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You’d be hard pressed to find anyone on campus who doesn’t know his name—his referring to bad boy extraordinare Park Woojin. With skin tanned to a caramel perfection, eyes piercing, and snaggletooth gleaming, it’s hard for the boy to not catch attention everywhere he goes. And if looks aren’t enough, there’s always buzz about his fluid dancing and titillating rough voice.
But that's none of Park Jihoon’s business.
At least, it hadn’t been, he thinks exasperatedly as he surveys the snaggletoothed intruder currently on the rooftop.
Woojin hasn’t seemed to notice his presence yet, casually leaning forwards on the fence that marks the point between a restful hangout spot and untimely death on campus. With a cigarette balancing precariously between his lips and a leather jacket donning his shoulders, Jihoon thinks it’s almost laughable how well the boy lives up to his reputation.
He can’t care less though, and attractive bad boy rep be damned, he isn’t going to let anyone break the peace he’s been trying so hard to keep on this rooftop.
“Hey,” Jihoon calls out, making sure his words are loud enough as to not be eaten up by the wind. He steps forward with his exclamation and keeps his expression even when the auburn-haired male turns around with an eyebrow quirked. “This place is off-limits,”
“But you’re up here,” Woojin points out after a beat of silence, somehow coherent even with the cigarette in his mouth. His gaze is steady on Jihoon, and his rebuttal sounds more like an observation than a provocation.
“I’m just here to check that no one else is,” he says with a shrug, the lie rolling out between his teeth easily. It’s not an unusual or even a bad excuse coming from him, as he knows his own name is already well-established as one of the student govt. members. Jihoon doesn’t like to say he takes advantage of his position necessarily, but he will admit to conceding just a few perks—which is pretty fair in his opinion, considering the amount of grueling paperwork he deals with for his peers.
Woojin tilts his head in a thoughtful action and Jihoon feels like patting himself on the back for another job well done until the urge is squashed by the smirk that marks the other’s face, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Bullshit,” the taller male drawls, reaching up to his lips to pick the cigarette out before tucking it behind his ear. Jihoon inwardly cringes at the action, thinking about how nasty it is to smoke from a cancer stick that’s smothered in scalp grease, but then a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jisung reminds him that it’s not the time to be judging people, and he forces his attention back to Woojin’s retort.
“Excuse me?” Jihoon asks, now his turn to raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen you up here doing a lot more than checking,” Woojin answers with a roll of his eyes, words edged by a distinctively masculine lilt.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Jihoon flushes, though he knows the extent of his doings encompass a very limited number of activities (and of those the main being napping and daydreaming). “But can you just leave?”
Woojin seems amused by his straightforward request, tongue sticking out between his teeth as if contemplating. Silence stretches out between them with a force of constriction as the wind nabs at them both in their standoff, and now Jihoon kind of wishes he had just seeked out the student office for his nap because he can almost feel the wind tracing whispers of impending change on the back of his neck. (And he hates change, hates anything new that’ll give him a headache.)
Much to his surprise and pleasure, however, the auburn-haired male nods with a half-hearted shrug. “Sure, whatever,” he responds as he straightens up.
“Oh—really?” Jihoon says almost disbelievingly, eyebrows furrowed. For some reason he had been expecting more of a fight. He watches as the other boy reaches up once more to grasp the cigarette between his fingers.
“Yeah, why not?” Woojin says with a soft snort before he begins to walk to the rooftop door. He pauses a few steps after he passes Jihoon and turns back with a smirk, “Sorry, were you expecting something more?”
“Kinda,” Jihoon answers with a nod, ignoring the teasing tone from the other boy. He’s secured his rooftop and that’s all that really matters to him, so what harm is there in being honest?
Apparently a lot, he regrets just moments later, because he barely has time to blink as the other takes a step back to tuck a bitter white object in between his lips. The wind, or maybe the proximity, allows him to catch a mixed scent of cinnamon and ash, and maybe it’s the wind again, but he feels himself breathless for just a moment as warm brown eyes meet his.
“Sorry I disappointed you, but here’s a gift,” Woojin hums lowly, and the way he glances down at the cigarette—or maybe his lips—sends inexplicable chills up his spine. The taller offers a final smirk before he saunters off the rooftop, leaving a dazed Jihoon in his wake because what the fuck .
+++
Park Woojin is known to be the life of the party, and simultaneously the easiest and hardest person to get. Rumor has it that he gives out kisses like they’re nothing but loose change but no one has yet been able to take him to bed.
But that’s none of Park Jihoon’s business.
At least it hadn’t been, he thinks with a scoff, but the blaring bass around him and shitty alcohol in hand only serves to make him lament Daehwi’s persuasive skills.
Daehwi had convinced him to ‘loosen up, it’s the end of the semester!’, assuring that this party was hosted by his cousin and that everyone there would be people he knew. Well, the younger hadn’t exactly lied to him, Jihoon had just failed to put two and two together to realize that dumb Park Woojin was said cousin. That, and the fact that Daehwi’s definition of people he knew and his own differed quite dramatically in terms of familiarity.
Whatever, he sighs as he takes another sip of the ungodly cocktail. Park Woojin hadn’t bothered him at the rooftop following their little confrontation, and he isn’t really the type to bear a grudge, so he doesn’t understand why he had somehow felt betrayed upon the revelation of the host. But like he said, whatever. He dimly recognizes Jaehwan’s maniac laughter echoing from somewhere in the party, and he would bet a mean buck that the older was high off his winning streak of beer pong.
His daydreams are interrupted when a “Hey pretty boy,” is purred from behind, but Jihoon relaxes as quickly as he had stiffened when he sees the face behind the voice.
“Long time no see, Seongwoo hyung,” he greets with a smile, pushing away the older male gently in mock annoyance at his attempt to squeeze his cheeks. Seongwoo was a student government member like him, but recently everyone had been too caught up with their final projects to even catch sight of each other’s faces around campus. He’s pleased to see that the business major looks as healthy as ever, but there’s a missing presence that causes him to tilt his head questioningly at the other, “Where’s Daniel hyung?”
“Daniel?” Seongwoo repeats, and his eyes widen as if just realizing the reality now himself. He whips his head around the crowded room anxiously but seems to find the answer immediately as a soft smile finds its way onto his face. Cupping his mouth with a hand, Seongwoo yells, “Niel! Come here!”
Just moments later, a familiar ashy blond head pops up by his side, and Jihoon resists the urge to coo at how easily the two melt into each other, the two sharing a knowing smile before the blond wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. Daniel notices Jihoon a beat later and offers him his trademark grin, “Hey Jihoon, glad you finally came out of your den,”
“Don’t make me sound like some kind of bear,” he says with a shake of his head but mirrors his smile.
“Den? More accurate to say nest,” Seongwoo tuts, wagging a finger at the younger, “I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I get a call telling me that Jihoon has permanently moved onto that rooftop,”
“Guess that’s common for him, huh?” a voice comments dryly, and Jihoon has to restrain the frown that tugs at his lips when he sees Woojin smirk at him from beside Daniel, because when did he get there and who even is he to join in on their conversation?
Well, Woojin is the party host, Jihoon thinks with a restrained sigh. And apparently Daniel’s friend, seeing from how the two boys dap each other up.
“Woojin,” Daniel greets easily, but his gaze holds a hint of surprise as it flickers between the two younger ones, “I didn’t know you guys knew each other?”
“We don’t,” Jihoon says with a curt nod in the other’s direction. He pretends not to see the cigarette tucked behind Woojin’s ear, pretends not to remember his almost intoxicating scent.
There’s an awkward pause at his declaration, both of his hyungs looking at him in mild confusion at his blatantly snappy attitude.
“I’m Park Woojin,” Woojin introduces wryly, breaking the silence and Jihoon doesn’t like the way it comes off as a challenge.
“Park Jihoon,” he says flatly, throwing his head back to take an exaggerated sip of his drink before realizing his cup is empty. Perfect, he decides. He raises the cup pointedly, vaguely gesturing to the direction of The Alcohol Table with a nod, “I’m going to get some more alcohol, but you guys don’t need to wait around,”
He walks away before any of them can protest, and a small part of him asks again why he’s so sensitive to the other boy. He ignores the voice of reason, however, in favor of another cup of the shitty alcohol that has actually begun to grow on him. Jihoon nurses his drink as he takes a seat on the worn-down couch tucked away in a corner of the room, watching indifferently as college students do what college students do: try to flirt their way into other people’s pants, make out on the sad excuse of a dance floor, down enough shots to make them forget about their final grades—the usual.
It’s at times like this that Jihoon is reminded of why he’s a psychology major; it’s just never boring to watch people, even if he’s seen it a thousand times with only slight variations.
At one point in the night, the buzz in Jihoon’s head becomes a growing fuzz, like an inescapable mold of drunkenness encroaching his consciousness.
Upon the cajoling of a few friends, he agrees to slow dance to some dumb old love songs, first with Jinyoung, who chatters away about Daehwi fondly, then with Daniel, who pouts about Seongwoo leaving him to play beer pong with Jaehwan, and then Jonghyun, who knows Minhyun is sober enough to function without him guarding him from unwanted persons, and Jihoon kind of adores how their friend group is so trusting with one another, how each of them bask in their love for their significant other, and is so caught up in his fondness for his friends that he doesn’t even realize when he’s passed off to a pair of unfamiliar arms until a certain cinnamon scent hits him.
“Woojin?” he murmurs, squinting up at the figure, but it’s hard to discern the face through the haze of drunkenness.
“Yea,” his partner confirms, hands on his waist surprisingly gentle as they move to the rhythm of the music. He still can’t quite see but Jihoon reaches up to Woojin’s ear, fingers easily finding the cigarette. “You want a smoke?” he asks at the sudden acquisition, surprise laced in his low voice.
“No,” Jihoon frowns, lowering his hand to stare at the stick with distaste. He encloses it in his grip and adjusts his arm so that it’s looped around Woojin’s neck again. “Smoking is bad,”
“It is bad,” Woojin agrees, and Jihoon looks up at him confusedly.
“But you smoke,” he points out quite obviously, silently wondering if the other was an idiot. Maybe he was just too drunk to realize the fallacy. But like always drunk, he thinks thoughtfully, vaguely recalling Woojin smoking on the lawn outside the dining hall.
“I’m into bad things. I’m a bad boy, remember?” the taller boy laughs, and Jihoon can somehow hear the smirk in his words. “It’s a bad habit though, I think I’m going to—”
His words are cut off when Jihoon decides that if he can see and hear the snaggletoothed boy’s smirk, he might as well taste and feel it on his lips. The first kiss is chaste, just a second of contact between lips, but then Woojin snorts softly before leaning down again to catch his lips, and then it’s longer and warmer, and Jihoon finds out that the other doesn’t taste like cinnamon but does taste like smoke so he recoils with a scrunch of his nose.
“You taste ashy,” he complains with a sigh much to Woojin’s apparent amusement. Jihoon wonders how he’ll understand the smirk with his fifth sense—could you smell a smirk?—but finds his musings interrupted by the soft kiss placed on his forehead.
“And you taste like vanilla,” Woojin hums, and it sends chills up his spine again , and somehow this whole situation feels like deja vu, like a big fuck you from the universe to make Jihoon live through their first encounter again, only with variations, and then he reminds himself that people being people is never boring, that variations are precisely what makes life, life , and that maybe the universe is just trying to gently prod him into something new.
But then he reminds himself that he hates change, hates anything that’ll give him a headache, so he pulls himself away from Park Woojin, from cinnamon and smoke and smirks and kisses, and wordlessly goes off in search of someone more familiar.
+++
Park Woojin is known to be good-natured but a bit headstrong, to put it lightly. Everyone says you haven’t really seen a fight until you’ve seen Woojin knock out an asshole in two seconds flat.
But that’s none of Park Jihoon’s business.
At least it hadn’t been, he thinks ruefully as he stares at the injured figure that’s draped lazily on the couch of the student office.
He’s too nice, he thinks, as he walks over to a cabinet to fetch the first aid kit.
“Sit up and I’ll bandage your hand,” he announces in a clipped tone as he drags a seat out in front of the couch. Woojin stirs at his voice, eyes blinking up at him slowly as the injured male pulls himself out of his dazed state. Jihoon waits as the other sits himself upright with a yawn and pretends not to notice the lack of a cigarette that would normally be perched on his ear.
“M’okay, I don’t need it bandaged…” he murmurs as he inspects his knuckles with mild interest. Jihoon rolls his eyes and reaches over to grab the injured hand, giving him a pointed look at the other’s pronounced wince. There are cuts all over the hand but the most blatant is the large, crusty gash he sports just below his knuckles. So he sets off to work quickly, gently wiping off the dried blood with a damp cloth before opening the kit for some disinfecting fluid. He ignores how the auburn-haired male curls the fingers of his injured hand around his own as he holds it up for easier access to dab the fluid on, and finds some satisfaction in the groan the disinfection process elicits from the other.
Once he’s finished cleaning up and dressing the wound, he bandages it neatly, biting his lip in concentration so that the strips of gauze will line up neatly. He lets out a huff of acknowledgement when he’s determined that he’s done, and is quite pleased by the end result. Jihoon looks up expectantly at Woojin, perhaps for a word of thanks or maybe even praise, but he receives no words, only a warm smile before the other boy leans in, and then he’s frozen and unable to look away as Woojin bumps noses with him like a kitten.
The Eskimo kiss is gentle and short-lived as the taller boy retracts himself soon after, taking to slumping back against the couch. Jihoon feels embarrassment burn on the tips of his ears and can’t even seem to form any coherent words for the situation, can only stare agape at bad boy extraordinaire Park Woojin who gazes at him so softly and holds his hand so carefully, as if he’s the one who’s injured.
“I stopped smoking,” Woojin confesses, and Jihoon is thankful that he’s the one to break the unnecessarily long moment of exchanged stares.
“That’s good,” he says with a nod, though he’s a bit confused on where this suddenly came from. Woojin looks at him, and if Jihoon wasn’t such an avid people watcher maybe he would have missed the disappointment in the other’s eyes, but he doesn’t, so he frowns questioningly at the expression. “What?”
“Are you going to make me spell it out?” the boy snorts, and Jihoon is still confused. It seems to be a common thing when he was with Woojin, he notes, unease always pricking at his heart. At his silence Woojin seems to grow frustrated and he swears he can almost see the oh fuck it moment that marks the other’s face as he leans in dangerously close. “You wouldn’t kiss me because I tasted ashy, remember?”
Jihoon’s brain seems to short circuit, and it’s like Park Woojin is one of Professor Cho’s insufferable open-response questions, and he, as always, can’t seem to figure out the right answer when it comes to him. He only manages what he hopes is a satisfactory response, and lets a quiet “Oh,” fall from his lips.
“Jihoon, you dense fucker,” Woojin growls though there’s more amusement in his tone than anything, and his uninjured hand reaches out to grab the back of Jihoon’s neck and pulls him in, all distance between them gone as breaths are exchanged. Jihoon can’t restrain the moan he utters when the other teases his lips with the tip of his tongue and finds himself being pulled onto the couch beneath the taller. “How do I taste now?” the snaggletoothed boy asks cheekily as he lets his fingers trace gentle patterns on his collarbone.
This question is one that Jihoon could answer, but there are a hundred different choices, and Jihoon would rather die than admit Park Woojin tastes like love and happy days and home so he whispers out a mellow “Sweet,” but it seems to satisfy the other nonetheless, seeing as how he lowers himself back down for another kiss, one that’s slow and soft, tongue lazily entering Jihoon’s mouth.
The kisses don’t stop, and seconds seem to stretch into hours of bliss, lips constantly brushing against each other until Woojin finds more interest in peppering kisses all over him, from his cheeks to his neck, and Jihoon just hopes he won’t wake up to a hickey infested neck because—
He frowns and closes his eyes, and Woojin seems to notice, fingers reaching up to brush his cheekbone.
“You okay?” he asks gently, and Jihoon can only shake his head.
Because Jihoon doesn’t want a reminder of what today is when he wakes up tomorrow, because he knows Woojin, has heard enough rumors to know that he’s just another notch in the bad boy’s bedpost, doesn’t want his heart to be broken, even though he knows he was set up for heartbreak the moment he saw the boy on the roof, all cinnamon and ash and smirks and kisses and tongue and love.
He hates change, hates anything that’ll give him a headache, he reminds himself as he gently pushes Woojin off him to sit up dazedly.
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he stands up, walking out of the office without a second look back.
+++
Park Woojin is the best of both worlds, they say. A bit of a wild gentleman: rough yet gentle, pushy but careful. It’s the duality hidden underneath his vast collection of black shirts and oversized jackets, found somewhere in his snaggletooth and his childish giggles.
But none of that is Park Jihoon’s business.
At least it hadn’t been, he thinks until he’s distracted by the force of his back hitting the wall behind him.
“My bad,” Woojin mutters and Jihoon mutely nods as the taller adjusts his hold on his thighs as to prop him up properly. His arms are wrapped around the auburn-haired male’s neck, legs mimicking the action, though it feels more like they’re just dangling in the air rather than curled around Woojin’s legs, but he doesn’t complain—can’t complain when the boy is lapping at his mouth in a way that makes his head go blank.
They pull away from each other after a few minutes (though it could have easily been much longer), both panting slightly from the intensity, and Jihoon can’t help but flush at the smile Woojin gives him. “Hey beautiful,” he coos in that voice of his, and fuck Jihoon hates how his heart is about to burst at those two words.
He also hates that he’s somehow ended up in the boy’s apartment, especially after he had been hell bent on avoiding the other after their awkward run-in last week at the dining hall. He isn’t even sure how he got here, can only attribute it to a snaggletooth that makes his knees go weak and Woojin looking unfairly attractive in his black button down and slacks.
“Hey,” he says a bit shyly, leaning forwards to peck Woojin’s nose. The other’s eyes crinkle in seeming delight as he leans in to kiss his neck, and Jihoon idly wonders how he’s going to cover up the hickies this time. He doesn’t have much time to wonder though when Woojin moves his lips upwards to nibble on his earlobe, eliciting a breathy gasp.
“You’re so sensitive, love,” the younger chuckles into this ear, and Jihoon can’t deal with how much of a mess he becomes at the pet names, though the ease at which they seem to roll off Woojin’s tongue sometimes leaves a metallic taste in his mouth.
Well, two can play at that game, he huffs.
“You just know me too well then, handsome,” Jihoon tries with a coy smile, and his heart flutters at how Woojin groans in exaggerated defeat before burying his head in the crook of his neck.
“Say that again,” the boy whines into his skin and Jihoon rolls his eyes playfully even though he knows the other can’t see it.
“Say what?” he teases. At the boy’s grumble, Jihoon laughs, “Come on, Woojin, what do you want me to say?”
“Never mind,” Woojin says as he presses a kiss right underneath his ear before smiling at Jihoon. “I like the way you say my name best,”
Jihoon splutters at his cheesy words, almost offended at how the boy says it with a straight face, but doesn’t turn down the sweet kiss that follows. It’s only been a few months since he’s met the other but it feels like he’s already taken a lifetime of kisses from him, Jihoon thinks.
After a few more kisses, Woojin carries him over to the kitchen and sets him down on the counter. At his questioning expression, the boy gestures to the fridge with a pout.
“All that kissing makes me hungry,” he complains with a shake of his head.
“And whose fault is that?” Jihoon tuts as he slides off the counter easily. Woojin throws him an amused look but doesn’t grace him with a retort, too busy taking out things from the fridge.
“How’s pasta?” the boy asks as he closes the fridge door behind him. He carries a number of vegetables over to the sink and turns on the sink.
“Sounds good, but I can’t—”
“Eat seafood, I know,” Woojin cuts off smoothly as he rolls his sleeves up. Jihoon, whose gaze had been lingering on the dancer’s forearms, looks up in surprise.
“How’d you know?” he asks, eyebrow raised. He’s sure he’s never told the other; there wasn’t exactly much time to explain one’s allergies while making out.
“There’s nothing I don’t know about you, Jihoon,” Woojin answers with a hum, sporting a cheeky smile. “Now come on, help me cook?”
“Okay,” Jihoon agrees, albeit a bit hesitant at how domestic this is. He’s still a bit stunned than the other knew such a minor tidbit about him, and he wishes he knew what went on in the boy’s head. He finds it strange how much care Woojin takes to detail when it comes to him, seeing as how he already has so many people in the palm of his hand.
He doesn’t let it raise his hopes though, remembering how Sungwoon had shown him the video of Woojin heatedly kissing Doyeon at a party just days ago. It was hard to remind himself that he wasn’t special, he thinks with a restrained sigh.
“You’re worrying,” Woojin chides as he slips an apron over Jihoon’s head, seeming to have noticed his frown.
“And what would I have to be worried about?” he mumbles, making sure to keep bitterness from coloring his words by offering the dancer a small smile.
“I don’t know what goes in that pretty head of yours, you tell me,” Woojin laughs with a shrug. The boy doesn’t seem to notice how he freezes at his choice of description.
A pretty head, Jihoon silently repeats as he continues to smile. It’s a phrase that’s almost nauseating in its familiarity, bringing with it flashes of hazy nights and spat insults.
Right, because that’s all he’ll ever be to anyone.
“I think I need to go,” Jihoon announces hurriedly, feeling a telltale prickling at the back of his head. He grabs his phone from his pocket anxiously as he shrugs the apron off, and quickly scrolls through his contacts, mind racing a mile a minute as he tries to figure out who he can call.
“Wait, what? Why?” Woojin asks, eyes wide in confusion. Jihoon only shakes his head in response as his fingers continue to swipe through desperately, before landing on the name he wants.
Bae Jinyoung.
He sends a quick text to the younger, something along the lines of please pick me up before I have a panic attack in front of fucking Park Woojin i want to scream at my therapist.
The boy answers immediately, a quick okay, daehwi is coming too, and Jihoon could almost cry.
“Jihoon, what’s wrong?” Woojin tries again, and Jihoon has to bite on his lip to keep himself from crying as he looks up at the taller.
“Nothing, I just—I need to go,” he forces out, trying to keep his tone even. He hates how sudden it is, knows how confused the other boy is, but he would rather sit through a five hour counseling session with Mina than openly go through his anxiety with Woojin.
“Daehwi said you were free all day today, though,” the boy says, raising an eyebrow, and the accusing tone is not lost on him.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Jihoon laughs hollowly as his fingers curl tightly around his phone.
“No, that’s not what I—Jihoon, what the fuck? Just tell me what’s up, I don’t understand,” Woojin insists, taking a step closer. He flinches and the dancer stills, mouth slightly agape in surprise, gaze tinged with hurt.
The sharp doorbell that trills through the apartment breaks both of them out of their momentary silence, and Woojin looks at him wearily as he walks to the door. Jihoon follows behind after a few seconds, confused as to how Jinyoung and Daehwi could have gotten here so fast.
The door opens and he doesn’t miss Woojin’s curt greeting to whoever’s at the entrance, and his heart deflates because that means it isn’t them. But when he hears a low “Yo, I’m here to pick Jihoon hyung up”, Jihoon really does cry.
“Guanlin,” he chokes out as he walks past Park Woojin into the younger one’s arms. He misses how Woojin glares at the Taiwanese boy, too busy burying his face into Guanlin’s sweater as tears run down his face. Guanlin wraps his arms around him protectively, making sure to hide his face as he sobs quietly.
“Sorry, Woojin hyung, I need Jihoon for something,” Guanlin shrugs. The two exchange a few more words but Jihoon is too tired to try to hear them over his thoughts, only holds onto Guanlin tighter.
“I don’t—whatever,” Woojin snaps loudly, and Jihoon hears the door slam from behind them. He detaches himself from the boy when he feels a tap on his shoulder, and sniffles quietly as Guanlin pats the tears dry with his sleeves. He lets him guide him down to the parking lot, where Jinyoung and Daehwi greet him with warm arms and soothing words.
Guanlin leaves the trio with a crooked smile and a good-natured shrug at Jihoon’s teary thanks, only stopping to laugh at “how lucky hyung was that i was actually in my apartment for once”.
As Jihoon sits in the back of Jinyoung’s car, watching the houses flash past him, he bitterly thinks of how he should have walked away the moment he had seen Park Woojin on that rooftop.
+++
Park Woojin is no lightweight, if the infamous video of him chugging vodka proves anything. He’s usually the soberest person at the party even if convinced to down a few more shots than everyone else, or at least that’s what Daehwi says when laughing about his cousin.
But none of that is Park Jihoon’s business.
At least it hadn’t been, he thinks dazedly after he had opened the door to a very drunk Woojin, who’s last semblance of sanity seems to be resting on the hand placed on the frame of the door to keep him standing upright.
“Why are you— how do you know where I live?” Jihoon questions warily, not sure if he should be prepared to catch the guy in case he falls. He’s never had the best reflexes, so he thinks that maybe he should get himself ready but then he notices the redness that edges Woojin’s nose and the chill of the air outside. “How long have you been out here?” he mumbles, taking a step forward to place a hand on the taller boy’s face. He pretends not to notice how Woojin leans into his touch almost needily and finds himself frowning at how his skin is startlingly cold.
“I—I came before,” the snaggletoothed boy admits, gaze directed downwards as if ashamed. Jihoon nods at his words, inwardly beckoning for him to continue so he could understand the other’s train of thought. “I came a couple of t-times but I couldn’t bring myself to knock,” Woojin rasps, eyes fluttering close. “But today I knocked,” he says, and there’s almost a proud line to his tight smile.
Jihoon is unsure of what to think, so he keeps his gaze reticent and hand steady. A burst of wind sneaks past the doorway, chilling him to the bone and it reminds him that he should probably bring Woojin in before he catches a cold—even if it seems like the worst move for his heart. And so he does, a gentle hand at the other’s back to guide him, although he seems to have awfully good motor skills and coherency despite the overwhelming stench of alcohol that pervades his being.
He brings Woojin to the couch, and the taller sits down obediently at his gesture. Jihoon goes to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and sets it down carefully in Woojin’s hands when he returns.
Woojin takes a long draw from the cup, and Jihoon finds it a bit scary at how able-minded he seems to be. Maybe Daehwi was right—Woojin just could never get drunk. Or at least past the point of logical thought drunk, he corrects himself, the silent Woojin being some kind of, if weak, indication of his drunken state.
The silence gives Jihoon too much time to think, his gaze taking in the whole of Park Woojin, the boy who smirks at him when they brush past each other, who pulls him wordlessly into empty lecture halls for convenient kisses, who sends him good morning texts religiously but nothing more unless he’s drunk and needy, who flips his world upside down when he flirts so naturally with the cute girl passing by before setting it right back up with a loving gaze and gentle touches, and Jihoon can’t seem to stop thinking about Woojin but can’t seem to want to face him, and he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Woojin points it out softly, eyebrows furrowed in concern that’s so sweet it makes him want to scream.
“What do you want from me?” Jihoon croaks out after a few beats of silence. He wipes away the falling tears angrily, shaking his head at how he seems to always end up in these situations.
Woojin licks his lips in apparent anxiety at the question, turning to set the cup of water down on the table. He shifts closer to Jihoon, who holds a hand to his chest to keep him from getting any closer because he already knows how this is going to go, how he’s going to feel hollow for days after while Woojin smiles like nothing’s ever changed, and attractive bad boy rep be dammed, a stupid make out session now wasn’t going to be enough to fix his heart later.
“I just want you,” Woojin says unbeknownst to his thoughts, tone a bit defeated, eyes a bit tired as he stares at Jihoon. “Is that so selfish? Is—is that so bad that you avoid me everytime we do anything?” he whispers, putting his own hand on top of the one placed on his chest. “You always push me away Jihoon,”
Woojin’s laugh is bitter, his grip on Jihoon’s hand almost painfully tight.
“I don’t want to be your boy toy,” manages Jihoon albeit a slight tremor to his voice. He’s told his eyes are limitlessly expressive, endless pits of emotions and unspoken words, so he stares at Woojin, and hopes that somehow the other boy will understand the hurt that keeps them apart.
Apparently he doesn’t, judging from the strangled hiss Woojin ekes. “What are you even talking about, Jihoon? What have I ever done to make you think that?”
His grip is actually painful now, Woojin’s hand shaking from the force of holding it so tightly. Jihoon doesn’t know what to say—as usual—because how do you explain hours of watching the boy sweep all the people around him off their feet, hours of hearing about Woojin’s loving words and kind touches, hours of overthinking every moment they spent together to insanity.
“Jihoon, you’re the one who treats me like—like I’m some kind of toy,” Woojin chokes out, and it’s almost too much for him to see the boy looking so vulnerable and exhausted in front of him, low voice cracking with emotion. But he stands his ground, already knowing how the game is played, how he’ll be manipulated if he’s swept up so Jihoon stays silent and forces his gaze down. “No, you look at me—” Fingers force his chin upwards, and Jihoon is reminded of the day on the rooftop when warm brown eyes had met his, only now they’re weary and begging. “—You can’t keep doing this to me, Jihoon. You can’t always refuse to talk to me, always ignoring my texts, always ignoring me unless we’re making out, pretending you don’t know me when you see me—like, like I’m some dirty secret! You avoid me so your friends won’t find out about whatever the fuck we are and I’m honestly so sick and tired of this,”
“So leave, Woojin,” Jihoon whimpers as tears fall, all accusations lost on his own broken heart. He knows he isn’t being fair to the other, knows that he’s at fault as well, but can’t he be selfish for once? Is it so terrible to want to protect yourself from nights of tears and guilt tripping messages? Is it so bad to—
“Baby,” Woojin whispers, and the name that’s only before been whispered between kisses makes Jihoon cry harder, forces him to allow the taller to pull him into his embrace. “I know, I’ve already heard from Daehwi. I know all your exes have been assholes and that you’re scared and anxious and that you swore you’d never fall for a shitty person again, but I just don’t understand why ,” the embrace tightens, “Why you think I’ll be like them, when all I’ve done is pine after you like some kind of fool,”
This makes Jihoon’s body shake with sobs, because now how do you explain multiple abusive relationships and rape and cheaters and liars and manipulators and all the therapy that never seems to put all the pieces of Jihoon back together perfectly, always a chip missing or cracking away. How can he tell Woojin that he’ll never be assured by his sweet words or I love you ’s, that he’ll be paranoid about every little thing, that his fear of tying the other down is even greater than his of being thrown away, because that’s how hard he’s fallen for him.
“I love you but—” Jihoon starts as he pulls away from Woojin’s shoulder, but is cut off by lips on his own in the softest of kisses.
“There’s no but, baby. We can make it work, will make it work. I just need you to talk to me,” Woojin insists when they part, putting their foreheads together and Jihoon is breathless again by the scent of cinnamon tinged with alcohol.
Jihoon doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the warm hands holding his arms, or the unwavering stare, or the snaggletooth, or maybe it’s just Park Woojin, but somehow a simple “Okay,” leaves him. Because for some reason he believes him, as stupid as it may sound.
It’s worth it, though, no matter the moment of insanity that allowed it, because the smile that molds Woojin’s lips is beautiful and genuine and then it’s on his own lips and even he has to mirror the smile, lets a giggle escape when Woojin kisses him in fervor, pushing him back down on the couch as if he can’t get enough, and Jihoon thinks of how unpredictable people really are. He thinks of how much can change in a minute as his eyes are closed to nothing but a pair of comforting lips, how he might regret everything tomorrow morning, but the hand that holds his own reminds him a beautiful bad boy by the name of Park Woojin will be there with him tomorrow morning to assure him of his love, to hold him through the bad days and laugh with him on the good ones.
Park Woojin is sweet and loving and kind and beautiful.
And it’s most definitely Park Jihoon’s business now.
fin.