Chapter Text
Hyejin departs on a ski trip with her friends for the weekend, which means Wooyoung and Yunho have to maximize their Hyejin-free seventy-or-so hours that begin ticking down on that Friday evening in early December.
They start with turning the heat on full blast—their room is bone-chilling at best, and they can never have the door open to let in the heat from the living room lest she complain about their noise level, not that the useless plank of wood that is their door does much for blocking sound waves—doing a massive, collective load of laundry—her room shares a wall with the washer and dryer, which thrash wildly when they’re stuffed full enough—and throwing two pans of gooey brownie mix in the oven. They’d be fine doing the latter anyway, but it’s a weight off their consciences when she’s not there to read aloud the nutrition facts off the box.
But when Hongjoong arrives, Seonghwa’s arm in one hand and a baggie of weed in his other, they have to sacrifice the heat for cracking open a window. Yunho fulfills his utilitarian purpose as a tall person by taping plastic bags over the smoke detectors.
He also brainwashes everyone into thinking Wooyoung can’t roll a perfectly satisfactory joint—which he can, and to be completely fair he was already f*cked up that one time his grip slipped attempting to seal it and he stuck his tongue directly into the bud—so Yeosang steps up to the plate, and the confidence in his skill seems to be unanimous. Wooyoung pours cheap red wine into Hyejin’s pink martini glasses, and Yeji’s only come through the door when Jongho spills his down the front of her cream sweater, so they demote him to a coffee mug and offer Yeji one of Yunho’s old EXO-emblazoned shirts.
The sound of the oven chiming snaps Wooyoung out of his trance at the dining table between Yeosang and Mingi, watching Hongjoong and Seonghwa shotgun, nestled up into the couch’s corner. It’s probably for the best.
He scoots his chair out from the table, picks his way around Mingi, weaves between Yeji and Lisa and Jongho sat cross-legged on the carpet, and scampers his way into the kitchen, where he slaps on an oven mitt of dubious origin—it looks like it’s suffered several a war, its bright rooster pattern charred to blackness in places—and pulls out the trays of brownies. He’s just meticulously checked their doneness with a toothpick and turned off the oven when he hears Yunho laugh, “Why is iNachos liking all my Insta pics?”
Wooyoung shuffles to the living room doorway. Yunho’s shoving his phone into Yeosang’s face, the screen littered with notifications.
San, slumped on the floor with glazed-over eyes fixed on his phone and only his head propped against the couch, pulls the joint from between his lips and mutters, “sh*t, am I the wrong account?”
“Nachos?” Lisa perks up. She takes the joint when San proffers it. “I swear someone just said there’s nachos.”
“No, not real nachos, just Instagram user iNachos spamming me—hey, you’re only liking pictures of Wooyoung!” yawps Yunho, phone held inches from his eyes.
“I don’t care about your other posts,” grumbles San, kicking at a leg of Yunho’s chair. “f*ck, there’s no more. I went all the way back to 2013. Yunho-yah, do you remember tagging your first post ever of the blandest-ass sandwich I’ve seen in my life with #lunchtimeyoloswag?”
Yunho snorts. “I do now.”
Yeosang is diligently rolling another joint. “Don’t sound so condescending, San, I bet Yunho was really cool when he was fourteen,” he says. Then his phone lights up beside the packet of rolling papers. “Oh, great, I’m next.” San snickers by the couch, folds his arm behind his head. “That’s the only one, San-ah, I’ve known him as long as you have.”
Wooyoung pouts. “Why are you talking about me like I’m not here?” He steps decidedly over the threshold and gives Yeosang’s earlobe a tug.
“Oh hey! Didn’t see you there,” Yeosang says mock-kindly, greeting him with a plastic smile. “Here, for you.” He gives Wooyoung the freshly-rolled joint. Wooyoung accepts the gift, but also steps into Yeosang’s space, forcibly hugs his blonde head to his middle.
“What’s… iNachos?” Wooyoung frowns, releases his hold on Yeosang so he can squat beside his chair—and so Yeosang can breathe—and paw at Yeosang’s thigh until he lights the joint between his lips for him.
“San’s finsta,” Mingi answers too quickly.
“Yah!” hisses San, but Mingi continues:
“I nachos… Choi San. You know? But by the time you figure it out, it’s not even funny anymore.”
“You’re just jealous your name anagrams aren’t as cool as mine,” San says. When Wooyoung looks over, San’s avoiding his eyes. “Mini gongs.”
“I thought I won, though,” Yeosang interjects. Wooyoung takes a long pull off the joint that leaves him coughing profusely, yet still he watches San. Nothing. Yeosang gives him a weak pat to the back, says, “‘Cos mine had gay San something something.”
San bursts into laughter, drops his phone to clap his hands. “f*ck, you did have gay San.”
Wooyoung drifts toward the couch, takes a seat right beside San’s head. Yeosang slaps the table suddenly, giggles out, “Wait! Wait, I remember: gay San on keg.”
San slides fully off the couch, rolls onto his side on the rug, squeaking out a louder laugh. Mingi’s chair screeches as he scoots from the table, eagerly shouts, “San at Pi Kapp freshman year!”
San wheezes, mimes waving a white flag of surrender as he props himself on his elbow. “That was once. I’ve strictly been gay San no keg ever since.”
Yeosang hums, gazes out the window nostalgically. “Gay San on keg did not end well.”
“He was fine until he did the backflip,” says Mingi. Yeosang cringes in sympathy.
“But I stuck the landing,” San points out. Wooyoung, still silently observing, an outsider to their inside jokes, nudges his toes between San’s shoulder blades. San peers backward at him, eyes a bit bloodshot.
Wooyoung sticks out his lower lip. “I didn’t know you had a finsta.”
San shifts to sit, but Wooyoung thinks it’s only an excuse to evade eye contact. “It’s—dumb. Literally so dumb. Don’t worry about it.”
“But you follow Yunho?” Wooyoung pokes him again, this time digs his toes into San’s side. He’s unfairly hot, in a black turtleneck that hugs the curves of his arms and the dip of his waist. It’s only more unfair that he’s brushing Wooyoung off like this. “You follow Yunho and not me.”
San gives a half-roll of his eyes, which sets Wooyoung’s insides on fire, but then San’s shifting off the floor, plopping down beside Wooyoung, laying his arm across the cushions behind Wooyoung’s shoulders. Wooyoung only stares at him stubbornly, the joint burning away between his fingers. He waits expectantly only for San to say absolutely nothing, so he turns his face ahead, sucks in another lungful of smoke, even though he’s already a bit tingly all over, his heart’s rapid lurching in stark contrast to the heaviness of his limbs. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hongjoong and Seonghwa are lazily making out. No else minds, but they’re now inches from Wooyoung, and he can feel the shift of the couch cushions when Hongjoong hikes Seonghwa’s leg across his lap. It winds him up tighter, makes his face burn hotter. He cranes his arm across San’s lap to stub out the joint on someone’s abandoned plate on the side table, sits right back up like he hadn’t just stuck his hand between San’s legs to reach it.
“Are you mad at me?” mumbles San. Wooyoung barely hears it.
He shrugs his shoulders, bites the inside of his lip. Watches Yunho rise from the table to go slice the brownies now they’ve cooled. “Why do you hate me,” whispers Wooyoung eventually. He tilts his head toward San, looks at him long enough to watch him grin. Wooyoung's eyes flash away spitefully. “Don’t—”
“You think I hate you? ‘Cos I didn’t tell you about my finsta?” San chuckles, strokes his fingertips through the back of Wooyoung’s hair.
“Stop laughing.” Wooyoung shakes his hand off with a rapid jerk of his head that leaves him dizzy. “You wish you could f*ck Yunho instead of me?”
“What,” San breathes, and he doesn’t listen, just keeps laughing, cups Wooyoung’s cheek in his warm palm. “I can say with… a thousand percent confidence that I’ve never even thought about doing that.”
Wooyoung is inclined to believe San. But San’s voice could sell him anything. Even a blanket with sleeves. “You’re selling me a Snuggie,” he whimpers pitifully, eyes cast down to his lap.
San’s hand grows hesitant in his hair. He coaxes Wooyoung to face him, thumb windshield-wiping over his cheek. “Hey,” he whispers, kisses Wooyoung right under the eye. “You feel okay?”
Wooyoung shakes his head. He anchors his hand on San’s thigh, curls his fingers into the muscle there.
San nods, shifts so there’s no air at all between their hips. “Okay. You gonna be sick?”
Wooyoung shakes his head again. He’s undecided on that front, though—knows he wouldn’t puke up any wine if he went and stooped over the toilet right now. But maybe he’d spew a bunch of hot, glittery bath bubbles and harried butterflies. It feels like his stomach is full of them.
“You want something to eat? To drink?” San keeps pestering him. But gently. Wooyoung starts to smile the longer he has to shake his head. “Wanna get some air?”
Wooyoung sighs. The rich darkness of San’s eyes bleeds into the whole of his vision. “Yeah.”
San grabs his jacket from the floor, Wooyoung’s from the back of Yunho’s chair. “We’ll be back,” he informs Yunho, Mingi, and Yeosang at the table. Wooyoung stands, spine popping blissfully, and hops after San.
“You taking it outside?” asks Hongjoong suddenly, making use of his tongue now that it’s not down Seonghwa’s throat. He nods assertively at Wooyoung. “Beat him up, Wooyoung-ah.”
Wooyoung laughs brightly, lets San help him into his jacket.
There’s nothing but uneven concrete behind their building, and the singular lamp flickers like it’s about to conjure some terrifying creature of the night. Wooyoung drinks in the fresh air greedily, hands balled in his pockets, peers up at the opaque, clouded sky. San meanders into his periphery, and when Wooyoung glances his way, he’s got a cute face on, lips in a straight line, cheeks dimpled. The unreliable light carves those dimples out in dark crescents.
“Are you still mad?” asks San. He steps nearer to straighten the collar of Wooyoung’s jacket.
Wooyoung unpockets his hands, stuffs them into San’s pockets instead. “Nah.” He kicks at a crack in the concrete. “Dunno why I thought I had any right to police whatever it is you do on the interweb. Follow who you want, and whatever.” He smiles sheepishly. “And… like, not that you are, because I really don’t know, but you can be with people other than me. Obviously.” After a beat, his nose crinkles up. “Sounds all selfish when I say it like that. I just mean it should be implied.”
San says nothing, smooths his palms out over Wooyoung’s shoulders. The chill in the air makes the tips of Wooyoung’s ears feel like icicles. Finally, San murmurs, “I used to do this… thing.”
Wooyoung’s lips twitch. “Fascinating.”
“I’m trying to figure out how to phrase it without making myself sound like an embarrassment.” San smiles wryly. “But that’s all it really was. Embarrassing. So.” He sighs out his nose, adjusts his grip on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “I used to, like…” His eyes wander. “Black out. All the time. Like, I’m more self-aware now, I think. Maybe. But—that’s not the point. The point is, you know, I used to drink a lot, black out, forget everything. This isn’t a sob story, by the way. It’s just… whenever I got like that, I’d post these monologues to my stories.” San cracks out a laugh.
“Snapchat, when we still used that sh*t. Instagram. But—yeah, I’d just, like, talk to myself. For, like, twenty f*cking minutes. Sometimes it didn’t make sense, sometimes I was half-naked. Sometimes people were doing compromising things in the background. But I’d never remember ’til someone told me the next day. Or then it’d disappear forever and I’d never remember to look at all. That’s why I have this alter-ego, you know, the nacho thing. In chaos is another fitting variation, mm. Anyway, there I could rant about sh*t and not embarrass myself or other people or worry my sister into thinking I needed professional help. It was Mingi’s idea.”
Wooyoung leans into him. When San quiets, only smiles, bashful, Wooyoung bumps his nose against his cheek. “Okay,” he laughs softly, and his breath is a white puff in the air. “So… you don’t want me to see those?” He leans in to rest his chin on San’s shoulder. The lamplight flashes weakly again. “Sounds funny.”
San grunts. “Oh, yeah, you’d find them hilarious.” He crams his hands into his pockets, wiggles his fingers around until they’re comfortably cupping Wooyoung’s. “I don’t… I don’t mind being an idiot if it makes you laugh. But.” San’s sigh is warm against his neck. “But, like… lately, I haven’t been accidentally capturing anyone’s cocaine habit or ranting about who’s hottest in NCT. I’m not… not even drunk, usually. Nah, I just…” The next sigh is deeper, like it comes from the very pits of San’s lungs, but shakier, too. “Just go on and on about this guy I’m really into. Not—no, into sounds douchey. This—this person I have feelings for. So many feelings. Because I like to talk about him. I would all the time, if everyone let me. But nobody’d ever get anything done if I did.”
The breath that Wooyoung takes feels like it fills so much space between them, expanding his chest and stomach to their limits. And he doesn’t want to move, yet he thinks if he didn’t at least breathe, he’d pass out on the jagged concrete right there and then.
“So it’d be… super embarrassing, you know, if I followed him and he followed me back and watched me talk about his lip freckle or the part of his hair near his roots that’s less purple than the rest or how cute he looked in my beret or how I wished I had a palanquin or a whole f*cking king’s guard so I could make sure he never had to walk a step when he was tired, which is something I never even thought I’d make myself think about.” A thick, hot, long silence in the cold. Then San exhales a laugh, swallows loud enough that Wooyoung hears it stick.
“Is Yeosang really always right?” murmurs Wooyoung.
San seems to be holding his breath when he answers, “What? Um—actually, yeah. As long as I’ve known him,” taken aback.
Wooyoung steps backward, hands still in San’s pockets, but San’s hold on his hands is looser now, his palms clammy. He stares at the ground, his gaze like a tongue stuck to a frozen pole. But—you know, his eyes are stuck. Not his tongue. Wooyoung shakes his head, tries to screw it back on straight. “Remember when you said you weren’t a poet?”
San’s brow creases. “No,” he responds, quiet.
Wooyoung hums. “Well, I do. Probably says more about me than I’d like it to.” He digs his fingers into the palms of San’s hands until they relax, until he can forcefully lace their fingers together inside the safety of San’s pockets. “But you should think about it, maybe. Poetry.”
San’s dark eyes flit to the side, pained. And Wooyoung knows he’s being an ass, but somehow he can’t stop. “Wooyoung—”
“I like you way more than normal,” Wooyoung utters. “Okay? I do. Stop—stop tensing up. It’s making me nervous.” He giggles suddenly, an appalling, ill-timed noise that rivals any of the worst he’s ever made around San.
San finally, finally looks at him.
“I like you so much,” mumbles Wooyoung, the ridiculousness fading from his tone as the breathlessness seeps in. “Please, just—I don’t want you to think otherwise just ‘cos I’m still high or can’t string together a sentence that makes sense because of—everything you just said.” His eyes dip to San’s mouth, watch the worry play out there. “In fact, um, I like you so much that I’d even dare to use the L-word—not… not lesbian, not that L-word, lesbians are great, but—the other L-word. And I’d cast you in my movie in a heartbeat. Not just ‘cos you have mad stroke game, but because I love you. Even if it’d be nepotism.”
San lets his bottom lip free from his teeth. Wooyoung bleeds for it, the way it’s so bitten, so worried. “You mean that?” he asks, and it comes out hoarse. San laughs wetly at the sound, makes to cover it with his hand, but it’s trapped between Wooyoung’s fingers and he’s not planning on letting go.
“Don’t cry,” Wooyoung breathes, stepping up close, nearly pitching all his weight on San’s toe. “Sannie!”
“I’m gonna cry,” San says resolutely, blinking at the sky above Wooyoung’s head. “It’s gonna happen.”
“Suck the tears back in,” Wooyoung demands. “Close your tear ducts.”
“I’ll try that, thanks.” San’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. A smile stretches his lips.
Wooyoung licks his lips, lets his eyes roam San’s face. “I meant it,” he mutters, an afterthought. Nods mindlessly. “Of course I meant it. I lie sometimes, y’know. To a lot of people. But not right now.”
“Oh, great,” San whispers dryly.
“It is great.” Wooyoung bats his eyes, touches his chin to San’s. “I said the L-word. That’s pretty great, right?”
San looks at him, face neutral, for so long that Wooyoung has to wonder when he last blinked. He pries his fingers free of Wooyoung’s—both their hands are sweaty now—and brings them up to Wooyoung’s jaw, holds their foreheads together tight, tight enough that Wooyoung swears that under that clouded sky and the wavering lamplight, there’s some electrical current that zaps between their cores, shared. “It’s probably the greatest thing ever, yeah,” San agrees. He grins, toothy and wide, and Wooyoung thinks that might be the greatest thing, like, ever.
Wooyoung’s head jerks backward when the flickering light catches on San’s face in a faint, orange glitter. A solitary tear, paving its glistening path down the hollow of San’s cheek. “I told you to close them,” he whispers, hooks an arm around San’s waist, thumbs away the tear, licks it off the pad.
“That’s the only one,” San says. “I promise.”
“Okay.” Wooyoung tastes the salt of San’s tear on his fuzzy tongue. He smiles. “Can I follow your finsta now?”
San breaks the electrical current, yelps out a laugh into Wooyoung’s shoulder.
“Also, who’s the hottest NCT member?” Wooyoung circles his arms around San’s waist, squeezing. “I think we need to start understanding each other on a deeper emotional level.”
“You guys alive?”
Wooyoung peers over San’s shoulder at Jongho, who’s materialized at the foot of the stairs, hair orange under the lamplight.
Jongho half-smiles, eyebrows raised. “Sorry, Seonghwa-hyung asked me to check. I’ll tell him you’re… well. Alive.” He turns back up the stairs.
Wooyoung tucks a smile into San’s shoulder, rubs his nose there. “You good, kitten?” he whispers.
San bends at the knees to come down to kiss him, gradually straightens to full height, holding Wooyoung’s jaw hostage the way he always seems to. Wooyoung finds he needs to catch his breath when San pulls back, sweeps his hair from his eyes and gathers Wooyoung under his arm. “It’s cold, we should go inside, don’t want you to get sick.” Then he screeches, “You better hold the damn door, Jongho-yah!”
The apartment is peculiarly silent when they shuffle in behind Jongho. Wooyoung shrugs one arm from his jacket, plucks a brownie from the half-demolished pan. Jongho settles again on the carpet between Lisa and Yeji, and Wooyoung’s feeding half the brownie to San when they both stall in the living room doorway, brownie crumbs on their lips.
The music is still pulsing and the air’s still smoky in the slightest, but everyone’s watching them with an avid curiosity. Everyone but Yeosang, that is, who’s facing the right way at the table.
“What?” says Wooyoung, with his mouth still full, hand cupped under San’s chin to catch crumbs. There’s an indistinct sliver of movement in the far reaches of Wooyoung’s line of sight, and then, like detonating bombs both, Mingi and Yunho leap from their seats with fervor, chairs rasping on hardwood and colliding with the walls behind them.
“He gave me the look!” Mingi hollers, whirls toward a grinning Yunho in astonishment, scrabbling for his wrist. “He gave me the—!”
Wooyoung’s eyes widen to their brink when Yunho grabs Mingi by the front of his hoodie, hauls him close to kiss him on the mouth.
“What,” croaks Wooyoung again. Hongjoong squeals, rattling Seonghwa’s shoulder, and on the floor, Jongho looks on with big eyes and a tight-lipped, burgeoning smile.
Yunho breaks away, ears bright pink against the shocking blue of his hair. “Sorry,” he breathes, tunnel-visioning on the stretched fabric of Mingi’s sweatshirt.
“Well,” says Yeosang, “this got very friendcestuous very fast.”
Yunho sinks into his chair, though it’s now five feet from the table, so it’s a near-miss for his ass. Mingi deflates into the wall, dazed.
Lisa, manicured fingers still covering her mouth, slowly lowers them. She clears her throat, nods at Yeji and Jongho. “Your turn!” she teases, then reaches over to squeeze Yeosang’s knee. “Sorry, buddy, the last time I kissed a boy was in third grade, and I’d like it to stay that way.”
Yeosang smirks, smooths his fingers over his jaw. “It’s all good, noona.”
Wooyoung dusts the crumbs off his fingers, brownie long-forgotten. “What look?” he asks belatedly, turns a questioning look on San. “What look did you give him?”
San shakes his head. His shoulders twitch at a shrug. “I didn’t give him any look,” he swears, slipping his finger into Wooyoung’s belt loop. His eyes squint up, then, as he dimples at Wooyoung, and Wooyoung thinks, with a smitten, swollen heart, that that answers his question.
Seonghwa’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the baking pans despite all of Yunho’s cross-his-heart-and-hope-to-dies that he’d do them in the morning. Yeji, Lisa, and Jongho have passed out in a heap on Yunho’s bed, which means there’s a chance they’ll have to strip Hyejin’s mattress and borrow it for the night. There's no way Wooyoung is letting San leave his side tonight.
Wooyoung rests his head on Yunho’s shoulder, and the frigid chill from the windows they threw open to air out the apartment tickles the back of his neck. But Yunho is warm against him. He probably hasn’t stopped his blushing in the last hour.
“Way to steal our thunder,” mutters Wooyoung. He glances up at Yunho, who peeks back through a crack in his fingers. Wooyoung laughs, rubs his chest, and Yunho closes the gap in his fingers, smile flustered.
“He couldn’t have stolen it if you didn’t even know you had it.” Yeosang sits down on Wooyoung’s other side. “Which… you definitely didn’t. Also, Hongjoong-hyung was spying on you two through the bathroom window.”
“You promised you wouldn’t tell!” Hongjoong admonishes from the kitchen.
Yeosang shrugs a shoulder. Then, right before Wooyoung’s eyes, he presents to him a small, spotted gray-and-purple seal in the palm of his outstretched hand. Wooyoung gasps, takes it with utter care.
“It’s so cute,” coos Wooyoung. He turns a blinding smile on Yeosang. “Just like me, right?”
Yeosang scoffs, taps Wooyoung under the chin.
“Look at the speckle under the left eye,” murmurs San from the floor. He’s got his back against Wooyoung’s shins, head tilted backward onto Wooyoung’s knees.
“I do have to credit Choi San with that,” Yeosang sighs.
Wooyoung hums with delight, sits up, scans the room. “Where should I put it? I want it always watching over me.”
Yeosang starts up a laugh, then, snatching the seal from Wooyoung’s hands. “Oh, no. No, no. You don’t get to keep it.”
Wooyoung blanches. “What?”
“I know, right?” San chuckles. “It’s some sick, twisted personal joke of his. He pretends like he’s made you this adorable, heartfelt gift, then proceeds to hole it away in his room.”
“It’s not twisted,” Yeosang argues. He pets the seal’s head with the tip of his finger. “It just means you’ll have to visit me if you ever wanna see it again.”
Wooyoung shifts off Yunho’s shoulder onto Yeosang’s, gathers him into his arms. “Sannie, he’s only twisted ‘cos he’s a softie. He’s worried once he shows you a token of his love, you’ll forget all about him, as if clay could plug the Yeosang-shaped holes in our hearts.”
Yeosang does not reciprocate the hug. He sits motionless in Wooyoung’s arms, but there’s a smile quirking his lips. “It’s a binding contract,” he says solemnly, laying the seal on his thigh. “Yunho-yah, you’re next.”
“Binding?” Wooyoung stares at Yeosang until he gets a nod of confirmation, then nuzzles into his shoulder, contented. “Right. Then… Yeosang, you should know it wasn’t San who dropped jungle juice on your dorm carpet. It was me. I dropped it.” Dreamily, he adds, “And then San kissed me for the first time ever.”
San bites down on a smile, eyes flashing from Wooyoung’s face to Yeosang’s and back. Wooyoung marvels at the curves of his eyelashes. Yeosang says nothing, but Wooyoung’s squished too close to observe his reaction. “I think you broke him,” whispers San.
“I hereby release you both from the contract,” Yeosang announces, and he makes to stand, but Wooyoung holds to him fast. He then nods at San, who takes it as his cue to roll over and wrangle Yeosang’s legs.
For a second, Yeosang stares emptily ahead. Then he sighs and says, “But as it happens, I’m in a good mood today. Probably because hyung always gets good weed, but also because I was right tonight. Twice.”
San blinks, chin in Yeosang’s lap. He and Wooyoung exchange a silent look. “About?” asks San.
“You can keep your contracts,” Yeosang concedes, laying his cheek to Wooyoung’s head. Wooyoung frowns, eyes still on San. “I really could see everything coming from a mile away.”
San reaches up to feel at Yeosang’s forehead with the back of his hand. Yeosang only snorts, brushes it away.
“Let me have my moment." Yeosang inhales and exhales meditatively, gives a faint shake of his head. "I did see it coming, but I should've planned for it better. It was a bad idea to agree to be suitemates with you, Sannie. To share a wall, no less. A very bad idea. Could I move somewhere else by next semester? Feasibly? It'd be my last, but... maybe Jongho has room. God knows he's not getting any. And I could get away from that... that stain. But... seriously. The amount of lovers' quarrels we'll all have to deal with just tripled in one night. I don't know how I'll..."
Yeosang's voice is a soft, steady rumble against Wooyoung's hair. The edges of the room go fuzzy and faded, and at the epicenter of it all is San, who's watching him back like Wooyoung knew he'd be. Wooyoung smiles, mouths that special word, just for him, and winks, and San breathes out his nose, tucks his smile into Yeosang's legs and then peeks back up, eyes shining.
Yeosang's dialogue screeches to a halt. "Yeah, okay, none of that," he states, waggling a finger between San and Wooyoung.
