of a thought in his head of Seonghwa with new hair—he imagines it’s… a light brown this time, maybe—smiling brightly against the light of the sun coming through a wide, crystal clear window, an overlooking view of the city on the other side.

“I guess I do have this dream, actually,” Yeosang starts, now a little more resolved. “There’s this guy that I live with…”

Wooyoung’s eyes widen the slightest bit. “You’re with someone?”

“Not in the way you’re implying,” Yeosang chuckles, pressing his fingers into the blanket again. He doesn’t look at Wooyoung when he speaks again, lips curling upwards into a gentle smile. “You asked me if I have some kind of goal and I guess… I just want him to have a nice life. Maybe get us a nicer apartment, I don’t know. But maybe I could start there.”

Yeosang’s throat feels dry after saying the words, but not for lack of truth. It’s mostly… the burden of awareness, he supposes. Because it is true. And Yeosang and Wooyoung are both definitely getting more than they bargained for out of this conversation.

“He’d do anything for me,” Yeosang continues, somehow not so keen on stopping himself. “He’d do anything for me, and that’s kind of…”

Yeosang trails off, and Wooyoung encourages, “Kind of?”

“Rare,” Yeosang answers, the first thing that comes to his mind. “Makes you feel special. And that’s… a lot.”

Wooyoung cracks a softer smile, letting out a deep sigh as he fixes Yeosang with some indiscernible look. “You sound like you’re in love with him.”

And Yeosang just… sure. He doesn’t deny it. He’s not sure if that’s what it really is, but it’s fine. Yeosang accepts that, because if Wooyoung thinks that the way Yeosang feels about Seonghwa sounds a lot like being in love with him—then, very well. He supposes it’s just an easier-to-comprehend name for what it actually is—even if it goes deeper. Even if it’s not really that simple. Even if right now, it’s kind of just a fuzzy dream.

“Do you have a dream, Wooyoung?” 

Yeosang can’t explain what comes over him that makes him ask the question back in a moment of weakness, but he supposes there’s no longer any point in denying that he’s… attached to Wooyoung, too. Somehow. Not too much to be a flight risk, but still—still more than he should be. Yeosang roots for him, in a way. He can only hope it doesn’t cost them in the long run.

Wooyoung only chuckles, resigned, lips pressed in a thin line. 

He looks at Yeosang with something like longing—some form of vicarious wonder, at best—his words almost lost in their softness. “None that measure up to yours.”

friday, 10:52 PM.

Seonghwa tried his best not to be disappointed when he came home at a quarter to nine to find a post-it note on their fridge, Yeosang’s familiar handwriting telling him he’d gone out to take a quick appointment with a new client and would be back home no later than 11. 

Seonghwa just sits on the couch now, in the dark, eyes absently trained on whatever’s in the TV while he tries to tidy up the thoughts in his mind. Seonghwa had left to get his hair done just after he and Yeosang had a quick dinner at 7, and his roommate had told him he’d be home for Seonghwa to surprise him with his new hair. Seonghwa’s not so much annoyed about that as he is anxious about the fact that Yeosang has been seeing clients so often and so spontaneously lately—and like it or not, it drives Seonghwa a little insane. He trusts Yeosang, of course he does; but there are some nights that he just wants him here. Home. Curled up on their couch wrapped in fluffy blankets or Seonghwa’s arms, instead of in some stranger’s bed.

Their door lock clicks soon enough, a few minutes before 11 PM, and Seonghwa’s head snaps up to attention to find Yeosang nearly stumbling into their apartment, making his way almost sluggishly to their couch. It flips a switch in Seonghwa’s brain immediately, and he’s ready to stand up and help, catch him if he falls, do whatever Yeosang needs. There’s a fire that burns in his gut as he tries to stay calm and not to jump to every worst case scenario, and he succeeds at least until Yeosang finds his own way to the couch, slumping with a long sigh onto his side.

All of Seonghwa’s earlier frustration, annoyance, disappointment—it’s all washed away in an instant, drowned out by sheer, protective worry, and he’s not sure his gaze is controlled enough to hide that when Yeosang turns his head to look him in the eye.

“Are you okay?” Seonghwa asks, gentle voice bordering on frantic as he grabs the remote to mute the TV. “Sweetheart?”

Yeosang hums, scooting over closer on the couch, seeming surprisingly more coherent than Seonghwa was actually expecting. Yeosang just looks… antsy, more than really dazed, which Seonghwa takes as an okay sign. He’s fine. He has a handle on it. Seonghwa can try to relax. “I’m okay. Did you wait up?”

Yeah, Seonghwa wants to say. So I could scold you and pout at you for not being home when I came back, didn’t you tell me you’d rest today? But Seonghwa keeps his mouth shut. He only pipes up again to comment on the whiff that he gets from Yeosang’s hair, eyes narrowing in mild reproach, though his voice is still only laced with concern. “Jesus, are you high?”

“No,” Yeosang is quick to shake his head, swallowing thickly when he looks Seonghwa in the eye. “There was weed. My client had some, I didn’t. Promise.”

“I believe you, baby,” Seonghwa reassures, reaching out to touch his hand. Yeosang brushes their fingers together, and Seonghwa looks at him with a pout. “Why’d you go out tonight anyway, hm?”

“It was just a two-hour job,” Yeosang shrugs, curling his middle finger around Seonghwa’s index. “He just wanted me to blow him, and that was it. Thought I’d make it back home quick.”

Seonghwa nods in understanding, huffs at the matter-of-factness with which they always talk about these things. But all that really matters to him is, “You’re fine?”

“I’m fine.” Yeosang bites his lip, eyes drifting downward to focus on their intertwining fingers. “I just…”

Seonghwa tilts his head dowb to catch Yeosang’s downcast eyes, thumb drawing soothing circles on the outside of his palm. “What do you need, Yeosang-ah?”

“Hyung,” Yeosang looks up at him slowly, fingers twitching almost imperceptibly. Seonghwa already has an idea of what he might want—he’s seen this countless nights before—and he waits patiently as Yeosang works up the courage. “I was just… he was—he kept pulling my hair and praising me and I got… got worked up.”

Yeah. He is worked up. It’s so much easier to pick up on, now that he’s close. 

“Need me to help you out?” Seonghwa offers, because for how much Yeosang still gets a little shy, they’re about just as used to this as anything else Seonghwa does to help Yeosang ease off the stress of his job—the massages, running him baths before he gets home, choosing clothes for him that are comfortable but still sexy. Helping him get off whenever he sees clients that don’t care much for Yeosang’s pleasure, because Yeosang has his own desires, too.

Yeosang only has to nod, and there’s a silent agreement as Seonghwa helps him shift up onto his knees on the couch. They don’t have any preamble to this, no teasing and foreplay and whatnot because Yeosang is tired, and he just needs a release for his built-up tension. And though Yeosang is sexy—attractive, desirable, all these godly adjectives that Seonghwa can think of—he doesn’t let himself think of these times as anything more than another thing that he can’t deny Yeosang, another thing that he does because he cares. Because Yeosang deserves to have somewhere he can be held gently, touched softly, treated like a person and not simply a body. Seonghwa never lets himself forget that Yeosang’s relationship with sex isn’t by any means just like anyone else’s; but Yeosang trusts him with it, so Seonghwa honors that trust without fail. Yeosang deserves a place where he feels safe, where he can let himself just feel without having to look over his shoulder all the time, thinking about his every move.

“Relax, baby,” Seonghwa coos softly, staring up into Yeosang’s eyes with patience as he unbuttons the pair of wide-legged jeans he’d opted to slip into tonight. They come down pretty easily, falling to around mid-thigh, and Seonghwa can tell that Yeosang’s half-hard under his briefs. Seonghwa reaches out to hook a finger into the waistband, still looking up at him softly. “This okay?”

Yeosang nods eagerly in confirmation, bashfulness dissipating with every passing second. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times before settling on what to say, which apparently ends up being, “I like your hair, hyung, it suits you,” as Yeosang’s eyes fall onto Seonghwa’s newly done undercut, which Seonghwa had nearly forgotten was even there until Yeosang reminded him.

“Thanks, Sangie,” Seonghwa answers simply, turning his body a little more towards the boy kneeling beside him, and slowly pulling his underwear down to join his pants. 

Seonghwa doesn’t waste any time, and Yeosang lets out an appreciative groan when a hand wraps around his steadily hardening cock. 

Seonghwa works up a rhythm the same way he always does when Yeosang asks him for help, setting a moderate pace from the beginning and focusing the pressure on the head of his cock. Seonghwa keeps himself calm enough even in the midst of what they’re doing, focusing on tightening his hand on every downstroke and rubbing the pad of his thumb over Yeosang’s slit whenever he comes up. The slide is made easier by the precum that’s leaking out onto the underside, and as soon as Yeosang’s wet enough, Seonghwa takes it as his cue to gradually increase the pace.

Yeosang lets himself be pleasured freely, one hand gripping onto Seonghwa’s shoulder, the flex of his arms in full view in his sleeveless shirt. Yeosang’s voice, usually deep and mellow, is transformed into a symphony of baritone moans and surprised gasps, reacting to every sensation as he chases his pleasure. It doesn’t take much for Yeosang to start moving on his own, hips thrusting into the circle of Seonghwa’s hand while Seonghwa’s other palm rests gently against his bare hip. Not holding, just touching. Just enough to ground him. Seonghwa watches Yeosang’s face attentively for any signs of discomfort, and continues for so long as he finds none. Yeosang shuts his eyes tight in pleasure, his grip on Seonghwa’s shoulders tightening, whiney gasps falling out of his parted lips. 

“Close?” Seonghwa asks after a while, and Yeosang bites his lip in frustration, shaking his head. Seonghwa tilts his head in apprehension, asking, “What do you need?”

“Ah— I— mmm.” Yeosang moans, head hanging, struggling to form words. Seonghwa maintains the pace at which he’s stroking his dick, trying to keep his composure as Yeosang stutters on his words. “Hyung— please, please—”

“Just let go, baby,” Seonghwa tries, his free hand traveling upward to rest on Yeosang’s waist, and he keens. Seonghwa quickens the pace of his hand even more, satisfied when it pulls a whimper straight from Yeosang’s chest. “I’ve got you, Yeosang-ah, you can cum.”

“Fuck,” Yeosang groans, a full-body shiver running over him upon hearing the words. “Fuck, Seonghwa-hyung.”

And the next thing he knows, Yeosang’s shifting closer to him, swinging a leg over Seonghwa’s thighs and caging him in. Seonghwa’s hand falters in its pace a little when they’re suddenly face to face, so close, Yeosang literally straddling his hips as he frantically tries to chase the sensation of Seonghwa’s hand around his cock. It takes just a few seconds for Seonghwa’s instincts to kick back into gear and resume his earlier movements, but his eyes are still widened the slightest bit in shock, imperceptible to Yeosang’s blissed out, half-lidded gaze. They don’t do this—they’ve never done this—and Seonghwa’s breathing picks up a little as Yeosang only moves closer, both hands resting on Seonghwa’s shoulders while he thrusts needily into his fist. Yeosang’s hand comes up to the side of Seonghwa’s head, feeling at his newly done hair, but it’s gone in a second and replaced with Yeosang’s head burrowing into the crook of his neck and shoulder instead. Seonghwa just gulps nervously and continues what he’d been doing, eager to satisfy Yeosang, let him rest, and just not think about this while Yeosang’s still in the same room.

“Close,” Yeosang mutters, hips faltering in their pace even more, breathing his moans into Seonghwa’s skin. “Gonna cum, hyung.”

“Go ahead, baby, you deserve it,” Seonghwa says, the steadiness of his own voice surprising even himself. “Cum for me.”

Seonghwa rubs his thumb over Yeosang’s slit roughly as he says it, and it’s all it takes to have him finally coming undone. The string of tension snaps and Yeosang lets out a broken whine as he releases all over Seonghwa’s fist, some of it landing on his tummy, just shy of the cropped hem of his top. Yeosang rides out the aftershocks, rolling his hips still into Seonghwa’s fist until the shivering stops. Seonghwa is hit with a wave of protectiveness when his clean hand comes up to the small of Yeosang’s back, holding him through it, and rubbing mindless patterns into the skin there until Yeosang pulls back on his own.

Seonghwa looks up at him in fascination as Yeosang pulls away—though he’s still careful not to give too much away. “Okay?”

“Mhm,” Yeosang hums softly, eyes out of focus. He doesn’t scramble, but he doesn’t try to linger either before he maneuvers himself off of Seonghwa’s lap, letting Seonghwa help him back onto the couch. “Was good, hyung. Thank you.”

Seonghwa nods, smiles at him tenderly. Yeosang doesn’t seem to acknowledge that anything was different, so Seonghwa just slips into their regular routine. “Let me clean you up, run a bath, and then bed. Okay?”

Yeosang hums happily, smiles at Seonghwa as his sleepy eyes fall shut—and for now, that’s enough. “Okay.”

Seonghwa sits alone in front of the still-muted TV after he gets Yeosang in the bathtub, watching the pictures on the screen move, but hearing a cacophony of hazy sounds in his mind.

They all sound like Yeosang, and Seonghwa falls asleep with them thrumming under his skin.

saturday, 11:26 PM.

Seonghwa was out of the door in less than two minutes after Yeosang called, voice thick with poorly-concealed anxiety.

He’d thrown on whatever coat was left hanging on the rack, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, and bolted down the stairs to their building’s underground parking lot—where he hoped to every god that people prayed to that he’d find his bike still ready to go, even after so long without use.

“Come on,” Seonghwa grits out through his teeth, before his hand can even actually touch the motorcycle, but screw it, fuck it, he’s not keen on wasting any time. Luckily, the engine starts up on Seonghwa’s first try, and he swings a leg over the seat at the same time that he pulls out his phone. He’s quick to open up the app that he and Yeosang use to track each other’s phones for emergencies, having already seen in the apartment that Yeosang was waiting for him somewhere near the river, probably around the park where the two of them always go. Seonghwa takes only one more second to burn the blinking dot of Yeosang’s location into his mind, and then he’s slipping his helmet on and driving his bike out onto the road.

Seonghwa’s single-minded as he lets the roads take him steadily to where Yeosang might be, focusing on driving the motorcycle as best he can. It’s been a while; Seonghwa always just uses the subway, but tonight, that wouldn’t do. He forces himself to calm his racing heart, to not speed on the highway in his frantic panic, because the last thing he wants right now is to get apprehended or into an accident and not get to Yeosang—all because his Yeosang-instincts tend to make him reckless. And right now, at least, they can’t have that. He knows he has to take this one step at a time, and the first thing to do right now is to see him, to see that Yeosang’s okay.

But it’s hard. It’s hard to focus. It’s hard to keep himself from spiraling into more agitated thoughts, because Saturday nights are always trickier, riskier; there are more people with more time on their hands, and whenever Yeosang gets clients, they’re more unpredictable. 

Seonghwa doesn’t often actively think about the last time things went sideways with one of Yeosang’s clients on a Saturday night, but whenever he does—all he can see is red.

It was the crux of this world that they live in. Yeosang is pretty. Yeosang is desirable. It’s a huge part of his power, and he owns it. That’s why it makes Seonghwa’s blood boil whenever other people even begin to believe that it belongs to them.

It takes about fifteen minutes for Seonghwa to ride from their apartment to where Yeosang’s phone is pinging from. When he’s off the highway and pulling away from noisy traffic and into quieter, sleepier streets, it doesn’t take much more than muscle memory for him to actually find Yeosang—and the sigh that escapes Seonghwa when he sees him lifts so much heavy, piercing weight off his chest. 

Yeosang’s just sitting on the curb, looking up when he sees Seonghwa approaching on his motorcycle. He looks okay so far—on the outside, at least—and Seonghwa has to try not to trip over himself as he attempts to turn off the engine, get off the bike, and engage the kickstand all in one motion.

Seonghwa takes off his helmet only after doing all that, running his hands haphazardly through his surely messed-up hair. Then he shrugs off his coat and immediately drapes the thick fabric over Yeosang shoulders, all while he crouches down to sit beside Yeosang on the curb.

“Your hair really suits you, hyung,” is the first thing Yeosang says, a faint hint of a smile on his face. “Makes you look ten times cooler on the bike.”

Seonghwa tries not to go off on him right there—because he’s teeming with worry, trying so hard not to burst with it, and Yeosang keeps doing that thing he does to diminish every situation’s weight. “Yeosang—”

“I still like your old hair better, though,” Yeosang just continues, staring at the pavement in front of them. “But I think this will grow on me.”

If Seonghwa had no self-control, he’d probably burst into tears. He doesn’t want to talk about his hair, for god’s sake. He wants to know what the fuck is going on that Yeosang asked Seonghwa to pick him up when he was supposedly seeing a client.

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa tries to say firmly—but it comes out more desperate, more like a plea than anything. “What happened?”

Yeosang looks sheepish for a few seconds, blinking down at his feet. He finally pulls Seonghwa’s coat a little tighter around himself, though—a silent gesture of surrender—and he turns his head to look at Seonghwa with softness, the faintest hint of glassiness in his eyes.

“I just had a bad feeling.” Yeosang starts, and Seonghwa already feels something tightening in his chest. “I checked the drinks with my nail polish—and they were clean—but this guy was having a lot. Like, a lot to drink, and really fast. And he kept, just… making advances.” Yeosang chuckles dryly, and Seonghwa vaguely registers his own fingernails digging into his palm. “Well, advances are par for the course, but he was just doing things… really explicitly? And he was looking at me weird. Kept making me more drinks and everything even if I wasn’t throwing them back like he was. I bolted when he went to the bathroom… then I called you.”

Seonghwa feels his lip quiver, something stinging behind his eyes. He pushes it back—he can’t be the one falling apart right now. He can only hope that luck is on his side and his voice comes out smooth and measured.

“That was the right decision,” Seonghwa answers, nodding his head in acknowledgment. Yeosang seems to relax when he sees Seonghwa calming down a bit more himself, and the way Seonghwa looks at him now is filled with more gentleness than earlier’s blind rage. “Did… Did he put his hands on you?”

Seonghwa whispers more than says it, voice kept soft even if there’s virtually no one around these parts of the park, and certainly not this close to midnight. He knows it’s a weird question, too—he knows that people always put their hands on Yeosang, people put more than just their hands on Yeosang—but they both know what he means. Yeosang doesn’t torture him with it. He answers with honesty, though he shrinks into himself a little more.

“He started… grabbing my waist kind of hard, yeah. So I left.”

Alarm bells go off in Seonghwa’s head. His eyes widen in shock, trying still to keep his voice level, but failing a little this time around. “Are you hurt?”

“No. No,” Yeosang is quick to assure, shaking his head and coming out of his cocoon a little to reach out for Seonghwa, though he doesn’t get close enough to actually touch. “Just a little shaken up. I’m glad you’re here now, hyung.”

Seonghwa’s heart clenches in his chest, and then melts right out of its place like dripping wax onto his ribcage. Yeosang had given him his indication, and it’s Seonghwa who follows along to bridge the distance, the way they always do, bringing an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders and holding him closer. Yeosang relaxes into his hold, too, breathing in the scent of Seonghwa’s coat—their hallway’s incense that smells like home. Seonghwa rests his chin on top of Yeosang’s head, bites the inside of his cheek to stop a tear that’s forming in his left eye. He blinks it back in time for when they decide it’s time to pull away, and simply remain by each other’s sides on the curb.

“You could tell me where he lives, you know,” Seonghwa jokes, whispering lowly, after a couple minutes of just closeness and silence.

Yeosang bites his lip and rewards him only with a just-as-muted chuckle, a wary look in his eyes. “There’s no need for that.”

“Why not?” Seonghwa finds himself responding, suddenly a little more serious. “Don’t want a repeat of Seocho-daero?”

Yeosang gulps around the words that were about to escape his mouth, though they seemingly die in his throat. His lips part around nothing, and he takes a deep breath. This was… not uncharted territory, but rarely visited. “Why would you bring that up now?”

Yeosang is just biting his lip, and he looks… curious. Not even scared.

“To remind you what I’d do for you,” Seonghwa utters solemnly, looking Yeosang right in the eye, and it’s the truth. “To remind you that I’d do it again.”

Yeah, Yeosang is pretty. Everyone wants to have him, and he knows it. He uses it to get what he wants.

But Seonghwa knows how to do that, too. Not in the same ways, perhaps, but if looks could kill, they would be feared. It’s what makes the pair of them both so—

“Dangerous,” Yeosang replies, and there’s more fascination to it than any real bite. “You shouldn’t be putting yourself in danger for me.”

“Danger?” Seonghwa tilts his head, feeling devilish all of a sudden, feigning innocence and chuckling poisedly. If he still had his long hair, he’d probably be twirling it between his fingers. “My hands are clean. He had it coming.”

Yeosang sucks in a breath as their gazes lock together, his voice the quietest whisper in this desolate place, under the dim streetlight. “You’re lucky he died.”

“He’s lucky it was painless.”

Seonghwa doesn’t so much as flinch as he says it. It’s true. Yeosang doesn’t recoil at it, either; he regards Seonghwa with the same, trusting look that he always does, and it’s like this that Seonghwa knows that they both know. And they both accept—that people who put their hands on Yeosang in any way that he even remotely dislikes, they don’t get away with it. They don’t talk about it in the open, for obvious reasons, but they know. They know.

Nothing more is said about it after that. Yeosang eventually moves closer beside Seonghwa on the pavement, much like he does on their springy couch at home, and leans his head onto Seonghwa’s shoulder while he shuts his eyes. Seonghwa looks at his phone just to check the time, thankful that he’d decided to bring his bike lest the train stations close on them on the way home. They sit in dim light and silence together, just letting everything marinate into their minds, and Seonghwa’s definitely going to dote over Yeosang when they get home, but for now, this is enough. They’ll stay out in the open for as long as Yeosang needs to soothe himself with the open air and Seonghwa’s warmth and the ambiance of distant city noise. 

Yeosang surprises him when he speaks right as Seonghwa moves to rest his chin on Yeosang’s head, regaling one of his earlier quips with a giggle. “Do you know why I liked your old hair better?”

Seonghwa huffs into Yeosang’s brown locks. “Why?”

“I could run my hands through it easier when you’d fall asleep on me on the couch.”

Despite himself, Seonghwa lets his chest bubble up with laughter. He has so much to say to that, actually. You can still run your hands through this hair just as well. This isn’t what we should be talking about right now. I feel the same way about yours, though, I hope you never cut it short. I hope you never change, Yeosang-ah. There’s only one moon to my star, after all. I hope you never change.

Seonghwa doesn’t find the courage to say these things, so he settles for planting kisses into Yeosang’s hair instead.

The first one lands without incident, right beside the line of Yeosang’s scalp.

The second one, not so much—because suddenly it’s Yeosang’s nose right under Seonghwa’s face instead of his head—and in that single split-second, they’d gotten so, so close.

The same kind of close that they were last night, the thought quickly resurfacing from where Seonghwa had tried maybe a little too hard to file it away.

“Me and you against the world, Seonghwa-hyung,” Yeosang whispers against Seonghwa’s lips, and then he leans in.

Seonghwa finds himself kissing back, because of course he does. He can never deny Yeosang anything. Certainly not if this is making Yeosang feel anything like the way Seonghwa feels, because Seonghwa feels wonderful.

The way that Yeosang kisses is soft, like a pastime. Seonghwa’s surprised to find that it wasn’t what he would have expected, because Yeosang hates being treated like he’s fragile, but his kiss makes that notion shatter and dissolve into dust. The way Yeosang’s lips move against Seonghwa’s is not starved or rough or all-consuming. It’s more of a nuzzle than anything—and Seonghwa giggles softly at the thought—like all it is is Yeosang moving a little bit closer, putting his lips within reach. And Seonghwa meets him halfway, reaches for him, because oh, of course he does. Because this is Yeosang—and Seonghwa has never really known what love is, but he’s always known Yeosang. 

And, honestly—Seonghwa thinks that’s a million times better.

sunday, 12:00 AM;

Yeosang pulls away after about a minute of getting lost in Seonghwa’s lips moving against his own, not so much breathless, but pleasantly warm. He eyes Seonghwa’s motorcycle on the side of the road, and speaks in whispers against his lips. It’s been a long damn week. “Take me home, Seonghwa-hyung?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Seonghwa answers sweetly, catching another chaste kiss on Yeosang’s lips, because they’re still within reach. Yeosang always is. “Let’s go home.”