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Being half an hour late for practice is one thing, but being an hour late and having the gall slash stupidity slash impudence to stop by a convenience store for potato chips, soda, and a donut is another—another round of heavy chastising by Hongjoong, for that matter.
But Wooyoung isn’t worried. He knows the entire dance routine in and out, top to bottom, side to side, so the worst thing that could happen is that his phone would be taken away for a couple of days and only given to him when he has to call his family. Scratch that. He’d just spent time with them over the weekend, so he won’t have any reason to contact them in the next few days and vice versa. Talking becomes unnecessary in the presence of complete familiarity.
Funny how that’s also applicable in the face of incompatibility, specifically that of Choi San.
He’s standing outside the building housing the KQ Entertainment offices when Wooyoung gets close enough to recognize him. His left hand is tucked into the front pocket of his jeans, and the other is holding what seems to be the stick of a lollipop that’s inside his mouth. He’s staring at the ground but nothing in particular, although his expression indicates that his thoughts are far from empty.
Please don’t look up, for the love of God don’t look up, recites Wooyoung to himself. He veers toward the opposite side of the road in an attempt to approach the building in a stealthier manner, but perhaps he should’ve used his voice to say his prayer because San chooses that very moment to end his daydreaming and spot his fellow trainee frozen midstep. Maybe I should convert to Satanism.
“Oh, hello,” greets San with a curt nod, pulling the lollipop out.
Wooyoung resumes walking but in baby steps and nods back. Being among the loudest in the group, he surprises even himself when he can’t find anything appropriate to say. ‘Hi’ would be dumb since that’s what the nod had been for, and ‘How are you?’ would be awkward as hell, especially since he has no interest whatsoever in the state of San’s well-being. And while he’s tempted to pass by as silent as his phone had been on the morning of a big test, causing him to miss three-quarters of the allotted time for it and finish less than half of the items, his gut tells him that would be too jackass of a thing to do even for a jackass like him.
Thankfully, San is an actual normal person.
“Did you arrive just now?” he asks. His lips and tongue are stained maraschino cherry.
Focus. “Yeah,” answers Wooyoung. “The traffic on the way here was brutal.” He stops two arms’ length away from the other, his body refusing to come any closer.
“You should finish that,” says San and points at the can of Coke in Wooyoung’s hand. “Hongjoong-hyung’s not gonna be happy if he sees it.”
Wooyoung takes a swig to prove something he can’t quite pinpoint. “From one to ten, one being the lowest, how fucked am I?”
San chuckles, possibly at ‘fucked,’ a word Wooyoung has never heard him use before. Then again, he doesn’t pay enough attention to San to know his behavior and way of speaking in the first place. “Fifteen minutes ago, I would’ve said you’d be at four, but since hyung’s anger escalates exponentially, you’re now teetering between eight point seventy-seven and nine point sixty-two.”
Dipping his feet in a cool stream in the middle of summer, lying back against extra-soft pillows while wrapped in a fleece blanket—since Wooyoung isn’t much of a weaver of analogies, those are the only situations he can think of that would compare to how he feels upon hearing San’s playful remark. Sure, San can be mildly amusing from time to time, and he makes Mingi laugh his humongous heart out, but he’s always been neutral in Wooyoung’s book, a generic fixture on the wall.
It’s an entirely new experience for Wooyoung when he laughs to the point that he spills soda onto the ground and all over his fingers. He finds himself in deeper alien territory when San joins him, and the fusion of the distinct timbres of their voices makes him think of an orchestra playing out of thin air.
There’s barely any comprehension of what’s going on, but somehow, Wooyoung has nothing to complain about, not when San’s laughter is static electricity.
One of the glass doors behind San is pushed from the inside, and out comes Mingi. “Oi, Wooyoung-ah,” he says as soon as he sees him, “Hongjoong-hyung’s one breath away from imprisoning you in his room. Get your ass up there.”
“Why’re you down here then?” challenges Wooyoung, raising both eyebrows.
“We’re on a ten-minute break on account of your tardiness,” replies Mingi. “You, on the other hand, won’t be catching a break anytime soon.”
Wooyoung groans in annoyance and puts on a matching expression. “Whatever. Leave.” His free hand is already on the metal handle of the door when he feels the can of soda being taken out of his other hand. Again, he becomes incapable of basic speech while observing San drinking the cold beverage, his mouth right against the metal, unbothered by the fact that what he’s consuming is ultimately a mixture of Coke and Wooyoung’s spit. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows a couple of times. Wooyoung senses a sliver of his soul exiting his body.
“I’m claiming this,” says San in a whisper once he’s had his first fill. “I wouldn’t want you to get into bigger trouble, Wooyoung-ah.” He smirks before walking away to join Mingi.
Slightly disoriented, Wooyoung goes inside the building and heads for the elevator. He uses his non-sticky index finger to press the necessary buttons.
As the steel box goes up, Wooyoung rummages through his sling bag until he finds his alcohol spray and uses it to remove the tackiness on his hand. Upon reaching the right floor, he musses his hair to make it seem like he’d ran all the way. He also practices breathing heavily. Even with only a wall separating him and their leader’s fury, he’s still not worried.
I wouldn’t want you to get into bigger trouble, Wooyoung-ah.
He may be going out of his mind, though.
~
Most people have the capacity to excel at whatever they put their mind to and work hard for. Talent’s wasted on the idle. Those concepts are on the brain for Wooyoung, more so whenever he’s practicing at ungodly hours, which is what he’s planning to do at the moment.
With music blasting in his ears, he enters the practice room while scrolling through his phone. He recoils when he realizes he’s not alone. “Didn’t I just see you at the dorm?” he asks, removing his earphones.
San shrugs. “I’ve been here for almost two hours, I think.” The shine on his face and the way his hair is gathering in clumps serve as evidence for his statement.
“Huh.” Wooyoung deposits his bag and phone on the couch. How should he approach this encounter? “What songs are you using?” San points to the computer not far from him with his thumb. Wooyoung sees five tracks he knows have varying tempos, three of them affixed to complicated choreography. Amazingly, all of them adhere to his taste in music.
“You can change them if you want,” says San, who sits next to the mirror for a drink of water from a reusable container. “And if you need the room to yourself, I could—”
“No, don’t go.” The automatic response is odd every which way, but Wooyoung can’t be bothered to think too much of it, of the sweaty, paper-thin boy whose considerate nature triggers murmurs of ache in the corners of his heart. “I know the dances to these, too. Why don’t we practice them together?” Jung Wooyoung, what in cow dung is happening to you?
The tiredness in San’s features fades away to be replaced by… Is that excitement? It doesn’t make sense for it to be that since he and Wooyoung are colleagues at best, but the spring in his step when he comes nearer and the brightness of his aura are unmistakable.
San is happy.
“We can modify some of the steps to create more of a duo routine,” suggests Wooyoung. He finds that speaking is an effective way to distract himself from the bubbles of emotions floating to the surface of his cognizance. “You don’t mind changing things up a bit, do you?”
San smiles and shakes his head at the same time. “Mingi and I do this sometimes, so it isn’t new to me. But I reckon having another partner would make a big difference. Plus, your height’s closer to mine.”
“Did you just give me a backhanded compliment?” asks Wooyoung with a small grin.
“No, no!” says San in an apologetic tone so genuine Wooyoung almost feels bad about the joke. “What I meant was, we would look…erm…more balanced while dancing because we’re nearly the same size.”
Wooyoung widens his smile. “I’m kidding, San-ah.” The other is visibly relieved. “Okay, let’s start.”
They carefully go through each song on the list, following the original steps first and then taking the time to adjust them. Despite having practiced longer, San remains energetic all throughout, and he listens to and applies every piece of advice he’s given regarding the speed and sharpness of his movements. Wooyoung is impressed by San’s ability to focus and follow instructions—he absorbs constructive criticism like a sponge and doesn’t have a problematic ego getting in the way of his progress. Those must be among the many reasons he’s part of the group.
After a couple more hours with several water breaks in between, Wooyoung drops to the ground, out of breath and soaking in sweat yet feeling more alive than ever. He glances at the similarly collapsed figure beside him and can’t help the rush of pride that engulfs him. San is the embodiment of diligence, the quality that Wooyoung respects most in people. There’s no doubt he’ll make it far if he never changes his ways.
But should that time come, would he still want Wooyoung by his side?
Not that it would matter.
Because it wouldn’t.
Really.
Why would it?
“Hey,” says San, the syllable popping Wooyoung’s thought bubble, “this was fun. We should have a part two—that is, if you’re up for it.”
Wooyoung doesn’t even need to think about the answer. “Sure, I’d like that.” You’d what now? “You did great today, by the way. Your transitions are much smoother, and you’re getting better at knowing when to exert power and when to relax. The more control you gain over each of your body parts, the more you can customize the effect you want to make.”
“I’ll keep working on it. Thank you, Wooyoung-ah.”
“Shall we finish the leftovers in the fridge?”
San nods with the enthusiasm of a child playing in the snow.
After making sure they’ve grabbed all their stuff and turned off the computer, they head out of the practice room, San pushing the door with the left side of his body and letting Wooyoung exit ahead of him.
Neither of them says anything while making their way out of the building. In his peripheral vision, however, Wooyoung notices the small gap separating him and San. It used to be that at any given time, two other people could comfortably stand between them, but now his and San’s shoulders are only half a foot apart. Wooyoung stops himself from reading too much into it since there’s already a lot going on inside his head.
San is a lot.
~
Ginseng. Fuck ginseng. It’s nasty and expensive, and it hasn’t helped Wooyoung avoid getting the fever that’s boiling him right now from the inside out. There’s also a creature pounding on the walls of his skull and cackling in celebration of its emancipation, thanks to inadequate rest and copious amounts of stress.
Wooyoung softly groans into the bedsheets as he rolls over to his side, hoping that Yeosang won’t hear him and become more worried. Unfortunately, his roommate has been on high alert since finding out about his poor state of health, so within seconds, Wooyoung feels an area of his bed dipping and a hand touching his forehead.
“You’ve gotten even warmer,” remarks Yeosang, his calm voice spiked with concern. “Do you want to reconsider taking medicine?”
Earlier, the fever had been milder and Wooyoung had been more optimistic about his ability to handle it. Now, he just wants someone to scoop out his brain in order for the torture to end. With that, he puts up a thumb in response; nodding would kill him.
“Alright, I’ll be right back.”
Wooyoung hears the door open and Yeosang’s footsteps fading. He clutches the light blanket covering him and wonders if this is what being on the edge of death is like. He’d read once that as a person’s dying, the serotonin levels in their body triple, so maybe he just has to wait a little longer for that euphoric biological process to kick in.
But instead of that, a hand gently lands on the side of his neck.
“My temperature hasn’t changed since a minute ago,” croaks Wooyoung. Damn, even his throat hurts.
“It’s me.” San. Of course. “You look like a zombie.”
Although Wooyoung intends to laugh, what comes out is a cough that rattles his sanity, so his alternative response is, “The sexiest, most handsome zombie, you mean.”
Yeosang returns with a glass of water plus a blister pack of ibuprofen and sits next to San on the bed. “San-ah, could you help him sit up a bit?”
Wooyoung suppresses another groan when San does as he’s told, supporting the weight of Wooyoung’s upper body so he can stay upright with ease. Wooyoung gets to the task at hand as quickly as he can, though he doesn’t fail to catch how steady yet tender San’s hold on him is.
“Maybe we should give him a sponge bath to cool him down,” says San while Wooyoung is gulping down the rest of the water after swallowing a gel capsule. “We can use the wash basin in the bathroom, and there are face towels in the linen closet.”
“Right,” says Yeosang. “Give me a minute to fetch everything.”
“You’ll be alright,” whispers San as he positions himself more securely behind Wooyoung to make it easier for the both of them to remove the latter’s shirt in preparation for the bath. “I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” says Wooyoung. Once he’s topless and lying on his bed again, he simultaneously appreciates the comfort brought by his beddings and misses the solidness of San’s frame.
“Believe me, I don’t.” San takes it upon himself to take off Wooyoung’s pajama pants, leaving him in his black-and-blue plaid boxers.
A couple of minutes later, Yeosang comes into the room with all the essentials, including a plastic basin filled with tepid water. “Will you be okay doing it by yourself?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m good,” answers San while wringing the towel. He starts off with Wooyoung’s face and works his way down, patting and wiping each body part enough to leave a thin layer of moisture on the skin. He carefully lifts limbs whose underside requires attention, and his touch and grip are as light as can be.
Wooyoung watches him the entire time, unable to look away despite the heaviness of his eyelids. While the expression on San’s face is pure beyond measure, the fact that he’d volunteered for the rather intimate task is unusual. It’s because although he and Wooyoung have been practicing dances together more often, their non-professional relationship hasn’t budged that much—neither seeks the companionship of the other in the dorm, Wooyoung sticking to Yeosang and San spending most of his time with Mingi. There’s no rational explanation for San’s current behavior, and yet he’s acting as though he’s done this a hundred times, has held Wooyoung this way a thousand times, has cared for him like a close friend a million times.
The sharp turn they’ve subconsciously taken is as illogical as it is natural.
“Where do you keep your clothes?” asks San once the sponge bath is done. “It’d be better for you to wear a thinner top and a pair of shorts.”
“His side is the one on the right,” replies Yeosang from his bed.
San hums in acknowledgement and goes over to the closet. At that moment, exhaustion washes over Wooyoung, and before he can do anything about it, he succumbs to sleep. He hears San’s voice echoing somewhere in the distance—there’s no way to tell if it’s real or a product of his imagination—but it fades as darkness seeps into vision from the edges toward the center. There are no dreams to remember upon waking, only a sense of peace that hasn’t come to visit in a long time.
The world is a blur when Wooyoung opens his eyes. It’s also incredibly cozy. After blinking several times, he discovers three things: first, his headache’s gone; second, his fever has subsided; and third, he’s cuddling San’s head.
Seated on the floor, San is sleeping with his head propped up on his folded arms, which are occupying a small area on the bed. Wooyoung cranes his neck just enough to see the relaxed expression on the other’s face. And his high cheekbones. And dark eyelashes. And tall nose. And pouty bottom lip.
Wooyoung’s been figuratively sleeping on this?
There’s no time for him to ponder on the level of his stupidity because San stirs and lifts his head. The sudden proximity and eye contact causes Wooyoung’s face to heat up.
“How’re you?” murmurs San, who’s still obviously sleepy yet trying not to show it.
“B-better,” answers Wooyoung under his breath, which for an unknown reason isn’t doing much to supply him with oxygen.
“Are you hungry?”
Wooyoung’s mind and body agree to say ‘no,’ but his stomach decides to be a rebel and releases a gurgling sound that has San giggling and Wooyoung burying his face in his pillow, embarrassed.
“I’ll fix us something to eat,” volunteers San. He’s about to turn toward the door when he feels the hem of his shirt being tugged. He looks down to find Wooyoung staring up at him. “Hmm?”
“Stay with me,” says Wooyoung in a quiet tone of voice, “just for a while longer.” In the three seconds that the other doesn’t speak or move, he dreads that he may have been too forward. Who is he for San to yield to? What is San trying to get out of this? Although more questions bombard Wooyoung, he’s thrown off yet again as San complies without another word, lowering himself onto the bed and getting under the blanket as well. He lies on his back while Wooyoung remains on his left side. The lack of space between them is dizzying.
“Ten minutes,” whispers San, his eyes closed. “I’m not about to let you starve under my watch.”
A dull ache manifests right in the center of Wooyoung’s chest. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be and how he should react to it, but he’s certain that the boy beside him has triggered it. Seemingly in a trance, Wooyoung blindly searches for San’s hand with his and envelops it. It surprises him when San spreads his fingers so Wooyoung’s digits slip between them, allowing for a tighter, more secure hold.
So maybe ginseng’s ineffectiveness can do a bit of good sometimes.
~
“YOU CHEATED!” shouts Wooyoung. “I saw you! You cheated like the biggest cheating cheater who cheats and cheats until he’s even cheated himself out of cheating!”
Yunho looks at him as if he’s lost all of his marbles (which isn’t entirely wrong). “First and foremost, I did not cheat; you’re just a horrible loser. Lastly, did you understand any part—any part at all—of what you said to me?”
“No, but that’s not the point,” argues Wooyoung, throwing his cards onto the table. “I had one card left, you had a bazillion, yet you still won? The math doesn’t add up whichever way you look at it.”
“Wooyoung-ah, I think among the three of us, you’re the most unqualified person to discuss anything related to math,” says Yeosang in a neutral tone, which makes Yunho chuckle in amusement.
“This is unfair,” complains Wooyoung. “You two are clearly ganging up on me. If there’s anything in this world I believe in, it’s the power of free will and democracy, so I am out.” He stands up from the floor in dramatic fashion and storms off, leaving Yunho and Yeosang to make the impossible connection between the principle of social equality and their fellow member’s tantrum.
Wooyoung had planned to sulk in his room until lunch and perhaps devise a plan to get back at the two traitors claiming to be his friends. But when he passes by San and Yunho’s room, since the door is slightly ajar, he gets a glimpse of San sitting on his bed with his laptop in front of him. The scene would’ve been ordinary if not for the tears rolling down San’s face.
Maybe in Wooyoung’s previous life he was a racehorse because he runs inside and tackles San so fast that the other’s breath is knocked out of his body before he can figure out what’s going on.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, San-ah,” pleads Wooyoung, his head resting on San’s chest as the strength of his embrace starts rivaling that of an anaconda. “Who did this to you? Was it Mingi? I can beat him up for you. He may be taller than me, but I can always target his family jewels—”
“Wooyoung-ah, I’m fine!” laughs San and hugs him back. “I’m watching a sad movie is all.”
Upon hearing that, Wooyoung turns his head toward the computer and, sure enough, there’s a man and woman crying while talking on the screen. He then looks back at San, realizes he’s close enough to feel the warmth of San’s breath, and pushes himself off of him, his cheeks burning. San sits up as well and wipes his face with the back of his right hand.
“My bad,” mumbles Wooyoung. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
San captures one of Wooyoung’s wrists. “Hang out with me? I have happier films downloaded.”
“…Okay.” They shift on the bed so they can lean on the wall, though not before San gives Wooyoung one of his pillows for back support.
The movie is called In the Heart of the Sea. Wooyoung recognizes Thor and Spider-Man as well as the actor who’d played a dude with an insane sense of smell. He becomes engrossed in the story and visual effects, although every now and then his attention on the film falters and goes to San, who seems to be enjoying himself.
Neither holds back on his reaction, so there’s plenty of gasping, slapping, and hooting to go around. As the movie progresses, Wooyoung ends up squishing himself against San out of nervousness.
“I think I should feel bad for them, but they’re cruel,” remarks San when they get to the part where the characters are left stranded at sea. “How can I sympathize with people who kill animals for a living?”
“Maybe we don’t have to do that,” says Wooyoung. “Maybe stories like this are meant to make us reflect on our own faults, like our greed and egotism.” San looks at Wooyoung with his eyebrows raised. “What is it?”
“You’re pretty smart when you’re not being an agent of chaos, you know that?”
“I prefer ‘agent of chaos’ over ‘pretty smart’ ‘coz it sounds more badass.”
“Well that one didn’t last very long.”
Wooyoung snickers and gives San a soft pinch on the arm. “I’ll feed you to a hungry, angry white whale if you don’t shut it.”
“Make me.” San is reduced to a giggling, whining mess when Wooyoung pounces on him and rolls over so he can effortlessly put his entire weight on San’s thinner frame. “Are you supposed to be the whale?!”
“Your rudeness will be your downfall, Choi San,” declares Wooyoung before planting his feet on the mattress and raising his thighs to increase the pressure his upper body is exerting on San. “I’ll let you live if you surrender.”
“Never!” says San and groans when the weight on his back gets even worse. “Alright, alright! I give up!”
“Am I a whale?” teases Wooyoung, not budging at all.
“No! You’re human!”
“You don’t sound convincing, San-ah.”
“You’re an impressive member of the human race with the face and body of a deity and the brain of a rocket scientist!”
“That’s more like it,” says Wooyoung and immediately removes himself from the other. He’s far from prepared the moment San wrestles and tickles him at the same time. “No, stop! I might pee!”
“I’m taking my chances,” says San, targeting more areas to attack. He quits only when Wooyoung’s wild laughter devolves into desperate, unintelligible pleas. They’re both lying sideways on the bed, facing the rest of the room.
Wooyoung takes a couple of seconds to catch his breath. Since when has the other boy been such a rascal? His thoughts are interrupted when he finds himself being pulled backward and San’s arms wrapped around his chest. It feels…nice.
“Wooyoung-ah,” starts San, his voice in a volume only Wooyoung can hear, “I’m glad you came here. To tell you the truth, I was crying a while ago ‘coz I was getting homesick, and I put the movie on so I wouldn’t have to explain myself. You were the last person I’d expected to make me feel better, but now I can’t think of anyone else. Thanks.”
The speed of light is nothing compared to the speed at which change occurs. In one instant the cosmos births a dwarf star, and the next there’s a supernova in its place. It’s difficult to discern the exact point of transition because it often doesn’t matter and is therefore ignored. But Wooyoung can tell that there’s a shift here, that his heart’s being roped in like a weakened animal. He doesn’t have the energy to resist—has he been fighting against this without knowing it?
Wooyoung slowly turns to face San and says, “I’m here.” He does his best not to break eye contact even though the whole thing is unbearable. “I’m probably the worst alternative to your family, but if I get too annoying, there are six other people in this dorm you can run to.”
“You’ll do just fine,” assures San with a wide grin. “And yeah, I can always approach the more normal members anyway…”
“Normal my ass,” huffs Wooyoung. “Is that how you call a bunch of guys who compete with one another for the title of Person Who Can Stuff His Mouth With The Most Chicken In Ten Seconds?”
“That’s why I said more normal.”
A high-pitched chuckle escapes Wooyoung’s throat. “Aaahh, I really like you, Choi San.”
“Didn’t you already?” asks San, the expression in his eyes softening.
“Don’t be so full of yourself.” Wooyoung disentangles himself from San to sit up, pull the laptop closer, and move the needle on the movie player’s timeline to where they’d left off. “Hey, c’mon, the story’s far from over.”
San hums in response and resumes his previous position on the bed. Wooyoung follows suit, keeping the sides of their bodies pressed against each other like before. When he gets tired of sitting straight after a few minutes, he slouches until he can rest his head on the other’s shoulder. Though it’s his first time doing this, it’s anything but unnatural. There’s a peculiar comfort in it, a spontaneous combustion of familiarity, though it may be more accurate to say that the feeling has been growing inside him all this time unnoticed, and it refuses to be uprooted.
The story’s far from over indeed.