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To be honest, it takes San a lot longer to realise that he literally cannot read anymore than it should. Perhaps that is a bit of an over-exaggeration. But, San maintains, the words on the television screen and on scripts beamed onto rolling cue boards are lost causes. They’re blurry, a black fuzz of characters that have almost no meaning to them.
The problem is, this happens so quickly that San feels like a switch is flicked overnight. It’s not. It was a gradual process. But, the point when difficult-to-read writing turns into impossible-to-read writing is the type of thing that you wake up one day and just realise more often you actively track the downwards progression.
And, it’s more of an issue than San cares to admit. When he notices that the scripts have become illegible, he promises himself that he’ll go to the optometrist on the first day off. In the meantime, he steps closer, closer, closer until he can make out the words and then memorise them.
That's not taking the daily struggles into account, though. By the time he’s missed half a dozen things that were thrown at him, nearly walked into the wall twice and actually collided a few doors and a pole, all the while complaining of headaches, there’s no hiding that something is wrong. The other members are too perceptive to miss that.
So, San finds himself being escorted into the cramped examination room of an optometrist as soon as they find a day with only one schedule that finishes in the late morning. Hongjoong, as their resident leader and bad-eyesight expert, accompanies him into the room and starts reeling off all sorts of things that San hadn’t even noticed.
He’s been squinting a lot for a few months.
Even when he’s in bright light, his pupils are always really big.
He struggles to read books because he can’t see the words if they’re too far away, but he also can’t see them if they’re too close.
San watches in Hongjoong’s direction—really, his face has completely disappeared into a flesh-coloured circle and his clothes are a blurry outline of colours—in mild surprise. Obviously, his leader pays more attention to him than he had actually noticed.
And after a few mildly horrifying eyesight charts (“no, I can’t read the top line”), he comes out with a diagnosis of myopia. A very bad case of myopia. And some focusing issues to top it off, just to make things more entertaining. He also has a note saying he legally cannot drive until he acquires some glasses or contacts, but that doesn’t concern San too much; he doesn’t drive much, anyway.
“Is anything wrong?” Wooyoung asks when San and Hongjoong walk back into the dorm.
Now that he knows what’s wrong and also that there’ll be a solution in two weeks, San suddenly notices just how bad his vision is. Wooyoung, in his sweats and an old jumper, blends almost seamlessly into the couch. San would probably have missed him altogether if not for his bright orange hair.
Hongjoong claps San on the shoulder. “He’s short-sighted. Like, badly short-sighted.”
“Worse than you and Mingi?” Yeosang’s voice says from somewhere to San’s left.
Laughing under his breath, Hongjoong’s hand dropped from San’s shoulder. “Much worse.” He steers San to the couch and pushes him onto it as San lets out an indignant sigh. He is perfectly capable of navigating the dorm without walking into the coffee table and doorknobs. “Like, how are you even functioning right now?” Hongjoong continued.
San shrugs. “Willpower and spite,” he says with a grin and hears Wooyoung laugh in response.
During the next two weeks, everyone seems to be a little more careful around him. Mingi has stopped launching himself at San, Jongho doesn’t throw things to him, and Hongjoong takes an extra half an hour to go over scripts with San because, damn it, why are all of those things written in size 10 font with 1.0 spacing? Perhaps the most helpful change comes from Seonghwa, who has taken to saying ‘low door’ or ‘stairs’ whenever either of them approach.
San doesn’t know whether or not to be appreciative of it. At least, he supposes, he’s not walking into so many intimate objects any more. Either way, it’ll all be fine when he gets his glasses.
And, it kind of is. Hongjoong returns with him to the optometrist and his smile is the first thing San sees once he puts the glasses on. God, had his vision really been that bad? San blinks a few times and looks around himself dazedly. He can’t remember the last time he saw anything this clearly. Maybe he never had, because he's certain that he's never been able to see leaves on a tree from further than a few meters away.
It’s like the world has been wrenched from the depths of an ocean in 144pp to that HD NASA picture of the Andromeda Galaxy that Yeosang told him about once. Only, it’s so much better, because he can actually recognise faces again from more than three meters away. How crazy is that?
He grins the entire way back to the dorm, looking around himself like he’s been picked up and dropped in the middle of Narnia. In his lap, his fingers curl protectively around a glasses case, a box of contact lenses for his prescription and contact lens solution. Hongjoong and the manager just laugh at the amazement on his face.
Marching into the dorm, San feels invincible. He can see where he’s walking and doesn’t need to have half an ear out for someone to tell him that he’s about to talk into something he hasn’t seen. That confidence lasts all of about thirty seconds, up to the moment when Wooyoung lets out a sputter, his eyes going wide and face bright red, and runs out of the room like he’s been set on fire. Yeosang doubles over on himself, nearly in tears as he watches Wooyoung’s dash and Seonghwa placating pats San on the shoulder.
“They look good on you,” he says, and now San can properly see the smile on his face. “I like the frames. They suit you.”
San lets a small frown cross his face. The frames are nothing like the stylish wire ones that are so in fashion at the moment. San wasn’t honestly faithful that they would be able to support his hefty prescription, so he had chosen a pair with a thicker, black rim. Although at the time his ability to see what he was trying on was rather limited, he had thought they looked decent when he came back home.
Mingi blinks owlishly at him when he sees the glasses. “I like them, too!” he declares loudly and throws himself at San in the exact way he has not been for the past two-and-a-half weeks. “Are you gonna wear contacts, though?”
“I mean, I will on stage,” San replies, a little doubtful. He’s no stranger to contact lenses; he’s worn enough coloured ones over their year of activity to be very familiar with putting them in and taking them out. Even so, it’s not exactly comfortable and he’s more than happy to wear his glasses when he can. At least they don’t make his eyes ache.
Over dinner, Hongjoong wears his own, prescription glasses, perhaps as a vote of solidarity against Wooyoung who still can’t keep a straight face when he looks at San. Although they are not the only two who wear prescription glasses in this group, they definitely have the worst vision of all of them. And to think that his vision was even stronger than Hongjoong’s…
Maybe it’s bitterness, maybe it’s defiance, but San refuses to stop wearing his glasses. Aside from the fact that he needs them to get around, he has no interest in his contact lenses unless they’re meeting fans. Wooyoung can just suck it.
(It’s probably a bit more to do with bitterness than San would care to admit. Wooyoung is going to kill him if he keeps exiting the room every time San enters).
But, it’s also a little bit hurtful. San’s not going to lie: having someone, almost without fail, remove themselves from the room whenever he walks in is not a nice feeling. It’s worse when he considers that when Wooyoung can’t escape, he either avoids San’s gaze like the plague, or bursts into awkward laughter.
“Oh, my gosh,” Wooyoung had crowed, slightly hysterical, when they had been waiting for hair and makeup one day, “You look like Tombo.” He had clutched his stomach, crouching down and laughing. The tone was desperate rather than amused, and he had been quick to volunteer to get his hair styled next.
Seonghwa laughs when San tells him, while Yunho howls until he has tears rolling down his cheeks. It’s somewhat off-putting, San’s not going to lie. Even Jongho suppresses a giggle, and San quickly comes to the conclusion that he’s obviously missing something big. An inside joke, perhaps.
But, it could be worse, San concludes. At least the fans are none the wiser. Their latest fascination with the Seonghwa’s hair colour seems to be keeping them preoccupied. He and Wooyoung have been too well trained by the company than to let whatever this rut is bleed into their work.
And, in the meantime, he and Wooyoung just continue to be awkward around each other. The others all seem to find it hilarious. Perhaps it is, but San would need to be in on the joke for him to know that.
Eventually, San manages to corner Hongjoong in the studio when they’re left alone.
“Wait,” he says when Hongjoong stands up to leave. “I have a question.”
Hongjoong pauses where he stands, and then slowly lowers himself back into his chair. “What do you want to know?”
San squints at him for a second. “Don’t laugh,” he preempts. He’s had enough of that at this point. It was bordering on amusing at first, but now, he’s getting sick of being left out of whatever this joke is.
Holding up his hands in surrender, Hongjoong watches with a small grin as San bites his lips. He looks as though he knows exactly what’s happening, and San doesn’t know whether or not it’s fair to dislike him for that.
“What’s up with Wooyoung?” San crosses his arms over his chest, and peers at Hongjoong through his glasses. “He’s being weird and won’t stay in the same room as me.”
“Trust me, we’ve all noticed,” Hongjoong mutters, before giggling.
San frowns at him. “Seriously, what’s so funny? You all seem to find this hilarious, but I don’t get why he’s so angry with me.”
And then realisation dawns on Hongjoong’s face. There’s even a flash of discomfort that rockets through his eyes for a second. “He’s not angry with you,” Hongjoong finally says, and holy shit, even his voice sounds a little guilty. It’s the first time anyone has approached his question with anything less than a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that it looked like that to you.”
So, it is a joke that he missed the punchline on. All he needs now is someone to explain it, and Hongjoong seems to be all over it.
“I promise you, he’s really not angry,” Hongjoong repeated. He leant forward, elbows on his knees and hands cupping his chin. “He’s just having a bit of a crisis at the moment.”
That makes San hesitate. “A crisis?” His tone drifts up at the end, doubtful, but more confused than anything else. How the hell does that relate to him? Honestly, he’s not sure he wants to know considering the way that everyone else looks at him.
Wooyoung’s blatant discomfort at sharing the same space with San hurts. Much more than it has any right to. And, he’s not quite sure that he can face the reason for that being something that he’s done wrong. That idea makes his whole chest ache with something that he vaguely recognises, but refuses to think too much about.
“I’d tell you,” Hongjoong says, and a hint of a smirk crawls up his face as he sees San’s panicked expression, “But I don’t think that’d be fair to him. Or to you. He’ll sort it out, okay?”
San nods slowly, but his heart isn’t really in it. “What am I meant to do in the meantime, though?” He wishes that he did not sound so betrayed because Hongjoong looks genuinely upset hearing his words. And no one likes to make him sad; the expression he makes is always a little too painful for anyone to want to spend any time considering it.
“Talk to him?” His words sound more like a question as he rubs at the side of his head. “Or, I’ll talk to him first. Is it alright if I tell him that he’s-.”
“No.” San cuts him off before he can even get the words out. An irrational burst of irritation surges through him. If Wooyoung has a problem with him, then he can deal with it himself. It’s not San’s job, nor anyone else’s, to chase after him until he gets his act together.
With a perfectly neutral expression, Hongjoong shrugs. “Okay, sure. But, I’ll still tell him to get his act together, then.”
Pushing his glasses up his nose, San does not respond.
And, Hongjoong does not wait for one. He turns back to the computer screen and preoccupies himself with experimenting with the resonance and tone of each bass sound that he samples, apparently having forgotten about returning to the dorm. San watches in contemplative silence, more than content to spend a few more hours out of Wooyoung's vicinity.
At least here he’s not being avoided like he’s caught the plague.
(When they arrive home—far too late, as Seonghwa scolds him without any conviction in his voice—San sees Hongjoong pull Wooyoung into one of the bedrooms. When they reemerge thirty minutes later, Wooyoung’s eyes are suspicious red-rimmed and Hongjoong looks torn between annoyance and concern. San decides not to ask).
The thing is, though, things still don’t change. If anything, they get worse. Because, now, Wooyoung is staying in the same room as San but his grins are a little too wide and he avoids San’s eyes as if looks could kill.
It’s a painful exercise.
And, suddenly, everyone else seems to have caught up to that fact, too, because they don’t laugh so much at Wooyoung’s plunders, or at San’s confusion. Even the fans seemed to have picked up on something because he’s seen more than a few tweets talking about his and Wooyoung’s lack of obvious affection in their interviews and lives lately. An obvious contrast, apparently, from what they had been doing before.
“What’s wrong?” San demands one day when he and Wooyoung are alone in the living room. When San had walked into the room an hour ago, he had dropped onto the settee at the opposite end from Wooyoung and waited for something to happen.
Nothing had; Wooyoung had simply pushed himself a little further to one side and avoided looking at him, but tension shrouded them like a thick, woollen blanket.
Wooyoung still doesn’t look at him. “What?”
Turning his body towards Wooyoung, San crosses his legs beneath himself and refuses to look away. “Why are you so weird whenever we’re in the same room?”
It’s quite impressive, San thinks, the way that Wooyoung so flawlessly manages to avoid making eye contact. Even though they now face each other, and are separated by one a cushion, San has scarcely felt farther away from him. Which is at least slightly pathetic; he feels ridiculous for managing to get so worked up over something like this.
“Did I do something wrong? Are you angry?” San throws questions at him, waiting for an answer, but Wooyoung goes strangely tense. His muscles are rigid and San can see the outlines of them in his arms, which are on full display thanks to his sleeveless shirt. Gulping, San averts his gaze and begs his mind to ignore the stirring in his stomach.
“I’m not–,” Wooyoung starts, his voice faltering. “I’m not angry, and you’ve done nothing wrong,” he finally manages. Words lilt with his voice and San struggles to recognise the tone behind them. It’s something unfamiliar, something that he hasn’t heard before.
But, that means Hongjoong was right, and San’s not quite sure what to make of that. Does he ask Wooyoung about this crisis he’s facing? Does he try to help? Or is that going to make it worse, when at least one part of it so obviously contains him?
His questions are answered for him when Wooyoung speaks again, fiddling with his fingers. “I’m sorry for making you feel like that… I’ll try harder in the future.”
San resists the urge to scream. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to try harder, he wants whatever this situation is to end. Whatever that takes. And, he’s not quite sure what that is, but he’s sure as hell willing to sacrifice it. He’s tired of not having his best friend. As much as he loves every one of the members in ATEEZ, he found something in Wooyoung that he had just a little more in common with, a little more of an interest in, and that weird, fluttery, floaty feeling in his stomach whenever they spend time together.
A shaky grin is offered in San’s direction, and what can he do but accept it? His heart melts at it, and his brain goes fuzzy. He missed Wooyoung's smiles.
And, Wooyoung, slowly and cautiously, hobbles on his knees over to where San is and curls up against him on the couch. The movie plays on, San smells Wooyoung’s hair, and for a second, it’s like nothing was ever different.
It even lasts. Sort of. Maybe spurred on by their conversation, maybe not, Wooyoung seems to be making a lasting effort to go back to how things were before. The members are abated, the fans are happy, and San revels in the lightness of his heart again.
But, it’s not quite there. San knows this because he sees the way that Wooyoung’s eyes still dart away when he looks at them. He can feel Wooyoung’s heart racing whenever their bodies are pressed close together. He recognises the tightness of his lips and the way he touches his ear and lot when they’re together.
So, no, it’s not fixed. And San knows this, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to pretend that all things in the world are right again, and he can hug Wooyoung and nuzzle into his neck and it’s just what they do. What friends do.
Things aren’t that easy, though. They never are, and they never will be. For as long as San recognises those skittish behaviours that plague Wooyoung, he knows that there is something, still unspoken, that divides them. San wants to know what that is. He needs to know what it is.
Their members pick up on it, too. After almost a month of forced normalcy, Yeosang gets fed up. He huffs loudly during the middle of one of their movie sessions when he notices San and Wooyoung meet eyes and then look away again. Before anyone can blink, he stands up and drags a moaning Wooyoung out of the room.
San watches, bemused, and not quite sure what to make of the situation. Until Yunho and Mingi grab one arm each and yank him in the other direction, pulling him into the bedroom that he and Mingi share.
“Okay, spill,” Mingi says without any preamble after dumping San unceremoniously on the bed.
Lost, San stares back at them. “Spill what?”
Mingi lets out a frustrated groan, and Yunho turns to him with a remarkably matter-of-fact expression on his face. “I told you; clueless. Literally as blind as a bat.”
“Oi!” San protests, and subconsciously adjusts his glasses, because yes, maybe it’s a little bit true, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to sit there and accept it. “That’s not true! My vision can be corrected to almost perfect.”
Blinking at him slowly, Yunho shakes his head. “No, idiot, I mean about you and Wooyoung.”
That hits something cold and hard in San’s stomach. “What about it?” Voice low and unenthusiastic, it makes Mingi drag a hand across his face in utter despair. “It’s not my fault that he’s still being weird around me. How should I know what got up his arse.”
“Oh, my God. You’re both even bigger idiots than I thought,” Mingi breathes like it’s some incredible revelation.
San scowls at him. “Screw off.” It’s a light-hearted threat at best, and Yunho looks like he’s doing his best to hold back a grin.
“You’re crushing on him,” Yunho states, deadpan as before. “You’ve both got it so bad, and it was kinda funny before, but now it’s just getting sad.” A small smile worms its way onto his face, and his façade cracks into a guilty grin. “We may be staging an intervention.”
The world is blurred around him for a second as if he had taken off his glasses before San manages to sputter out a response. “I don’t have a crush on Wooyoung!”
“You do, though,” Mingi says, patting San condescendingly on the head. “You really, definitely, absolutely do. If it makes you feel any better, you've definitely been his gay awakening, too.”
Yunho nods sagely. “And we’re going to sort this out.”
“Okay, but a concept,” San starts, and his head is spinning so much at this information that he doesn’t even stumble over his words, “I don’t have a crush on him, and we can sort this out by ourselves.”
A disbelieving look is sent in his direction as Mingi shakes his head. “Okay, but it’s been three months, and we’re all about to cry if we're stuck between your awkward, unresolved sexual tension for any longer.”
“We don’t have sexual tension!” San says, voice growing louder, but the more he thinks about it, the more he’s falling into a deep, dark abyss. Because that tingly feeling in his stomach that he always feels with Wooyoung… That’s probably not a good sign, particularly if he’s trying to prove that he doesn’t have a crush.
“You do,” Yunho says briskly, and crosses his arms over his chest.
And, the thing is, San’s so focused on not thinking about this tingly feeling that of course, he blurts it all out. Of course. Life sucks, sometimes, and Mingi looks like he’s about to cry from laughter at San’s words. He wheezes and drags a hand underneath his eyes to dry the tears.
“That’s called a crush, you absolute imbecile,” he gasps, before dissolving into giggles again.
San sits there, his mouth half-open, certain that he looks every bit the twit he currently feels. There’s something weird in his stomach, a stirring almost, like something very strange is happening. It’s not that San has a problem with this revelation—he’s known that he’s gay since he was in high school—but it’s too weird to think about after years of knowing Wooyoung, suddenly aware that he’s been ignoring this for the better part of his adult life.
Perhaps it’s even a little embarrassing. (No, that’s not right. It’s very embarrassing). Embarrassing that he had to be told he had a crush on someone. He’s almost twenty-three; he doesn’t need his bandmates to explain to him what his own emotions are. Except, apparently he does, and he doesn’t quite know how to process that.
Yunho and Mingi do, though, and escort him back into the living room where Seonghwa and Hongjoong just look bemused. Jongho has disappeared, presumably to help Yeosang corner Wooyoung if what Yunho had said was true.
“Everything alright?” Hongjoong asks, sounding genuinely concerned. San’s stomach contracts, and he’s lost the ability to form sentences all of a sudden. “San?”
Yunho’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “He’s fine. We’re just helping him a bit.”
“Helping,” Seonghwa repeat. He looks dubious, and San doesn’t blame him. He is probably bug-eyed, while standing around and staring into space in the middle of the living room, and weirdest of all, he's being quiet. And if there is one thing everyone knows, it’s that San is not quiet.
San is never quiet. That’s just not a word in his vocabulary, except when he’s sick, or about to collapse from exhaustion, or something is very, very wrong. So, perhaps it's fair that neither Seonghwa nor Hongjoong look fully convinced by Yunho and Mingi’s shit-eating grins.
There is no time to ponder it for long, though, before they’re dragging him out of another door and shoving him into a bedroom. It catches San off guard; their hands fall off him and he suddenly overbalances, falling face-first into the room that Wooyoung and Yeosang share.
It takes a moment to process what’s happened, but there are arms that stopped his face from colliding with the wooden floors, and a familiar warmth that is suddenly so much scarier than it was fifteen minutes ago.
San stumbles to his feet and pushes himself away from Wooyoung. His face feels like its flaming. It must be bright red, at minimum, but he honestly wonders if he’s hovering around the purple zone by now. He hopes not, because there are few ways this could become more humiliating.
Except there are, because Wooyoung blushes to the shade of firetruck, and he backs away from San like they’ve burnt each other. And then, San really does overbalance onto his knees. He scrambles up again and faces Wooyoung like they're boxers at the opposite ends of a ring.
Neither of them knows what to say; there’s silence for a horrifically long minute before San musters the courage to clear his throat.
“Mingi and Yunho said this is an intervention,” he says. His voice is shockingly stable. Not quite sure how much he could trust himself, he had half been expecting a grovel.
Wooyoung’s face turns an even more impressive shade of tomato. “Did they?” he squeaks.
“They said we have to get our act together,” San continues, still bafflingly steady. For how fast his heart is beating, his ability to maintain a level tone is confusing even to him. “And that we’ve got unresolved sexual tension.” Of course, perhaps the reason that he’s able to speak steadily is because there’s some sort of disconnect between his brain and his mouth because San is certain that he would not have said that if his brain was not currently incapacitated.
A sharp inhale breaks the quiet in the room, and Wooyoung is beginning to threaten a plum-like colour, which San is sure is not a good sign. He frowns. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I feel like I’m about to pass out,” Wooyoung says. He sounds it, too. “They’re all snakes.”
San nods, expression shrewd. “They are. But, they’ve obviously got something right.”
“Shit,” Wooyoung hisses, and he finally takes a proper breath. The colour that stains his skin doesn’t die away, but at least the subtle swaying in his posture does. “They told you, didn’t they?”
Told him what? They told him a lot of things. “Yes.” Because, when in doubt, there’s scarcely a better solution than agreeing without knowing what the question actually was. San’s survived twenty-three years on that principle, so it can’t be that wrong.
Wooyoung’s eyes shutter, and then he crosses his arms across his chest. “Okay, look, it’s not my fault that your glasses make you stupidly good and that made me have a crisis.”
The words don’t quite match what he was expecting.
Wooyoung seems like he’s waiting for San to say something, but the sentence is still pinging around San’s head like a pinball, stubbornly refusing to actually hit the areas if needs to so he can understand what’s happening. “What?”
“What?” Wooyoung repeats, sounding slightly smaller.
“My glasses? Crisis?”
A frown crosses Wooyoung’s face, and he gives the smallest of nods.
San falters, trying to come up with an answer to that. What Yunho and Mingi had talked about in that room, what Hongjoong had said over a month ago… None of it had fully registered, but now it was hitting the mark with ten-fold intensity. And, the words San wants do not come. Instead, he ends up sputtering his way into an awkward, “Do you have a glasses kink or something?”
“No!” Wooyoung yelps like he’s been maimed, and then hurries to defend himself. “You were pretty before, you’re just hot in glasses.” He pauses, contemplates, and continues sheepishly. “Okay, maybe I have a bit of a glasses kink.”
Not quite knowing what to do with that information, San crouches down and laughs into his knees. This is too much like some weird dream for him to take it seriously.
“Oh, my God, you don’t have to make fun of me for it,” Wooyoung moans, sounding mortified.
Tears dot the corners of San’s eyes. “You mean,” he says, gasping between each word, “You put me through hell for three months because you thought I looked fuckable when I’m wearing my glasses.”
There’s a loud shriek of embarrassment from Wooyoung. “I said hot! Not fuckable!” Wooyoung bats his hands in front of himself as if fighting the air is going to help his case. “Don’t put words into my mouth!”
San struggles to breathe, pushing his glasses onto his forehead and wiping to tears of mirth off his cheeks and eyes. Yes, he finds it hilarious, but more honestly, he’s just relieved. Relieved to know that Wooyoung doesn’t actually hate him and, no, the past months have not been about something he did wrong.
Wooyoung crouches down and falls onto his bottom. With gentle hands, he pulls San’s wrists away from his face. Reflexively, San looks up at him.
It’s a little like a cliché drama that they’ve watched a thousand times on team-movie-bonding-nights, but suddenly Wooyoung is drawing closer. And closer. And closer. And San’s not pulling away, but maybe even leaning into it a little bit.
Somewhere in the world, fireworks are exploding. The Nobel Peace Prize has just been awarded. The sun has just risen. Wooyoung’s lips brush against San’s.
He’s not quite sure what to make of it at first. It’s wetter than he expected, and also softer. Their lips move against each other’s, warm and completely new. San’s kissed people before. San’s kissed boys before. But he’s never kissed anyone quite like Wooyoung, he realises as his fingers come to trace San's jaw.
San wrenches away, pressing his palm to his lips. “Oh, shit,” he mutters under his breath.
Wooyoung looks like he’s been shocked with electricity, and San can actually see that given their faces are only a foot apart. “Should I not have done that?” His voice is high, bordering on hysterical, and San shakes his head frantically to calm him.
“No, you really should have,” San says, and does his best to shuffle closer to Wooyoung. This time, he presses their lips together, and a few seconds of blissful new-found familiarly pass before there’s a decisively out-of-the-normal thump against the door, as though someone had collided with it.
They pull apart and both look in that direction as Jongho topples into the room. He has the decency to give them a bashful grin. “Glad to see it worked out?” he tries, before San pushes himself to his feet and launches himself at him.
With a yelp, Jongho pushes himself up and disappears out of the doorway.
Wooyoung and San share a look and dissolve into giggles simultaneously. Wooyoung’s hands find San’s body naturally, and, yes, San thinks, this is what I missed. The ease of their touches, the intimate awareness of each other, and the sessions of laughter where neither of them can stop for love nor money. Except, perhaps there’s a trace of something else in there, now, and San opens his mouth.
“Wait, Woo, does this mean that you’d-?”
Wooyoung cuts him off with a finger over his mouth. He grins, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. It’s a sight that San could definitely become more familiar with. “Wait,” he says, “I messed this up for three months, I should at least be the one ask.” He inhales deeply, and the grin on his face touches the very centre of San’s body, warming every part of him like the sun on a cold morning. “Will you be my boyfriend?”
“Yes,” San breathes and tackles Wooyoung into a hug that sends them both sprawling onto the floor. San lies on top of Wooyoung and pecks him quickly on the lips. “You should have asked this three months ago, you fucker."
“Says you,” Wooyoung taunts, pushing San off of him.
San raises an eyebrow. “I’m not the only who ignored me for three months because they had a glasses kink.”
“I don’t have a glasses kink!” Wooyoung howls, and it’s loud enough that they can both hear laughter from the main room, and someone—Mingi, probably—yelling his disagreement with Wooyoung's statement.
Wooyoung turns to him with a sickly sweet grin. “Okay, boyfriend, first call of order. We kill the rest of our group mates.”
“I mean, I’d say yes,” San starts, “But I don’t think that’d go down well with the company.”
“It’d be worth it, though,” Wooyoung mutters, clambering to his feet. He extends a hand to San and pulls him up, too. There’s a second where they just stare at each other, and San can feel his face reddening.
They barely get a moment to think, though, before they hear Yunho calling for them. “Come on, lovebirds,” he announces, “You’re going to miss the rest of the movie!”
“I’m telling you,” Wooyoung says, as they continue to stand in the bedroom, “It’d definitely be a worthwhile investment. Just imagine, no more of this blatant disrespect.”
Their hands find each other even though neither of them are looking, and their fingers intertwine like vines. “Maybe,” San says, swinging their linked arms, “But I think sacrificing team movie night would basically be treason, so not tonight.”
With the hand that is not touching San’s, Wooyoung reaches up to San’s forehead and gently lowers his glasses onto San’s nose again. Out of habit, San touches them, too, adjusting them so they sit just right. Wooyoung huffs a little, but a small laugh takes over. “Rejoin, then?”
“Yeah,” San says, and then pauses at the door. “What’re we watching again?”
Wooyoung shrugs. “Beats me. I was trying not to stare at your glasses.”
“And doing a terrible job of it,” Mingi’s voice rings down the hallway, “Hurry up. We’re watching Harry Potter-we thought it might provoke some realisations on the glasses kink situation”
They share another look, and San grins as Wooyoung huffs. His whole chest feels like it's on fire: warm, but in a nice, cosy, reassuring way. Something, he can feel, is definitely going in the right direction. And Wooyoung pulling him through, settling into the corner of the couch and immediately wrapping his arms around San is definitely the second step.
(The first was apparently three months of pining over his glasses. But, that’s neither here nor there).