Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Watch your expression, Seungkwan-ah,” Jeonghan warns, receiving him just offstage. “People can see you.”

Seungkwan takes a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut tight as he nods. Jeonghan pats him on the back, takes him by the arm, and pulls him in the direction of the waiting room.

It hadn’t even been close.

Seungkwan isn’t a sore loser—he isn’t. Nothing in this line of work is guaranteed. There’s no accounting for the public’s taste, world events, a fanbase’s longevity, new groups’ debuts, or others artists’ comebacks. Popularity comes and goes, and he's grateful, genuinely, each and every time he has the chance to stand on stage in front of a crowd. Winning or losing is all secondary.

But he is, first and foremost, a performer. And with that comes a desire to be recognized—to be seen, listened to, and appreciated. There’s a certain degree of ego involved, and he’ll be the first one to admit that he’s not above it. His feelings and pride get bruised and battered just like anyone else’s. The business is competitive, and being overshadowed hurts, but it’s nothing personal.

The problem is, it’s beginning to feel personal, because Seungkwan’s last three comebacks have all miraculously aligned perfectly with one particular artist’s. A singer-songwriter whom Seungkwan respects, and whose work Seungkwan enjoys, except—

Woozi is good. He’s really good.

“I don’t know why this keeps happening,” Seungkwan mutters.

Despite debuting as a soloist just shy of two years ago, Woozi had quickly endeared himself to both the general public and his own adoring fanbase. He’s been in the industry longer than Seungkwan, making a name for himself as a highly-coveted producer with an impressive list of accolades. He’s written hits for boy groups, girl groups, and soloists alike—some of Seungkwan’s favorites, in fact.

Seungkwan has no idea why he’d suddenly decided to pursue a solo career of his own, but as it turns out, he’s good at that, too.

Some people have all the luck.

Seungkwan should be happy for him. They’re labelmates, after all. They should be cheering each other on, rooting for each other’s success.

At the same time, precisely because they’re labelmates, the fact that their past three comebacks have lined up perfectly feels suspicious at best, and like sabotage at worst. Even when Woozi doesn’t win—even when neither of them win—he’s always there.

“You’re overthinking it, Seungkwan-ah,” Jeonghan says as the door closes behind them. The TV in the waiting room displays a wide view of the stage, halfway through Woozi’s encore. He’s smiling as he performs, voice cheerful and bright, and Seungkwan seethes.

He doesn’t want to be like this.

Jeonghan peers over his shoulder, watching the performance with a neutral expression. “It was just bad timing, you know that. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Yeah, but—” Seungkwan sputters, surprised at just how upset he suddenly feels. “Hyung, I swear he does it just to spite me. All the press talks about is how lucky fans are to have two Pledis soloist comebacks at the same time. And they just compare us and compare us like it’s a good thing. Once was fine, and the second time could’ve been a coincidence, but now, I just—I worked so hard, and…” his voice cracks, and he scrubs at his burning eyes furiously. This is humiliating, crying over a music show loss like some kind of rookie. “This is the third time. I’m so sick of him.”

It’s not able the loss. He’s beaten Woozi before and is certain it’ll happen again. What it is about is the lack of consideration. It’s about feeling like Woozi is antagonizing him—like he’s doing this on purpose.

“You want me to call his manager and give him a piece of my mind?” Jeonghan offers, holding out a box of tissues.

This pulls a wobbly smile from Seungkwan. “No,” he takes one, dabbing at the corners of his eyes, “It’s just, you know. I thought…”

This was his first time really, deeply participating in the writing process. He’d been so sure his sincerity would be well-received. And it has been, for the most part, but—

The halt of the music, follow by uproarious cheers, announces the encore’s end.

The thing is, on the surface, Woozi doesn’t seem like he’s built for idol life. He doesn’t do any of the typical idol things. He doesn’t take on brand sponsorship deals, doesn’t make appearances on variety shows, and seems downright shy in interviews when all the focus is on him. He’s too busy, Seungkwan had read in a Dispatch exclusive, because he’s still producing for other artists. He doesn’t have time for a lot of solo activities.

Show-off.

It’s not like he’s coasting by on good looks and personality alone—it’s definitely talent driving his career. He’s pretty, but he meets very few of the harsh visual criteria typically set for idols. He’s short, has a bit of a baby-face, dresses like he only owns three outfits, and wears the same horrible pair of slip-on shoes everywhere he goes. He has a good personality, but his PR skills are abysmal. He rarely posts online, never goes live, is hardly ever seen in public, and seems to have only one hobby—going to the gym.

He’s “unexpectedly charming,” according to Jeonghan, who had been seated at the same table once during a company function, “I think you guys would get along, actually.”

As if Seungkwan has any interest in that.

He’s sure Woozi is great. He’s never heard a bad word about him from anyone, and in an industry that runs on gossip and vitriol, that says a lot.

But since Woozi had never made an attempt to introduce himself, and since he continually schedules his releases on top of Seungkwan’s, and since he doesn’t even acknowledge Seungkwan’s presence when they’re in the same room—

Seungkwan just doesn’t like him, and he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

He sighs, takes a seat in the makeup artist’s chair, and closes his eyes. Maybe he’ll feel better with this glitter off his face.

Seungkwan’s evening takes a turn from the unpleasant to the weird as he steps into the hallway.

He’s distracted, looking down at his phone at the half-baked tweet, “Thanks for all the love today, boosadans! See you tomorrow – fighting!!” trying to decide if it comes off as passive-aggressive. Probably. It isn’t, in fact—despite the loss, he’s always grateful for fan support—but the last thing he needs on top of everything else today is to be misinterpreted on social media. He taps the “x” and chooses not to save the draft.

Pocketing his phone, he lifts his head, scanning the hall for Jeonghan—

“Seungkwan-ssi?”

He knows that voice.

He freezes.

Turns.

And there, in the flesh, all one-hundred-sixty-whatever centimeters of him, is Woozi.

Seungkwan stares.

“Um…” Woozi is smiling at him, almost hesitant, so different from his confident onstage persona. “Sorry, I just wanted to catch you. Is this a bad time?”

It is a bad time, Seungkwan is in a bad mood, and he has zero idea why Woozi would suddenly decide he wants to talk now.

But it doesn’t take a whole lot of social consciousness to know that, when approached by a fellow artist, it’s important to keep up good appearances. This, more than anything, shakes him out of his stunned silence. “Not at all. It’s nice to see you, Woozi-ssi.”

At this, Woozi’s face brightens. “Nice to see you too.” Seungkwan notices he still has all his makeup on, although a rumpled black t-shirt and shorts combo has replaced his sparkly stage outfit. The rosy blush high on his cheeks and soft, pink lip tint are so cute that, were he literally anyone else, Seungkwan would have to resist the urge to pinch him.

He feels the corners of his mouth tighten, frustrated more by his own inability to rein in his feelings than he is at Woozi’s apparent situational unawareness. Forcing his lips into a smile, he says, “Congratulations on your win. It was well-deserved.”

“Thank you,” Woozi offers a little bow, humble but pleased, “I’m grateful people enjoyed it.” There’s a pause, like he isn’t sure how to phrase his next thought, then he says, “I’m glad I got to see your performance in person. The whole album is great.”

Seungkwan blinks. Of all the things to come out of Woozi’s mouth, he hadn’t expected that. Woozi, who had just ground months of Seungkwan’s hard work to dust beneath his heel, is complimenting him?

Seungkwan can’t keep the disbelief out of his tone this time, “You listened to the album?”

“Of course?” Woozi sounds a little thrown by the question, “I always look forward to your comebacks.”

“Oh,” Seungkwan isn’t sure what to do with this information. “Thank you. I look forward to yours, too.” It’s true, if by “look forward to,” you mean “wait in a state of dread for the announcement of.”

“This is your first live performance?” Woozi asks. He surely knows that’s the case—their schedules are the exact damn same—but Seungkwan nods anyway, and he smiles. “The choreography looks like a lot of fun.”

Is that a snide comment? It doesn’t sound malicious, but it grates on Seungkwan’s nerves. “Looks like a lot of fun,” like that’s some kind of consolation prize.

“You worked with Soonyoung, right?”

Right, because Woozi is friends with Kwon Soonyoung, too. Seungkwan knew that, though he’d been trying to forget. Is everybody in this company head-over-heels for Lee Jihoon? “I did. It was my second time. We worked together before, on Whisper.”

Woozi’s smile turns warm and fond. Seungkwan doesn’t know why it pisses him off so much. “I liked Whisper, too.”

Of course he did—just enough to kneecap it by debuting the week of its release, Ruby bulldozing its way up the charts like it was nothing.

Belatedly realizing he should probably contribute more to this conversation, Seungkwan asks, “You’re performing on M Countdown tomorrow too, right?” He knows the answer, but it’s the most obvious, most banal thing he can think to say.

Woozi nods. “Yeah, I’m just promoting for this week.”

When he pauses, Seungkwan half-expects him to say something insincere like, “Good luck tomorrow!” but before he can open his mouth, a voice calls down the hall, “Seungkwan-ah, we’re leaving!”

Jeonghan. Thank god.

“Ah, sorry,” Woozi apologizes, running a hand awkwardly through his hair, “I didn’t mean to hold you up. Good luck tomorrow.”

It doesn’t sound even half as insincere as Seungkwan had hoped.

“Same to you,” he replies. With a bow, he excuses himself, leaving Woozi alone in the hallway.

Jeonghan grants him about fifteen blissful seconds of silence before the questioning begins. “I saw you fraternizing with the enemy,” he comments, giving Seungkwan a searching look. “Learn anything interesting?”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “He was nice. Complimenting my performance and everything. He said he liked the album.”

“The album?” Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “The whole thing?”

“I don’t know, I guess? It was weird.” Seungkwan rubs at a nonexistent stain on the front of his shirt. “I don’t know why he’d bother telling me all that.”

“Maybe he just wanted to talk?” Jeonghan suggests. “You know, since you avoid him like the plague any other time you’re in the same room.”

Seungkwan scowls. “I do not. There are tons of people at those company parties, I can’t talk to everyone. And it’s not like he ever tries to talk to me.”

Jeonghan sighs.

“It’s psychological warfare,” Seungkwan decides. “He’s doing it to get under my skin.”

“If that’s true, then his devious plan is working perfectly.” From the corner of his eye, Seungkwan can see Jeonghan frowning. “Is that what you actually think?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan stares resolutely out the window, “…Maybe. I don’t know. Is he stupid? He doesn’t acknowledge me at all for years, but now, after beating me into the ground for the billionth time, he wants to chat?”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Maybe he is stupid.”

Somehow, Seungkwan doubts that’s it.

Forty-eight hours later, Seungkwan steps offstage, head still buzzing with excitement as he hands the trophy off to a staff member waiting in the wings.

He’s won.

He knows he shouldn’t base his worth around awards, but the spiteful, mean little voice in his head is immensely satisfied to have beaten Woozi in the votes so soundly.

Jeonghan laughs at his expression, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look like a deer in headlights.”

“Was it okay?” he asks, indicating the stage. “I couldn’t hear well during the encore.”

“It was great,” Jeonghan tugs him through the dissipating crowd backstage, “Really good, you—oh,” something over Seungkwan’s shoulder catches his attention, and Seungkwan turns to follow his gaze.

At the other end of the hall is none other than Woozi, surrounded by three or four staff members trying to speak to him, take his mic, and usher him toward the waiting room, with varying degrees of success. Their efforts are hindered by the fact that Woozi himself seems to only have eyes for Seungkwan, as he’s waving, smiling, and mouthing “Congratulations!”

Seungkwan raises a hand in automatic greeting.

“Making friends?” Jeonghan asks.

“Definitely not,” he watches as Woozi finally turns, guided down the hall by his manager.

“Wanna go eat? Celebrate your win?”

“Are you buying?”

“You’re the superstar.”

“Can I pick the restaurant?”

“I think that’s only fair.”

After changing, washing his face, and making a quick round of thanks to the staff for their support, Seungkwan selects his favorite barbecue place for dinner. It’s a short drive away—nothing ostentatious, but the food is good, and the atmosphere is perfect for a small celebration. Seungkwan has always managed to enjoy relative anonymity when he visits, which is no small feat in this day and age.

It’s pretty full when they step through the door, but thankfully not packed. Seungkwan cranes his neck in hopes of seeing the owners. The elderly couple has always been exceptionally kind to him, and he likes to inquire after their health whenever he sees them.

His search is cut short by an unfamiliar voice calling, “Jeonghan-ah!” from across the restaurant.

Seungkwan’s eyes scan the dining area, seeking out the source.

Upon discovery, he stops dead in his tracks.

He knows staring is rude, but the only thing he can do in that moment is stare.

The owner of the voice is a man Seungkwan vaguely recognizes—broad shouldered, with medium-length hair and an open, expressive face. His name doesn’t come to mind immediately, but Seungkwan knows he’s a company employee.

However, this particular man isn't the troublesome part. Jeonghan has plenty of friends in the industry, and Seungkwan takes no issue with any of them.

No, it’s the person seated across from this man that’s the problem. There’s no doubt about it—that’s Woozi. And the guy, Jeonghan’s friend, is Woozi’s manager.

“Seungcheol-ah,” Jeonghan greets with a wide smile, and Seungkwan has no choice but to follow along as Jeonghan weaves his way through the tables to meet him. “Seungkwannie, this is Seungcheol,” he introduces them, “and I know you’ve met Woozi-ssi before.”

Seungkwan nods, briefly meeting Woozi’s eyes with what he can only hope is a pleasant, normal human expression.

“Jeonghan and I go to a lot of the same meetings,” Seungcheol says.

“We’re friends,” Jeonghan clarifies. “It’s nice to see you both. Congrats on Monday’s win, Woozi-ssi.”

“Oh,” Woozi scrambles to stand, bowing politely, “thank you, I appreciate it. Congratulations today, Seungkwan-ssi.”

Great. Good. They’ve said their niceties, now they can—

“Why don’t you join us?” Seungcheol pipes up, “Jihoon will pay.”

Oh, hell no. No way. Absolutely not.

Woozi gives Seungcheol a scathing look. “You’re supposed to let me offer.”

“But you will, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Woozi grumbles. His sour expression shifts as he turns to Seungkwan and Jeonghan, and he sounds almost hopeful as he says, “You should join us. Seungcheol is terrible company.”

Seungcheol sputters indignantly while Jeonghan laughs. Seungkwan waits, face schooled into neutrality, for Jeonghan to regain his composure and politely decline for the two of them. “No, Seungkwannie agreed to treat me,” he’ll probably say. Or maybe, “We’re not staying long, we don’t want to be rude.”

Seungkwan is good at navigating social situations, but Jeonghan is a master communicator. He’ll get them out of this for sure.

“What do you think, Seungkwan-ah?”

Seungkwan stiffens.

There’s no mistaking it—Jeonghan is looking at him expectantly. All three of them are watching, in fact, awaiting his response.

Unbelievable, Yoon Jeonghan.

“Are you sure?” he manages to say with only a mild amount of strain. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol gestures for them to sit, “You guys can celebrate together.”

With no other choice, they sit, and Seungcheol orders drinks for the table.

Only a few minutes into this unexpected arrangement, Seungkwan has to wonder how on Earth he’d never met Choi Seungcheol before. He and Jeonghan strike up an animated conversation immediately, rapid-fire chatter that quickly devolves into shop talk about scheduling, meetings, upper management, other managers—

The gossipy parts would be funny if Seungkwan was even remotely able to participate, but he finds himself completely lost after about thirty seconds.

The next time Jeonghan accuses him of keeping secrets, he’ll be sure to bring this up.

Judging by the blank expression on Woozi’s face, he’s equally baffled. At least that makes two of them.

Regrettably, this means they’re going to have to converse amongst themselves, or this is going to get really awkward, really fast.

“Your styling was pretty today, Woozi-ssi,” Seungkwan opens. That’s benign enough. Woozi had performed in a shimmery pink jacket today atop a similarly-colored plaid shirt, with distressed jeans and glittery sneakers to round out the look. Sparkles and soft colors suit him well, especially considering the majority of his personal wardrobe seems to be black.

“The stylists take good care of me,” Woozi replies graciously. “You can call me Jihoon, if you want.”

Unexpected but not unwelcome. “Okay, Jihoon-ssi.”

Woozi—Jihoon—smiles.

A member of the wait staff arrives just then, and there’s a brief flurry of activity as they arrange the banchan on the table. The arrival of food is enough to prompt Jeonghan and Seungcheol to engage the two of them in conversation, however short—“Seungkwan-ah, can you pass me that?” and “Jihoonie, do you want some of this?”—before the topic naturally shifts back to emails and rumors and office gossip so fast-paced it makes Seungkwan’s head spin.

“Think they’d notice if we left?” Jihoon asks, side-eyeing the managers. When his gaze flits back over to Seungkwan, the corners of his lips quirk up.

“We’re basically invisible,” Seungkwan observes. “Let’s see…I’m thinking of retiring,” he feigns speaking to Jihoon while watching Jeonghan’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. Nothing. “Or maybe I’ll go into acting. I did that Bravo Cone commercial—that’s basically the same thing, right? I have a great manager, he’ll get me any job I want.” Still nothing. He switches tactics. “He’s so proud of me, he said he’d buy me an Hermès bag if I won tonight.”

Jihoon is snickering now, and Seungkwan can’t help but feel a little proud. Pantomiming exasperation, he shakes his head with a shrug.

Despite their moment of camaraderie, the remainder of the evening is decidedly awkward. They make pleasant conversation, and Jihoon laughs at all his jokes, but there’s something about him that Seungkwan just does not like. Maybe it’s the way he talks, or the way he nods along when Seungkwan is speaking. It could even be the way he holds his chopsticks—every little thing is grating, and Seungkwan laments the pleasant evening out that could’ve been if it was just him and Jeonghan.

At the end of the meal, his pride nearly gets in the way of allowing Jihoon to pick up the bill, but he manages to restrain himself from protesting.

He can be gracious. He can be cool.

“That was fun,” Jihoon says as they walk side-by-side toward the exit, “we should do this again sometime.”

“Hyung,” Seungkwan complains to Jeonghan on the car ride home, “don’t ever do that to me again.”

Over the next several weeks, Seungkwan becomes a Lee Jihoon magnet.

He bumps into Jihoon in the hall. In the lobby. By the practice room. Right outside of the men’s restroom when he has to pee, for the love of—

Jihoon doesn’t trap him in long conversations, but he says hello each time, comments on something innocuous like the weather, and wishes Seungkwan luck with whatever activity he has scheduled that day. Seungkwan has spoken to Jihoon more in the past month than he had in the other five years he’s been with the company combined.

“He’s stalking me, hyung,” he informs Jeonghan.

“Ah, our Seungkwannie finally has himself a sasaeng. Congratulations.”

Nobody takes him seriously around here.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s some elaborate ruse—if Jihoon is intentionally trying to get under his skin. Why ignore him for so long, then go out of his way to chat him up at every turn?

“Maybe he likes you,” Jeonghan suggests. “Maybe he enjoyed talking to you, so he wants to keep talking to you.”

“I don’t know why,” Seungkwan grouses.

“Because you’re likeable,” Jeonghan is giving him a look now like his head is full of rocks. “I know you started off on the wrong foot and his comeback timing is always bad, but I don’t think he’s out to get you.”

Seungkwan knows he’s being silly. He can’t help it. “How can you be sure?”

Jeonghan shrugs. “I can’t. But Seungcheol says he can be kind of dense sometimes. It’s possible he doesn’t even know he’s bothering you.”

“Dense?” Seungkwan huffs. “Every other headline I see is about how brilliant he is. Genius producer. Shining star. I’ve never heard anyone call him dense before.”

“You’re not his manager,” Jeonghan supplies. “He’s brilliant at work, Seungkwan-ah. He’s a normal person the rest of the time.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrow. “How much do you know about him, anyway?”

“Just what Seungcheol tells me in passing. I vent about you all the time, though.”

“You do not.”

“Maybe I do.”

“You wouldn’t.” He blinks. “Would you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He would. He’d like to know so much. “No.”

“All I’m saying is,” Jeonghan pulls them back to the matter at hand, “you don’t have to torture yourself over this. If it’s bothering you, just tell him you’re busy. And if he can’t take a hint, tell him to stop.”

It sounds so simple, but it’s impossible to put into practice.

Seungkwan is perfectly capable of standing up for himself. If he genuinely felt he was being treated unfairly, he’d put a stop to it. He has thick enough skin and a strong enough spine to do that much for himself. That’s not what the problem is.

The problem is, he kind of likes it.

It’s a strange thing to have to admit to himself, but it’s true. These little excuses to be annoyed—he likes them. He likes the weird feeling of vindication he gets every time Jihoon does something that irritates him. He doesn’t enjoy being bothered, but he enjoys being right. Every time Jihoon bugs him, his assumptions—that Jihoon is obnoxious and is out to make him miserable—are proven correct. The dopamine hit is incredible.

Even if that’s not Jihoon’s actual intention, it’s validating. And even though Seungkwan is annoyed, he doesn’t want to put an end to it. What he wants to do is to keep being right, and if Jihoon is willing to continually provide fuel for that particular fire, Seungkwan certainly isn’t going to be the one to put it out.

He’s being ridiculous, and he knows it, but that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

Since he’s clearly not getting rid of Jihoon any time soon, he decides to lean into it. No sense in running when they’re going to wind up talking anyway.

His first chance to have a big, proper conversation with Jihoon arrives with the summer fundraising gala. It’s one of his least favorite company functions—an opportunity for bigwigs and shareholders to rub shoulders with artists and other creatives. Depending on the attendees, it’s boring at best, and sleezy at worst, but it’s a necessary evil to keep everyone happy. It has its place and serves its purpose, as all things in business do.

Seungkwan spends the first two hours mingling with the crowd, shaking hands and repeating names when prompted. He chats with labelmates, sips champagne, and takes a few minutes to help a gaggle of overwhelmed-looking dongsaeng reconnect with their manager after getting lost in the sea of black ties and cocktail dresses.

He’s just wrapping up a chat with some kind of overseas businessman when his gaze meets an unexpected pair of eyes amongst the crowd. Jihoon is standing off to the side, out of the thick of things, but he’s here. Active idols are expected to put in an appearance, but given his shy tendencies, Seungkwan had assumed he’d make his rounds and dip out as quickly as possible.

Jihoon looks awkward standing there by himself, so Seungkwan takes pity on him, excuses himself from the dull conversation on stocks, and crosses the room. By this point, he’s chatted up just about everyone here, so he’s earned a breather anyway.

“Hey,” he greets, “fancy seeing you here.”

Jihoon pulls a wry little smile. “Not by choice.”

Seungkwan is intrigued to see a champagne flute dangling loosely from Jihoon’s fingers. “I didn’t think you drank,” he comments. He isn’t sure exactly where he picked up that particular piece of information, but he’s relatively certain it’s true.

“I don’t often, but I needed something to do with my hands,” Jihoon swirls the liquid around absently. “Are you having a good time?”

Seungkwan shrugs. “I talked to everyone I needed to talk to. What about you?”

“I was with Soonyoung for a while, but he’s over there now,” Jihoon gestures toward a large, increasingly boisterous-looking group of people. “He was doing some kind of comedy skit with Chan. I couldn’t watch.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“Both.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I didn’t want to get dragged into it.”

Acquainted with Soonyoung and very familiar with Chan, Seungkwan is inclined to agree.

Jihoon is dressed in attire nearly identical to Seungkwan’s own—crisp pressed shirt and fitted suit. Unlike Seungkwan, he’d forgone the bowtie, but he looks good, neat and put together. Despite this, he seems ill-at-ease, sighing as he combs a hand through his tidy hair.

“Something wrong?” Seungkwan asks.

“No,” Jihoon says, tugging the collar of his shirt away from his throat, “Just warm. Probably—” he indicates the glass.

“Oh,” Seungkwan nods his understanding. Jihoon’s cheeks are tinged slightly pink, and this many hours into the party, the room has gotten stuffier than it was when the guests first arrived. “Wanna get some air?” he suggests, gesturing toward the doors.

“What’s the temperature outside?”

The sun has nearly set, but Seungkwan knows the answer—hot, sticky, the pavement still radiating stored-up heat from the brutal summer afternoon. “Probably worse than in here.”

Jihoon sighs again, fiddling with the top button of his shirt. Seungkwan tries to focus on the uncomfortable look on his face rather than the several centimeters of smooth, pale skin that appear as he thumbs the button open.

“You wanna come upstairs?”

The sentence shocks Seungkwan back down to earth. He blinks. “What?”

“My studio,” Jihoon extends a pointer finger upward. “It’s upstairs.” He doesn’t seem to recognize the way his phrasing could be misconstrued. Seungkwan doesn’t bother trying to correct him. “Or did you have something else to do?”

Seungkwan shrugs. “I put in my appearance.”

Jihoon glances down, realizing he’s still holding the flute. He looks for a moment like he means to put it down, but with no table in arm’s reach, he makes what’s probably a poor choice and tips the rest of it back.

Seungkwan watches his throat bob, and his own mouth feels suddenly very dry.

“Oh,” Jihoon grimaces as soon as he lowers the glass, “why did I do that?”

Seungkwan snorts.

“Ah, whatever,” he scurries over to the nearest table, sets the glass down with a definitive clink, and beckons Seungkwan toward the elevators.

Seungkwan has a vague idea of the location of Woozi’s studio—a corner room about halfway up the tower. He’s seen social media posts from fans on the street, photos of an ethereal purple glow through windows surrounded by dark office space, usually sporting captions like “woozi-ssi is working hard again tonight!!” He’s seen the inside too—not in person, but through occasional posts from Woozi’s friends and coworkers. The owner himself keeps a low online presence, but his fellow producers and artists aren’t nearly as inconspicuous.

Social media be damned, nothing could have prepared Seungkwan for the real thing.

Jihoon badges them in, hits the light switch, and the whole room bursts into color.

Seungkwan doesn’t mean to gape, but he does. It’s stunning, glowing with what looks like a thousand tiny blue and purple lights on the ceiling, a veritable galaxy inside this little room. He looks around, taking in the furniture, the décor, the awards lining the shelves and walls. Some he recognizes—some he has in his own apartment—and some he’s never seen before.

He doesn’t know Jihoon very well on a personal level, but he can tell that this place suits him.

Instead of saying that or making any other astute observation, the first thing to come out of his mouth is, “Universe Factory. I get it now.”

Jihoon laughs. “It was called that before it was decorated like this, but yeah.”

“You like…space?” Smooth, Boo Seungkwan.

“Yeah,” Jihoon smiles. It’s a pretty smile. “You can sit, if you want,” he gestures toward the couch. “Is it too warm in here?”

Seungkwan shakes his head, but Jihoon heads over and fiddles with the thermostat anyway. Seungkwan doesn’t realize how much his back and feet have apparently been aching all evening until he sits back, sinking into the depths of Jihoon’s overstuffed couch with a groan.

“Long day?” Jihoon joins him on the couch, and Seungkwan tries not to stare as he pops open another button on his shirt.

“Practice this morning, photoshoot this afternoon, party tonight.” When Jihoon pulls a face, he has to laugh. “What about you?”

“Here all day,” Jihoon gestures around the room. “I didn’t even go home to change.” Sure enough, there’s a t-shirt and pair of shorts draped over the arm of the office chair, beside which sits that hideous pair of black clogs he usually wears.

Seungkwan almost laughs at how different they are. Jihoon recoils at the idea of being booked and busy with regular idol activities, while Seungkwan himself can’t imagine a worse punishment than being cooped up in the same room all day, expected to work on a single task with a deadline. Contributing to the writing process of his own album had been challenging enough—he doesn’t even want to think about the slog of writing a song he’d never even get to perform.

“I don’t think I could do it,” he says before he’s really thought it through.

Jihoon looks confused. “Do what?”

“This,” it’s Seungkwan’s turn to gesture now.

“Oh,” Jihoon nods, “Yeah, I guess it’s not for everyone.”

Seungkwan is aware of Jihoon’s general backstory—a childhood background in classical music, an interest in producing sparked by toying around with GarageBand on a friend’s computer. That’s probably the watered-down version for interviews, but it makes enough sense. “Do you like producing for other people?” It’s a ridiculous question, and Seungkwan regrets it the moment he says it.

“Yeah,” the answer is automatic, unbothered. “I love it.”

“More than producing for yourself?”

Jihoon thinks about it for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s different,” he admits. “I didn’t start making music thinking I’d ever be the one performing.”

“Why’d you start?” What is this, an interrogation? Seungkwan doesn’t mean for this line of questioning to come out as bluntly as it does, but Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind.

“I usually write with a group already in mind—something that suits their concept. But sometimes I work on something just because I want to. I get an idea that won’t leave, and I have to work it out.” He averts his eyes like this is somehow an embarrassing admission, like being full of boundless creativity is something to be ashamed of. “Sometimes I end up modifying what I wrote and giving it to an artist that it works for, and other times it just sits. But when I wrote Ruby, Soonyoung said it was the most ‘Woozi’ thing I’d ever made—that only Woozi could pull it off, so…”

He glances up.

“I didn’t really plan to keep going, but it was more fun than I expected.”

“You dance well,” Seungkwan blurts out, hoping that this, too, doesn’t come across as rude. “I mean, since you didn’t go through the regular trainee process.”

Jihoon shrugs—casual—annoying. “I had Soonyoung for that, too.”

Seungkwan hadn’t realized Jihoon and Soonyoung were that close. Apparently, he has Soonyoung to thank for all the emotional turmoil Jihoon’s solo career has caused him over the past few years.

This new information also gives him pause. While working on the choreography for this comeback, Soonyoung had spoken casually about weekend plans with his boyfriend. If Jihoon and Soonyoung are close, is it possible—

“Are you and Soonyoung…” there’s no non-intrusive way to ask this, “…together?”

Jihoon tilts his head to the side, catlike. “Together?”

Great, now he has to explain himself. “Soonyoung talked about a boyfriend, so—”

“Oh,” recognition flashes in Jihoon’s eyes, “No, definitely not,” he laughs like the idea itself is ridiculous. “I love Soonyoung, but no. I haven’t, uh—there’s no one. For a while now. No partner, I mean.”

Seungkwan mentally chews on that word—partner—and wonders if there’s any tactful way to ask Jihoon to expand upon his phrasing. Following talk of Soonyoung’s boyfriend, might it not be more natural to say ‘girlfriend’, if that’s what he means?

No amount of mental gymnastics could help him devise a natural way to bring it up in conversation, but then Jihoon spares him and asks, “What about you? Is there…?”

“Oh—no. No partner.” He watches Jihoon’s face, clocking the look of interest that takes up residence in his expression. Bingo.

In a different life, maybe Seungkwan would be able to say that he’s glad to have another friend like himself in the industry. “I’d assumed you had a wild love life, considering your discography,” he jokes.

Jihoon huffs a little laugh. “Pretty much the furthest thing from it. I’m not interesting enough to write about.”

Hearing that makes Seungkwan desperately want to ask him, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” but he’s already heard Jihoon fumble his way through that question unsatisfactorily in half a dozen interviews, and he doubts he’ll get a more straightforward answer tonight.

He’s surprised, then, when Jihoon divulges of his own volition, “I usually just grab a thought or feeling and run with it. It doesn’t have to be personal.”

Interesting.

“Like what?” he can’t help but ask.

“Hm…” Jihoon looks up toward the ceiling, trying to conjure up a good example. “You know Pinwheel? Did you—” he cringes, “I mean, if you listened to the whole album. It’s okay if you didn’t.”

Seungkwan resists the urge to roll his eyes—if only Jihoon knew. Pinwheel, a B-side on Jihoon’s latest release, is a slow, pretty, soft piano ballad full of longing. It’s probably Seungkwan’s favorite track from the album, if he had to choose one. “I listened to it,” he replies, “I liked it.”

“Oh,” Jihoon looks away, although he seems pleased, “Thank you. Anyway, the idea came from a dream I had about a pinwheel in a field. It seemed almost like it was standing there waiting for someone, so I thought I could write about that feeling.”

‘Came to me in a dream’ has got to be the most pretentious, nonsensical thing Seungkwan has ever heard. He forces a smile. “When are you ever not writing music?” He hopes his incredulous tone comes off as playful rather than strained.

“When I work out,” Jihoon responds earnestly, “It clears my head.”

Right, so now he’s outright bragging. No way is he not bragging. It’s like he wants to tank this cordial conversation. Seungkwan wonders if he’s really that dense, or if he’s genuinely trying to get a rise out of him. For lack of a better response, he says, “Maybe I should try that.”

Jihoon’s face brightens. “You can use the company gym. Have you ever gone?” When Seungkwan shakes his head, he continues, “It’s nice—you don’t even have to leave the building. It’s really well-equipped, too. If you’re not sure what to do, you can make an appointment with one of the trainers on staff. Or if you want, I can—”

He cuts himself off, possibly realizing how obnoxious he’s coming off. Seungkwan makes no attempt to reassure him otherwise.

“…I’m there a lot, is all. Maybe we’d run into each other.”

“I’d like that,” Seungkwan lies. Like he’d ever let Lee Jihoon see him struggling to lift the bar.

As the evening drags on, the conversation flows a little smoother, and despite himself, Seungkwan begins to relax. When he isn’t humblebragging about his music or his body or whatever, Jihoon is surprisingly easy to talk to—much easier in this intimate setting than he had been at the restaurant. He’s a good listener, too, and he asks questions like he’s genuinely interested in what Seungkwan has to say. Were it not for the several dozen things Seungkwan finds excessively annoying about him, he would probably make a good friend.

Seungkwan might be opening up more than he’d like, but he can’t help himself. It’s been nearly two hours since they ditched the party, but he can still blame it on the alcohol if he tries.

It starts off innocently enough, casual talk about music, work-life balance, and the industry as a whole. But before he knows it, Seungkwan is revealing his skincare routine (all eight steps), his vitamin regimen (with a short lecture on the importance of vitamin D), and the way he misses his family’s dog like nothing else (along with a photo slideshow on his phone, because Bookkeu is too cute not to share).

He isn’t sure at exactly which point the conversation takes a turn, but he forgets his mission somewhere along the way. He’s supposed to be indulging his inner critic, but as the hours tick by, he gets invested.

He doesn’t stop to think about the implications of his own words until Jihoon asks something along the lines of, “Is there anything you miss about not being famous?” and he finds himself lamenting, “I like being recognized, but not being able to have a fling without worrying about the paparazzi isn’t something I thought would be an issue.”

Too far. Way too far. He tries to rewind the conversation, and he realizes he’s given Jihoon much more information about himself than he’d ever intended.

When he looks up with a wince, though, Jihoon is nodding thoughtfully. “I don’t really have that problem,” he says, which Seungkwan thinks might be another weird form of bragging until he adds, “I don’t go out enough to be recognized on the street.”

Seungkwan chokes on a laugh, though he’s inwardly relieved Jihoon is taking it in stride. “Does it bother you?”

“Which part?” Jihoon asks. “Not going out, or not getting laid?”

How forward. Maybe Jihoon is loosening up as well. “Either.”

“I like not going out.”

A pause. The insinuation sinks in. Seungkwan has the inexplicable and wholly unwelcome urge to ask Jihoon when the last time he’d had sex was—an insane desire to turn it into a competition. If he could at least say that he’s getting more action than Woozi, he could count this conversation as a win.

Unfortunately, his traitorous mind presents him with another, more lurid thought—what, if he had to guess, is Jihoon like in bed?

He resists the impulse to physically recoil. No way. No way does he want to think about that.

But maybe Jihoon is a terrible lover—that would be kind of funny. Maybe he makes weird sounds or ugly faces, or maybe he rolls over and falls asleep as soon as he finishes, partner be damned. Maybe he cries during sex on the very first date. Maybe he’s super clingy—or worse, crude and indifferent.

Or maybe he’s great at that, too.

A split-second image of Jihoon’s potentially gorgeous-and-not-at-all-weird orgasm face flashes through Seungkwan’s unwilling brain, and he feels his lip twitch.

Maybe Seungkwan himself is a little pent-up.

He isn’t sure if the silence stretches on as long as he thinks it has, but he nearly flinches when Jihoon asks, “Is it something you’d do if you had the chance?”

He has to shake himself back into reality. “What?”

“Have a fling.”

They’ve come this far. “Yeah.”

Jihoon is quiet again, for a long enough beat that Seungkwan thinks he’ll probably drop it, but then, “If you wanted to…”

What?

Seungkwan’s head snaps up, and he’s surprised to suddenly meet Jihoon’s eyes.

Yeah. There’s no doubt.

Jihoon is propositioning him.

He wonders if the late hour and alcohol has clouded Jihoon’s decision-making skills—if this is something he wouldn’t say in the light of day—but his gaze is remarkably clear as he looks on with intent, awaiting a response.

Seungkwan should say no. This was not part of the plan.

Could it possibly be part of Jihoon’s plan?

Was this the idea all along? It would be quite literally the biggest way to get under Seungkwan’s skin. The perfect method to throw him off-balance, to rub in just how good Jihoon is at everything. A way for Jihoon to prove that he can get whatever he wants just by asking. Seungkwan wonders what kind of face Jihoon would make if he said no.

He should say no.

But what kind of face will Jihoon make if he says yes?

Suddenly, the answer to that question is the only thing he cares about.

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon says, “if that’s something you—”

“How about now?” God, what the hell has gotten into him?

“Now?” Jihoon’s eyes widen.

“Yeah,” Seungkwan nods, “now.”

“Uh,” Jihoon’s cheeks are going a little pink, but the corners of his lips lift slightly as he says, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, but if you want to—do you want to?”

Seungkwan dives forward, crushing their lips together.

The face Jihoon makes is decidedly startled, but then he closes his eyes, and Seungkwan feels an overwhelming rush of adrenaline.

His hands come up to the back of Jihoon’s neck, pulling him closer. His lips leave Jihoon’s when they break apart for air, but when he leans back in, it’s to kiss Jihoon’s cheek, his jaw, and down, down to the base of his throat. Jihoon makes a sound, high and shuddery, as Seungkwan’s teeth graze his skin.

He won’t leave marks. That would be unfair.

Jihoon’s hands are in Seungkwan’s hair, but then he withdraws them, wandering lower until they’re firmly on Seungkwan’s lower back, slender fingers curling around his waist, drawing him in. Seungkwan is pretty sure the room is soundproof, so he allows himself to moan as Jihoon grows bolder, hands sliding down, cupping his ass and squeezing. It feels so good to be touched, to feel wanted, that he almost forgets himself.

Almost.

He slings a leg over Jihoon’s lap to straddle him, caging him in with his arms. Seungkwan isn’t a tall guy, but he’s taller than Jihoon, especially like this. He can tower over Jihoon, hands on his shoulders, forcing Jihoon to tilt his head up. Jihoon tastes like champagne as his lips part, granting Seungkwan permission to deepen the kiss.

Maybe Seungkwan is a little tipsy too—this really isn’t his style—but when Jihoon gasps into his mouth, hips bucking up in a way that is certainly unintentional, Seungkwan grinds down onto him. He can feel Jihoon’s arousal through his pants, and the wicked part of Seungkwan’s psyche wants to gloat about how easy it was to get him worked up, but he himself is already half-hard and aching to do something about it.

It really has been a while.

Jihoon is a good kisser. Natural talent again, probably. He’s insufferable.

But he’s also, evidently, very into Seungkwan, which by Seungkwan’s own calculation is just about the sexiest thing a person can be. Jihoon finds him attractive—there’s no way to put a negative spin on it. Seungkwan is flattered and more than a little smug.

They kiss roughly, combined arousal growing, and it isn’t long before hands begin to wander further. Seungkwan quickly discovers how sensitive Jihoon’s chest is, and he’d love to explore that fact a bit more, but then Jihoon’s hands are creeping up the insides of his thighs, and his mind goes hazy with expectation and want.

Jihoon hesitates, fingers ghosting over Seungkwan’s zipper, and looks up. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan nods frantically. “God, yes.”

He scoots off of Jihoon’s lap, giving him space to work. Jihoon fumbles with the button, hands clumsy with excitement, and Seungkwan lifts his hips, allowing Jihoon to tug his pants and underwear down in one go. The studio air is cool on his exposed skin, and goosebumps rise on his thighs.

Jihoon hums appreciatively, giving Seungkwan’s cock an experimental stroke, then another. His hands are warm and smooth, delicate fingers quickly bringing him to full hardness.

Then he slides off the couch and onto his knees, and Seungkwan freezes.

What?

Jihoon pushes his legs apart, making space to kneel between them. Seungkwan hadn’t expected this at all—had been completely content with the idea of a quick handjob at most. But now Jihoon is—Woozi is—

Jihoon pumps his cock a few more times, milking a bead of precum from the tip. Hyper-focused, he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about how still Seungkwan has suddenly gone, and his tongue darts out to lap up that drop like it’s too good to waste. Time seems to slow down, and a bolt of pleasure like electricity shoots up Seungkwan’s spine as Jihoon wraps his lips around the head of his cock.

As Jihoon sinks down, taking in more and more of his length, Seungkwan has the detached realization that he’s never rounded the bases with anyone this quickly before, let alone someone he doesn’t even like. This is ridiculous.

But he’s not going to stop it now.

He isn’t ashamed of his size, but it’s almost embarrassing how easy Jihoon makes it look. It seems to come naturally, like Jihoon’s pretty mouth was crafted specifically to suck cock. He takes Seungkwan in more and more, head lowering until his nose brushes the dense hair at Seungkwan’s base. Perhaps Seungkwan should be angry about this, too—that there’s yet another thing star producer and beloved idol Lee Jihoon is so incredibly, infuriatingly good at—but it’s hard to be mad about anything right now.

Jihoon stays there for just a moment, either savoring or acclimating to the feeling, then pulls back, back, nearly off.

Seungkwan’s fingers grip the edge of the couch tightly as he resists the urge to buck up into Jihoon’s mouth. The very least he can do is avoid hurting Jihoon’s throat.

Jihoon bobs his head, lewd sounds filling the room as he sucks Seungkwan off. It’s agonizing. It’s the best thing Seungkwan has ever felt.

When Jihoon slows, Seungkwan’s gaze drifts down. Jihoon looks up at him, eyes big and wet, and Seungkwan wonders if it’s from discomfort, exertion, or simply fighting his gag reflex. Maybe Seungkwan’s judgement is compromised, but he swears this version of Jihoon is the prettiest he’s ever been—no makeup, no stage lighting, on his knees on the studio floor between Seungkwan’s legs.

When Jihoon hollows his cheeks, Seungkwan breaks eye contact to tip his head back again, mind overcome with nothing but white-hot pleasure. He feels himself jolt and wants to apologize, but it only seems to egg Jihoon on, tongue pressing hard against the underside of Seungkwan’s shaft as he draws him closer to orgasm.

Seungkwan doesn’t even consider trying to hold out. It’s been too long, and this feels too good.

“Hyung,” he grits out, white-knuckling the cushion now, “I’m—I’m guh—”

Jihoon hums an acknowledgement, the vibration thrumming against Seungkwan’s leaking cock. Seungkwan forces his eyes down again, trying to make sure Jihoon understands what he means, but Jihoon’s own eyes are shut tight now in what looks like concentration. He’s working hard to get Seungkwan off, and Seungkwan doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to process anything beyond that simple fact.

He doesn’t have the mental bandwidth for anything.

He comes with a debauched moan, spilling into the back of Jihoon’s throat. Jihoon takes it, and in the background of the static filling Seungkwan’s brain, he hears him swallow once, then twice.

When Seungkwan collapses, chest heaving, into the back of the couch, Jihoon finally pulls off.

God.

This was a terrible idea, but—god.

Somewhere in his orgasm-hazy mind, Seungkwan realizes he needs to do something for Jihoon now. His thoughts bubble hot and slow like lava flowing toward the sea, hitting the water with a shocking tss as he sobers up—he has to do something now.

“Hyung,” his mouth acts of its own accord, “let me—”

“You don’t have to,” Jihoon cuts him off, voice slightly hoarse—oops. The rasp sends a shiver down Seungkwan’s spine with the thought that he put that there. But the words—the words make no sense, and he can’t let it end this way.

“I want to,” he insists, sliding bonelessly off of the couch to join Jihoon on the floor. “You can’t just—hyung, you gave me—I need to do you too.” If someone had informed him yesterday that in twenty-four hours he’d be begging to suck Lee Jihoon’s dick, he would’ve told them they were out of their mind, but now— “Hyung,” he whines, “please.”

“You can’t,” Jihoon insists.

Seungkwan is perfectly capable of taking ‘no’ for an answer, but why on Earth would Jihoon do all that if he wanted nothing in return? He moves to back off, to give Jihoon some space, but then Jihoon says, “I already, uh.”

No way.

“You didn’t.”

Jihoon nods, and even under the purple lights, Seungkwan can tell his face is red.

He takes it back. This was a great idea.