Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Going out, hyung?” San calls over the frantic Mario Kart theme playing.

Seonghwa shushes him, gesturing at Doyun’s bedroom door. It’s closed, and their manager is presumably asleep, but there’s no sense risking it. San snaps his mouth shut guiltily.

“Yes,” Seonghwa answers as he puts on his street shoes. “I need some fresh air.”

And alone time, but he doesn’t say the second part since it should be obvious. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care about waking their manager. Beyond human decency, anyway. Doyun’s sleep debt is even larger than theirs, and he isn’t as young.

“Hyung’s going to see his crush,” Wooyoung sing-songs from the other side of the sofa, eyes focused on his Daisy racing across the TV.

“I’m not.”

“Mmhmm, sure. Bring me back some shrimp chips. Oh, and an energy drink for tomorrow. You know that new cherry one? I want to try that.”

Seonghwa flips him off, but Wooyoung doesn’t even see because San’s Yoshi is trying to shove Daisy off the track. They both know he’ll buy his snacks; there’s no point pretending otherwise. But Seonghwa is the oldest, and he shouldn’t be a total pushover. Even though he is.

“Be careful, hyung,” San says.

“I’m just going to the 7-Eleven and back.”

“He is going to see his crush!” Wooyoung crows, more than a little too loud. San smacks him, and Seonghwa slips out before their tussling wakes Doyun.

Seonghwa isn’t the smartest person in the world—or even among the six members of New World—but he isn’t a total idiot. They are currently forbidden from going outside alone for a good reason. So, before he leaves the building, he carefully scans the sidewalk, checking for any suspicious silhouettes lingering near the entrance.

During their first three years, they didn’t have too many sasaengs haunting their dorm. This year, however, more and more started lingering—the price to pay for growing popularity. They mostly just lurked until a week ago. A strange woman tailed Seonghwa, calling for him to turn and face her. He had his AirPods in, so he pretended he couldn’t hear and walked faster. When she caught up, she seized his arm in a fierce, desperate grip. Seonghwa wrenched himself free and bolted the final meters to the dorm.

The company plans to move them to a new, hopefully more private residence since their current lease will end soon anyway. But until then, they’ve increased their security precautions, and no one goes anywhere alone.

Seonghwa appreciates the concern. But he also feels like he is suffocating.

The coast is clear. Seonghwa checks his reflection in the elevator doors one last time to ensure his hat covers his pastel pink hair. It’s three in the morning, so he probably doesn’t need to bother with a face mask, but the hair is way too conspicuous, even with most of the city fast asleep.

Satisfied that he’s covert enough, Seonghwa exits and sets off at a brisk pace for the 7-Eleven four blocks away. Their apartment building has its own convenience store inside, but the selection isn’t great, and going there never feels like “getting out.” The 7-Eleven isn’t exactly a trek either, but going there at least lets him stretch his legs and visit somewhere besides the dorm and the company building.

And. Well. Popping into the 7-Eleven at this time of night means maybe seeing a certain clerk.

Seonghwa squints through the store’s windows as he approaches, searching for a head of shoulder-length, firetruck-red hair. There’s no sign of the alarmingly bright dye job, so he tamps down his disappointment as he sails through the door. Hongjoong usually works the overnight shift, but not always. He can’t expect—

“Welcome in,” Hongjoong’s voice calls. Seonghwa whips around to face the check-out counter.

Oh. The red is gone, but in its place is a half-black, half-white spectacle that looks a little ridiculous and a lot absolutely perfect. Seonghwa’s hands itch with the desire to run his fingers through the long locks and feel the texture, play with the length.

“Can I help you?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa blinks, gathering himself. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

He should’ve worn the mask after all. Then his blushing cheeks wouldn’t be so obvious. “It’s, uh, it’s different. Your hair.”

Hongjoong laughs the high, mischievous laugh that’s becoming familiar to Seonghwa, elbows propping up on the counter. Several silver bracelets dangle off each thin wrist. “It is, yes. You noticed?”

Seonghwa nods, thinks about complimenting it, and then escapes to the refrigerators before he embarrasses himself further.

It could’ve gone worse, he supposes.

Seonghwa locates the energy drink Wooyoung wanted and then gathers the snacks, dallying to regain his composure for the ensuing face-to-face interaction. The internal voice that sounds like their hip-hop dance instructor scolds him for being such a wreck. What is there to be nervous about? Confidence, confidence, confidence! Sell it!

Honestly, Seonghwa doesn’t understand why Hongjoong makes him so flustered. It isn’t like any crush he’s had before. For one thing, Hongjoong isn’t remotely his usual type; Seonghwa usually goes for jocks. But more importantly, he’s never been this desperate for a crush to approve of him, to just see him.

It’s especially pathetic considering they’ve barely spoken. Most of their “conversations” over the last year or so were just normal cashier-customer interactions. Seonghwa only knows Hongjoong’s name because of the tag pinned to the 7-Eleven vest. But if the shop is empty, Seonghwa attempts small talk. Basic stuff about which chips Hongjoong recommends, asking whether weird customers come during the overnight shift, and so on. Hell, even the weather.

On even rarer occasions, the small talk lasts long enough to shift into something that might be considered flirting. Like the time Seonghwa took off his beanie because it was too hot and Hongjoong said he looked pretty blond. Or the time Honjoong noticed the extra-dangly earring Seonghwa was wearing and asked to see it closer. As tiny as those interactions were, they gave Seonghwa an emotional high that rivaled how he felt after an especially nice fanmeet.

Seonghwa has also never experienced a crush with so much…envy. He noticed one night that Hongjoong’s nails were painted a deep purple and immediately wanted to paint his own. Another night, Hongjoong’s hair was styled in a cute bun, and Seonghwa found himself wishing his hair was long enough for up-dos. And the reason why he wore that extra-dangly earring was that he kept covetously eyeing the many piercings in Hongjoong’s ears and decided to try something different from his usual studs and hoops.

Maybe it isn’t a crush. Whatever it is, Seonghwa is always out of his depth around Hongjoong. He’s pretty sure they’re around the same age, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like a kid when he meets Hongjoong’s eyes.

Seonghwa clutches the snacks to his chest, steels himself, and approaches the check-out counter.

Hongjoong is writing in a little notebook, bottom lip bitten by two perfect teeth, but looks up when Seonghwa lays his items down.

“You’re not drinking this tonight, are you?” Hongjoong asks, scanning the energy drink. “You won’t be able to sleep for another twelve hours.”

“No, it’s for my, uh, roommate.”

“The loud little one or the tall puppy face one?”

For a moment, Seonghwa wonders how Hongjoong could possibly know Wooyoung or Yunho. Then he remembers that he’s visited the store with both of them before—Yunho to help carry everyone’s drink requests and Wooyoung because he is nosy and wanted to see why Seonghwa kept coming to 7-Eleven.

“The loud little one,” Seonghwa answers. And then, aiming for the flirting end of teasing, he adds, “He’s about as tall as you.”

“It’s not how tall you are that matters,” Hongjoong says archly, head tilting back and eyes bright behind clear-frame glasses. “It’s how you carry yourself.”

All the items have already been scanned, and Seonghwa already has his credit card out to pay. Before his window of opportunity closes, he quickly says, “Your hair looks really good.”

Too quickly. Hongjoong frowns. “Sorry, what was that?”

Seonghwa really wishes he put on that mask. He uses tapping his card as an excuse to look down. “Your hair. It looks good.”

Hongjoong’s frown curls into a small smile. “Thanks. I’m really happy with how it came out.”

“Did you do it yourself?”

“No, my friend did it. I used to dye my own hair, but I always botched it and looked terrible.”

Hongjoong bags Seonghwa’s purchases and hands them over with his receipt. “Thanks for visiting 7-Eleven.”

“You too,” Seonghwa says automatically and then dies inside.

Hongjoong’s laughter follows him out the door.

Distracted as Seonghwa is with this latest humiliation, he doesn’t notice the person loitering outside the store until they call out to him.

“Seonghwa-yah!”

He freezes.

“Yes?” he answers out of the same polite instinct that failed him just moments ago. He immediately wishes he stayed silent and kept moving, but it’s too late.

A woman approaches him with urgent steps. “I need you to look at me,” she says, hand outstretched.

Seonghwa shrinks away, recognizing her as the stalker from last week. Had she been lingering outside the dorm after all? Shit. He doesn’t think she is actually dangerous, but sasaengs are unpredictable. He’s heard plenty of horror stories about how quickly things can escalate, especially if they catch you alone. And even if you escape them in person, they can make your life hell online if you anger them.

He swallows and tries to make his voice respectful but firm. “Sorry, ma’am, but I need to go.”

“Just for a moment,” she insists, eyes wide. “You can spare a moment.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t go!” She reaches for his hand, but Seonghwa skitters backward. “It’s so unfair.”

“I really need to—”

“You can’t leave,” she says, voice cracking. “You’re so unfair, Park Seonghwa.”

Tears well up in her eyes, the wet gleam obvious, even lit by just a streetlamp. Instinctively, Seonghwa meets her gaze for the first time. In an instant, her face twists from distraught to determined. She lunges and seizes his wrist in a tight grip, squeezing with what must be all her strength.

“See me?” she says. “Look at me.”

Seonghwa looks. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. She’s older than him by maybe a few years. Her black pin-straight hair is cut in a short, severe bob. Her eyes are round and dark, the irises barely distinguishable from the pupils. There’s a small scar just to the right of her straight nose, like something sharp scratched her years ago. Other than that, she’s fairly unremarkable, just another person like anyone else he might see on the street.

He thinks he’ll remember her face though.

“See?” she repeats, and goosebumps creep down Seonghwa’s arms. “All I ever want to see is you, Seonghwa-yah.”

Another voice cuts through the night. “Excuse me, sir?”

Seonghwa’s heart thuds against his chest. He turns toward the 7-Eleven, where Hongjoong’s head sticks through the shop’s door—but he’s careful to keep the woman in his peripheral vision in case she tries something else.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I need you to sign your receipt.”

“What?” Seonghwa asks, but then Hongjoong waves for him to come over, and he realizes what’s happening. He yanks his arm free and hurries toward his savior while the woman hesitates in the face of a witness.

She starts to follow him, but once Seonghwa is through the entrance, Hongjoong says, “Sorry ma’am, but I’m the only employee on shift, and I need to take my break right after this,” and then locks the door with a definitive click.

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says, heart still racing. He rubs his wrist, trying to get rid of the red spots she left. Her nails dug into him, splitting the skin just enough to draw one bead of blood. He wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb and vows to wash his hands extra well when he returns home.

“No problem. Work enough night shifts, and you start spotting trouble right away.” Hongjoong walks toward the counter. “Here, might as well make it look real.”

Seonghwa follows obediently, but he notes, “She’ll wait.”

“How long do you think?”

“As long as it takes for me to come out.”

Mentally, Seonghwa reviews his options. Calling the police seems like an overreaction, calling his manager would earn him a serious scolding, and calling one of the members might make the situation worse. He supposes he could request a rideshare and then run past her to get inside. But what if she throws herself in front of the car or something? Does he really have no choice but to wake up Doyun and accept his scolding?

“Okay, I’ll let you out the back then.”

That yanks Seonghwa from his thoughts. “The back?”

“Yeah. Come here.”

Hongjoong gestures for him to come around to the other side of the counter, checking the glass storefront as well. “From this angle, she shouldn’t be able to see us.”

Seonghwa steps into the employee-only section of the store, feeling as if he’s entered an entirely different world. He’s been to convenience stores thousands of times—in different countries, even—but he’s never been on this side of the counter. He takes a moment to appraise the cash register, the cigarette case, and especially the personal items Hongjoong must have stashed on the shelf below the counters. There’s a bag of cough drops, a white phone clutch covered in Sharpie doodles, the notebook and pen he saw earlier, and what looks like a digital recorder.

Hongjoong grabs the clutch and shrugs off the employee vest.

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asks.

“I’ll walk you out. The back alley is confusing, especially at night.”

Hongjoong doesn’t add, And you probably shouldn’t walk alone, but Seonghwa hears it.

It feels like overkill. Seonghwa can probably navigate the back alley, and if he really needs to, he can outrun the sasaeng. On the other hand, he wants to spend more time with Hongjoong. But…

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Nah, the manager won’t care. She lets me do whatever because no one else wants this shift. Besides, I really do need to take my break.”

Seonghwa double-checks that the strange woman won’t see them leaving and then follows Hongjoong deeper into the employee-only area. Hongjoong pops open the stiff rear exit door, and then they step out into a dim sidestreet Seonghwa has never walked.

The night air has turned damp; he hopes they beat the rain. From the look of things, all the businesses on this street have rear exits that open to this alley. It’s narrow, the path constricted in places by a few garbage cans and folding chairs. A red neon bar sign at the end of the alley provides a little extra light. Otherwise, the only illumination comes from the lamps on the main street.

Hongjoong locks the door and then swings the keyring around one finger before pocketing it and pointing. “We’ll go out that way. It’s the long way around, but she might spot us if we try slipping past the front.”

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says again as they start walking. He wants to say more, to take advantage of this special opportunity and have a real conversation, but his mind is awash with only the dispersing nerves, the ache in his wrist, and the thought that Hongjoong’s skin and white hair look pink and extra pretty under the red light.

“Does that happen often?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa stiffens. There’s not the sort of question anyone asks a regular person. “Uh…”

Hongjoong flicks a wrist dismissively, bracelets clinking. “I know you’re an idol. New World’s Seonghwa. I looked you up ages ago.”

For a moment, Seonghwa thinks maybe there’s a chance that Hongjoong is just as fascinated by him as he is by the clerk. Then he realizes that anyone would naturally be curious about a celebrity who frequented their workplace. He smothers the spark of hope before it has a chance to burn.

“How did you know to look me up? How did you know my name?”

Hongjoong laughs. “You told me it. And you don’t do a very good job covering your hair. Most people don’t cycle through styles faster than I do.”

“Ah.” Seonghwa touches the back of his head self-consciously. Indeed, he feels hair sticking out from under his beanie.

“Plus, most people aren’t as handsome as you. Or come around with friends who are also so handsome. I figured you had to be somebody.”

Seonghwa flushes and hopes the neon light provides enough deniability. He says, “Everybody’s somebody.”

“You know what I mean.”

Hongjoong leads them through a few turns, telling him about some of the stranger encounters from the midnight shift. Soon, however, they emerge onto the main street.

“Which block are you on?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa now knows exactly where they are on his mental map of the neighborhood. He considers telling Hongjoong that he can make his own way home from here. Break time or no, Hongjoong probably needs to get back to the shop.

But instead, he says the apartment building’s street, and they go left together.

“I make music too,” Hongjoong volunteers suddenly.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not professionally or anything. I’m majoring in music production, and I make some tracks as a side gig.”

“Side gigs are professional,” Seonghwa insists.

The red neon light is long past them, but Hongjoong’s face still looks a little pink. “It’s not. I’m talking about super small jobs.”

“What kind of music do you make?”

“It’s mostly class assignments these days. Nothing exciting.”

“What about the side gig jobs?”

“I make the BGM for a friend’s YouTube channel and live shows, and I did the soundtrack for this tiny indie game last year.”

“That’s really cool.”

“It’s really not.”

Seonghwa disagrees, but Hongjoong looks embarrassed, as if regretting bringing the topic up, so he doesn’t press the issue. But he thinks anyone who can make music good enough to share is cool. Seonghwa understands the basics of how music gets made, but he can’t do it himself. He feels confident about his performance skills, his ability to highlight the emotionality of a song or even reinterpret it. But he lacks the creativity to conjure something from nothing.

A large truck rumbles past them. When Seonghwa can hear himself again, he asks, “Is that what you want to do when you graduate? Background music?”

Hongjoong produces a hair tie from somewhere. In a flash, the white and black locks are wrapped up in a high ponytail that skims the back of Hongjoong’s neck.

“If I could make a living doing it, that’d be nice. But it’s not my passion or anything.”

“What is your passion then?”

“Retro pop. Like, the 70s and 80s. You know David Bowie? Prince? They’re probably my biggest influences.”

Seonghwa vaguely recognizes those names and has a fuzzy idea of what they sound like, so he nods. He’ll have to look them up later so he’ll have something new to talk about with Hongjoong next time.

“Is any of your music online?” he asks.

Hongjoong looks up at him askance. The answer comes a beat late with clear reluctance. “...I have a Soundcloud.”

Seonghwa takes out his phone. “What’s your username?” When Hongjoong grimaces, he adds, “Hey, you said you looked me up. Fair is fair.”

“I made my username in junior high. You’re not allowed to laugh.”

“Tell me.”

Hongjoong sighs and spells out in English letters, “luckyjoongy.”

Seonghwa types it into the search bar and blinks in surprise at the icon that pops up. “Is this you? Your hair is so short.”

Hongjoong doesn’t even glance at the phone screen. “Yeah, that’s from a photoshoot me and some friends did right before I enlisted.”

The icon is tiny, but the Hongjoong doesn’t look like someone about to enlist, even with hair shorn into a tight military crop. The person in the icon makes the style feminine–brows teased into pretty arches, bold eyeliner curving from the lids, dark, dramatic lipstick, a wide choker adding a splash of color against the bare neck. It’s impossible to know for certain since it’s a headshot, but somehow Seonghwa gets the sense that Hongjoong isn’t wearing a top below that choker.

“Is this your place?” Hongjoong asks suddenly.

Seonghwa tears his eyes away from the phone to take in the familiar, imposing sight of his building’s sleek entryway.

“Yes,” he confirms, and then he dips into a bow. “Thank you for everything.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“I really appreciate it.”

“Really, it’s nothing. But I do need to return to the shop now.”

Hongjoong looks flustered, and Seonghwa worries he came on too strong. He can’t help it; he’s always been straightforward when he’s interested in someone and finds an opening.

“Right. Sorry for taking your time.” Seonghwa bows again crisply and escapes into the building before he does anything else that might be pushy.

He delivers Wooyoung’s requested snacks, washes up, gets into bed, and mentally reviews the entire encounter with Hongjoong, trying to determine exactly how awkward it’d been. Was it too much to ask for the Soundcloud account? Hongjoong was the one who mentioned making music, but maybe that was just an attempt at small talk and nothing more. Should he have turned down Hongjoong’s offer to walk him?

Even if he came off as a pathetic idiot, Seonghwa can’t regret it. Nor can he regret potentially angering the sasaeng. Not when it’d cinched him the longest conversation with Hongjoong yet and more information than he’d managed to glean in all his months of obsessively filing away the smallest details.

Rubbing his bruised wrist, Seonghwa opens Hongjoong’s Soundcloud on his phone.

There is a lot more music than he expected given that Hongjoong made it sound like just a casual hobby. Even assuming that he is looking at all of the output since junior high, there’s a long discography to scroll through.

Seonghwa clicks into the popular tracks and plays the top one. He keeps listening even after Yunho comes to bed and turns off the lights. He keeps listening until, finally, he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

“Noona, wake up! You’re going to be late.”

The low, unfamiliar voice makes Seonghwa wrinkle his brow, but he pushes himself upright. Is there a new manager that no one told him about?

He’s accustomed to jarring wake-up calls, even by strangers, so his body moves on autopilot, untangling his limbs from his blankets and standing up—only to somehow miss the floor and stumble. Flailing, he catches himself on his desk, which is much farther from his bed than he remembers.

“Ow, shit,” he curses. And then he freezes.

That is not his voice. And now that his eyes are actually open—this is not his room. It’s dark, but he can tell that much. For one thing, Yunho’s bed is missing, and none of the furniture silhouettes look familiar. Even if the members played a prank on him and rearranged the dorm layout while he slept, that doesn’t explain why he sounds like a different person. Or why he can’t figure out where his limbs end. Or why—

Did that stranger call for noona?

Seonghwa slides his hand (small palm, slender fingers) along the wall, trying to find a light switch. He stumbles over clothes, textbooks, and something sharp that makes him hiss before finally he flicks the lights on.

The bedroom looks like a typhoon blew through it, heaps of clothes all over the floor and furniture. Amidst the chaos, there’s a keyboard piano squeezed into one corner and an impressive computer setup that looks too shiny for all the crumbled papers and crushed drink cans surrounding it.

What really catches his attention, however, is the long mirror hung on the wall beside the bedroom door. In it, a very familiar face peers back at Seonghwa.

Hongjoong.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa stares at the fuzzy shapes of Hongjoong’s face, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Then he realizes it’s actually the vision that’s blurry. He searches for the clear plastic glasses Hongjoong wears, finding them on the window sill beside the bed. Putting them on, he returns to the mirror.

Slowly, he raises his hand to touch his face, watching as Hongoong’s smooth face is touched. Seonghwa always has to shave in the morning lately, but there’s no stubble making this skin prickly. He traces a finger over the ridge of the cheekbone until he hits the pointy nose he’s admired for months. Hongjoong’s split-dyed hair hangs loose and messy, spread over the shoulders and brushing the back. Seonghwa has never grown his hair this long or worn extensions this length, so it’s a new sensation. He likes it.

Curling a finger around one of the black locks, Seonghwa gives a sharp tug. The answering sting from his scalp makes him grimace.

Not a dream, then. But if he’s not dreaming, what the hell is going on?

Abruptly, Seonghwa realizes that he—or, rather, Hongjoong—is only wearing boxer briefs. He averts his gaze from the reflection, feeling the back of his neck heat up. Seonghwa’s neck never burns when he’s embarrassed, and he doubts his mind could conjure such a specific detail for a dream.

So. This is really happening.

Idol training prepares you for a lot of things. Seonghwa knows how to navigate foreign media interviews he can’t understand. He knows how to fight jet lag when he’s on the 30th hour of the same day. He even knows how to turn down propositions from married executives his father’s age. But no manager, instructor, or consultant ever told him what to do if he woke up in another person’s body. 

Getting dressed is probably as good a first step as any.

Seonghwa has seen more than his fair share of other people’s naked flesh, but Hongjoong isn’t one of his members or a high school judo teammate. So, he keeps his eyes respectfully off the mirror and fixed forward. He opens the closet, realizes most of the clothes are flung around the room, and puts on the first things he touches that aren’t too wrinkled and smell okay. The black skinny jeans hug the hips and have fake pockets, so he’s certain they came from the women’s section. But they fit perfectly, so they must be Hongjoong’s. The oversized sweater initially looked like it could have come from anywhere, but it exposes so much of Hongjoong’s shoulders and collarbone that it’s probably a women’s brand too.

Now that it’s safe, Seonghwa stares at the reflection again, half wondering if he should find other clothes and half realizing that he’s only ever seen Hongjoong dressed for work. Despite Hongjoong’s bold hairstyles, many piercings, and eye-catching nail polish, the overall look was fairly safe. Bland enough for whatever guidelines the 7-Eleven employee handbook sets.

What Seonghwa sees in the mirror doesn’t feel safe. But it does feel right. It feels like that tiny Soundcloud icon from pre-enlistment, gorgeous and defiant. It’s just jeans and a sweater, but Seonghwa can’t stop staring. He runs his hands over his front, up to where Hongjoong’s heart thumps loudly. 

It’s his heart, for now.

“Noona!” that unfamiliar voice calls again. Seonghwa freezes like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Are you up? Breakfast is getting cold.”

Seonghwa waits, but no one else answers. Noona must be him, he realizes. No, not him. Hongjoong.

“Noona!”

“Coming,” Seonghwa answers. No matter whose body he is in, he isn’t missing breakfast.

He opens the bedroom door and peers at the rest of the apartment. It’s tiny (and messy), so he gets a direct view across the little living room and into the kitchen, where a man washes a pan in the sink. He must be around the same size as Yunho, but he seems even larger from Hongjoong’s lower vantage point. They don’t look like they could possibly be blood-related. Is he Hongjoong’s boyfriend? Friend? Just a roommate? Would a random roommate cook breakfast?

Cautiously, Seonghwa approaches the kitchen bar and climbs onto one of the stools. Seonghwa wasn’t very tall in the world of idols—just tall enough to not hurt his chance at debuting—but in Hongjoong’s smaller frame, he feels…compact. It’s different. Not bad or weird, just different.

Breakfast is a bowl of rice topped with a runny egg, kimchi, and a few cuts of pan-fried Spam. There’s a big cup of dark coffee too, but Seonghwa already has to pee, and he’s hoping to put that off as long as he can. 

He mumbles, “Thank you.” The man doesn’t appear to hear him over the running water, so he just picks up his chopsticks and digs in.

It’s good, especially the runny egg, even though Seonghwa usually prefers his yolks firmer. Maybe that is the different taste buds at work. His appetite is definitely different. Every morning, Seonghwa wakes up ravenous, but Hongjoong’s stomach starts to feel full halfway through the bowl.

He wonders where Hongjoong is. In Seonghwa’s body, presumably, but what if that isn’t the case? What if Seonghwa’s body is lying vacant at the dorm and Hongjoong vanished into the ether? 

Now that he’s absorbed the initial shock, worries begin circling Seonghwa’s mind. How did this happen? More importantly, how can he fix it? If he goes back to sleep, will he wake up in his body? What if he can’t get back? There’s nothing critical scheduled today if he remembers correctly. Just group dance practice and then his individual lessons at the company. Tomorrow is the same, he thinks, except for an early planning session about their next tour and esthetician appointment. But later in the week, they’ll start shooting a new reality series, and who knows what else is on the schedule for New World and Seonghwa individually that he forgot.

He must figure this out as soon as possible. Contacting Hongjoong should probably be the first step, but how? Seonghwa changed his phone number recently due to excessive sasaeng calls, and he hasn’t memorized the new number yet. Neither the dorm doorman nor company security will let him pass without prior clearance.

The sink’s water finally cuts off, and the stranger says, “I should re-do your roots soon. The blond half is getting messy.”

So, this must be the hair-dyeing friend. Idol training does prepare you for unprovoked comments on your appearance, so Seonghwa automatically says, “Okay, thank you.”

Hongjoong’s friend narrows his eyes. “Are you sick?”

Seonghwa freezes with a piece of Spam halfway to his mouth. “...No? Why?”

“I haven’t heard you sound like that in ages.”

Seonghwa has no idea what he’s talking about, so he just says, “Oh. I guess my, uh, my throat is kinda sore.”

The friend stacks the washed pan precariously in the overfull drying rack. “You better not show up to the showcase sick. Jisoo noona will freak.”

Seonghwa nods cluelessly and hides in his breakfast bowl. Fortunately, the friend soon grabs a bookbag, puts on a pair of chunky boots that make him even taller, and leaves.

And then it’s just Seonghwa alone in Hongjoong’s apartment. In Hongjoong’s body.

Hongjoong, who is noona to at least one person.

Seonghwa took Hongjoong to be a gay guy with a femme style. Even toned down in a 7-Eleven vest, that style shone through. Some gay guys do playfully call each other noona or even unnie, so maybe that assumption was correct.

But the way Hongjoong’s friend said noona didn’t feel playful. It felt normal, like a daily, unremarkable thing. And most of the clothing Seonghwa picked off the floor looked like women’s items, though not all. So. Maybe Hongjoong is a woman.

Seonghwa knows about transgender people in theory, but he never considered them much. He doesn’t know anyone like that—at least, he thought he didn’t—so his knowledge is limited. Is it disrespectful to be attracted to someone if you thought they were a different gender? He’s never once felt drawn to a woman, but he’s been orbiting Hongjoong for a while.

However, the last thing he needs to worry about right now is a problem that might not even exist. 

Seonghwa washes his dishes to clear his head and then searches for Hongjoong’s phone. He may not know his new number, but all the members must memorize their managers’ numbers in case of emergency. This isn’t the sort of emergency he ever imagined, but whenever Seonghwa has no idea what to do, his instinct is to ask Doyun.

He finds Hongjoong’s phone charging on the same window sill where the glasses were, the white clutch empty beside it. Unfortunately, it’s an old model, so any hope of unlocking it with Hongjoong’s thumbprint or face is dashed. He makes a few hopeless attempts at guessing the passcode before giving up.

Unsure what else to do, Seonghwa starts snooping. He figures anything out in the open is fair game in this situation.

From the mail on the cluttered kitchen counter, he learns that Hongjoong’s family name is Kim and the friend must be Song Mingi. A calendar hanging near the front door reveals that “Jisoo’s Showcase” is tonight at 8PM, but it bears no clues about what Mingi warned him about being late to. Seonghwa presumes it’s a morning class, but he doesn’t know where to go, so he mentally apologizes to Hongjoong for the absence.

Seonghwa tidies as he investigates. He sorts and stacks the mail. He throws away the obvious trash, especially the many beverage cans littered around Hongjoong’s computer. He dumps Hongjoong’s dirty laundry into the mysteriously empty hamper and puts away the items that seem clean. When he can see the floor again, he finds the vacuum and sucks up the dust and debris.

It seems like the least he can do. Seonghwa has no idea how this swap happened, but he suspects it’s his fault somehow.

Hongjoong’s room doesn’t yield any helpful information, but it does give a lot of insight into its resident. The clothing tossed everywhere is an eclectic mix of styles with plenty of older pieces that appear thrifted and personalized items like Hongjoong’s Sharpied phone clutch. 

After the clothes, the next most numerous thing in the room is CDs. When Seonghwa vacuums under the bed, he finds three milk crates filled with CDs, a mix of Korean artists Seonghwa knows like Block B and Zico, Korean artists unknown to him, and foreign artists. 

Beyond that, there are other clues about who Hongjoong is outside 7-Eleven. The dozen-plus nail polish bottles lined up on the dresser. The music theory textbooks that Seonghwa stacks on the desk. The faded, peeling Minion stickers on Hongjoong’s keyboard piano. The badminton racket topping the precarious pile of junk on a folding chair. The DSLR camera that’s likely responsible for the photos pinned to a corkboard above the computer monitor.

Seonghwa is studying the photos—Hongjoong isn’t in them, but Mingi features often, as well as a petite woman with bangs chopped in a perfectly straight hime cut—when music suddenly starts playing. He jumps at the sound, spins, and realizes it’s Hongjoong’s phone blaring on the window sill. Seonghwa snatches it up and swipes to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, and then Seonghwa hears his own voice ask, “Is this Seonghwa-ssi?”

“Yes!” Seonghwa straightens like a bolt of lightning shot through him. “Hongjoong-ssi?!”

“Yes, that is me.” Hongjoong pauses again. “I don’t know if this is a very vivid dream or what. But given the circumstances, do you think we could speak casually?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Okay, so, what the fuck?”

Seonghwa cringes even though Hongjoong doesn’t sound angry. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know either. I just woke up like this. And I guess you did too?”

“Yeah, your tall puppy-face roommate dragged me out of bed for an international phone interview first thing in the morning.”

“Oh no.” Seonghwa totally forgot about that schedule with the American magazine. He and Yunho reviewed the questions together the day before, but it completely slipped his mind after everything else last night. “Uh, how did it go?”

“Well, I mostly kept my mouth shut. But at the end, the interviewer wanted a quote from you about the upcoming album, so I winged it. Sorry if I made you sound totally vapid because I had no clue what to say. I did it in English though, so if it’s weird, maybe that will explain it. But I think my English is better than yours because everyone seemed surprised?”

“Yeah, my English sucks. I know enough to get through a fan sign event abroad, but that’s the same sort of conversation over and over.”

“Well, I know enough to pick up foreigners in Itaewon. It’s probably not that different.”

That startles a laugh out of Seonghwa. His mind also immediately conjures images of how Hongjoong might dress for clubbing, augmented by his now comprehensive knowledge of the available styling options. He shuts down the line of thought before he gets distracted.

“Shouldn’t it be dance practice time right now?”

“I got out of that by pretending to be sick. You’ve come down with a stomach bug. Very gross. Possibly contagious.” Hongjoong sighs. “And I suppose I’m missing my appointment with my advisor right now.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You wouldn’t be able to fake your way through that. But I am going to use your phone to send an apology email. I’ve come down with a stomach bug too.”

Seonghwa paces the apartment, going from Hongjoong’s desk, around the living room sofa, and to the kitchen stove before circling back, contemplating his next move now that he’s made contact. His early instinct still feels right, so he says, “We should tell my manager what’s happening.”

“Really? I thought about telling someone, but I figured it’d look like you’re having a mental breakdown or joking or something.”

“Doyun hyung will believe me.” Doyun has worked with the members since pre-debut, and he knows Seonghwa’s mental condition better than anyone—as well as his inability to pull a prank without looking guilty. “And we don’t know how long this will last. There are schedules coming up that they might have to pull me from. Pull you from.”

“I guess you can’t be fake sick forever,” Hongjoong says. “They were already talking about sending you to the doctor. Okay, how do you want to do this?”

They discuss a plan for Seonghwa to come to the dorm and speak with Doyun there. Seonghwa makes sure to get Hongjoong’s phone passcode and find Hongjoong’s wallet for subway fare. (He promises to repay the loan, but Hongjoong refuses. Seonghwa will slip the money somehow.) As they are about to hang up, Seonghwa blurts, “Wait!”

“What?”

“Uh.” Seonghwa feels his neck heating again. “Is it all right for me to use the bathroom?”

Hongjoong snickers. “You haven’t yet? What a gentleman.”

“It seemed rude,” Seonghwa defends himself, refusing to think about the fact that Hongjoong has definitely used the bathroom in his body already. “And it hasn’t been…urgent yet.”

“Yeah, I’m good at holding it. Go ahead. I don’t have anything you don’t. I probably need a shower too.”

Permission granted, Seonghwa does his business and showers too, trying to be clinical and look as little as possible. Hongjoong’s hair drips down his back when he steps out of the shower, so Seonghwa pats it gently with a towel and finds a blow dryer. He thought it’d be annoying to take care of such long hair, but drying and combing it is soothing. Seonghwa spends more time in the mirror playing with the hair than he should, experimenting with different styles.

Seonghwa remembers standing on a step stool in front of his parent’s sink, his mother’s makeup box open on the counter. He liked opening the blush and eye shadow palettes to admire the colors and then carefully sweeping a brush across the powdery surface, followed by his face. He’d twist the lipstick and pucker up like his mother did, popping his lips after. She caught him one morning, and he worried he’d get in trouble, but she thought it was cute. He learned a few tricks from her and spent many happy hours on that step stool, watching his face transform in the mirror to match his mother’s.

“It’s our secret,” she told him, so Seonghwa never breathed a word to his father or brother. However, he made the mistake of mentioning it to a friend at school. The teasing only lasted a week before his classmates moved on to a new target, but he never did makeup with his mother after that. 

Hongjoong keeps a little makeup in the bathroom cabinet. (He assumes it’s Hongjoong’s and not Mingi’s, anyway.) A couple of eyeliner pencils and lipgloss tubes, a foundation compact, and several brands of BB cream—Seonghwa discovered the cache while searching for the hair dryer. It’s only a fraction compared to the treasure trove his mother kept. He wonders how often Hongjoong wears it; he never noticed any sign of makeup at 7-Eleven.

Judging by the small collection, Seonghwa probably wears makeup way more often. But there’s a difference between having a makeup artist get him camera-ready for work and doing it in front of your own sink for fun. Just because you want to feel pretty.

Seonghwa misses it. Playing with Hongjoong’s hair gives him a similar feeling though. Maybe he should grow his hair out too. None of the other members have long hair right now, so the company would probably let him.

When he finally manages to tear himself away from his reflection, Seonghwa reassesses the clothing options to find an outfit that actually matches and is weather appropriate. He chooses pants with real pockets (wide-bottom slacks that swish as he walks) and a button-down shirt that looks masculine at a glance, but the buttons are on the wrong side, and it has darts meant to accentuate curves that Hongjoong’s slender frame lacks. However, while searching the dresser for clean socks, Seonghwa finds a few bras. He slams the drawer shut.

Maybe Hongjoong only lacks curves sometimes.

Finally, he’s ready to leave. Seonghwa tries three keys before finding the one that locks Hongjoong’s apartment and then follows the phone’s directions to reach his dormitory’s neighborhood. He shows Hongjoong’s (male) ID to the doorman. Since Hongjoong called down beforehand as instructed, the doorman lets him in.

One quick elevator ride and a knock on the door later, Seonghwa has the uncanny experience of seeing himself in the flesh.

It shouldn’t be so weird, he thinks. A huge part of Seonghwa’s job is monitoring himself on camera and maintaining constant vigilance over how he appears to others. But there’s a big difference between watching a flat image and seeing his actual body moving independently of him.

Hongjoong wears his body differently too. There’s a slouch to Seonghwa’s back that his mother trained out of him long before the company started lecturing trainees about posture. The eyes are wider somehow than Seonghwa thinks his usually are, but maybe that’s just because Hongjoong is staring intently.

“Wow, Mingi’s right. I am tiny.”

Seonghwa laughs, startled but strangely delighted. He’s used to being called handsome, well-proportioned, even beautiful. Tiny is new. It’s sort of…nice. 

“Also, do you know how lucky you are to see for free?” Hongjoong continues. “I can’t remember ever having clear vision.”

“Your glasses are hard to get used to,” Seonghwa admits. He’s constantly aware of their weight on his nose, the frames in the edges of his vision. Being in a different body should probably feel more foreign, but the glasses are the only thing that keep bugging him.

“Well, come in. What am I saying, it’s your place. Your manager texted that he’s on the way.”

“Excuse me,” Doyun says, deep voice bouncing down the hall. They both jump. “Who are you?”

Caught off guard, Seonghwa can only say, “Uh.” Across from him, Hongjoong stays silent.

Doyun closes the distance with long strides, face stony. He’s a large, intimidating man who could easily have been a bodyguard if he wasn’t so good as a manager. Seonghwa doesn’t blame Hongjoong for shrinking back, although he knows Doyun is actually a total softie.

“Inside, now,” he says, waving impatiently at Seonghwa. He obeys, Hongjoong scrambling out of the way, and Doyun follows on his heels. Once the apartment door clicks shut behind them, Doyun rounds on Hongjoong.

“You are meant to be in bed, not entertaining guests. And you know you need to clear people with Minjoo or me before bringing them here. Are you even sick?”

When Doyun pauses to take a breath, Seonghwa intervenes. “Hyung, I’m Seonghwa,” he says, grabbing his elbow and thinking better of it when Doyun gives him a cutting glance. He drops his hand but forges onward.

“We woke up this morning switched. I’m really Seonghwa, I swear.”

Doyun crosses his arms, looking between the two of them slowly. Carefully. His brow furrows, but the expression is more weary than incredulous. “Prove it.”

Seonghwa spent the trip to the dorm wracking his mind for something no one else should know. Something he would never tell a friend or even a boyfriend. He gestures for Doyun to lean down, but he still has to stand on tip-toe to whisper in his ear. 

“Right after I turned twenty, I drank too much and pissed the bed. You caught me doing the laundry naked and still drunk.”

Seonghwa steps back, trying to project absolute sincerity through Hongjoong’s eyes as Doyun scans him. Doyun must find something familiar within the unfamiliar face because he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs the extremely weary sigh he usually reserves for 3 AM pre-recording sessions at music shows.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Seonghwa-yah?”

“Sorry, hyung.”

Doyun fixes his sternest gaze on Hongjoong. “Who are you then?”

Hongjoong straightens at his sharp tone. “Kim Hongjoong, sir. I’m a university student, and I work at the 7-Eleven Seonghwa-nim visits sometimes.”

“And what did you do?”

Seonghwa steps between them. “Hongjoong didn’t do anything. It just happened.”

“This,” Doyun says, snapping his fingers at them both, “doesn’t just happen. It’s a sasaeng curse.”

Curse? Seonghwa has never heard of such a thing, not as something real. But Doyun looks dead serious. Doyun also looks on the verge of kicking Hongjoong out, so he swiftly confesses, “I ran into a sasaeng last night. The woman who chased me last week. She cornered me outside Hongjoong’s shop and grabbed my wrist.”

Doyun’s face relaxes—just a little. He holds out a hand to Hongjoong. “Show me the wrist.”

Hongjoong wordlessly checks with Seonghwa and then raises one arm. Doyun examines the wrist, brow furrowing even deeper at the faint bruises and the small cut where the sasaeng’s nail dug into skin. 

He turns to Seonghwa. “Did this woman do anything else?”

“She—she told me to look at her. She was really insistent about it. And she said I was…unfair?”

Doyun shakes his head and drops Hongjoong’s arm. “It’s a curse, all right, but it seems she messed up.”

Seonghwa figured Doyun would believe him, but he didn’t expect to be believed so easily—and he definitely didn’t expect his manager to actually know what happened. “What do you mean a curse?” he asks. “Those are real?”

Doyun rubs his temple and heads for the refrigerator. Seonghwa trails behind him, Hongjoong following in the back.

“They’re real, but it’s not well known,” Doyun explains as he studies the fridge’s drink offerings. “We avoid talking about it because the more people who believe in curses, the more power they have. They aren’t common, and hopefully it will stay that way as long as people don’t realize it’s possible to cast something successfully. I only know about it because an artist I used to manage got cursed, and my sunbae told me everything she knew.”

“So, you’ve seen this before, hyung? Someone got swapped?”

“Not this. I’ve heard of this swap thing, but I haven’t seen it.” Doyun pushes Wooyoung’s cherry energy drink aside to grab a beer and crack it open. He takes a long drink before saying, “Someone in my group got turned into a worm.”

“A worm?! Who?”

“Kid, I am under a dozen different NDAs.” Doyun flicks his gaze between Seonghwa and Hongjoong and takes an even longer drink. “I guess I should be glad I’m not running out to buy potting soil right now.”

Seonghwa is glad too. He’d much rather be Hongjoong than a worm. He would take Hongjoong’s body over nearly anything, actually.

“Excuse me,” Hongjoong says. “You said the woman messed up the curse? What went wrong?”

“The caster and the victim should be swapped, not anyone else. It’s one of the more common curses, and every case I’ve heard of went like that. Now why it went wrong, I don’t know. I can ask some contacts and see if anyone has ideas.” Doyun guzzles the last of the beer and tosses the empty can into the pantry’s recycling bin.

“The good news is that I’ve never heard of these curses lasting longer than a day or two. Three at most. Ideally, by this time tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”

“That’s good,” Seonghwa agrees. It’s a much simpler solution than going on some quest to break the spell, although secretly, he thought that might be exciting.

“I will clear you from the schedules for today and tomorrow to be safe. The fewer people who know, the better, so try not to let any of the members catch on. It’d probably be best to send you both to a hotel to wait this out. I’ll tell the others that I took you to the hospital to get checked up, and they held you overnight.”

“Sir, hold on,” Hongjoong interrupts, stepping forward finally. “Both of us? Respectfully, I can’t just drop everything for 24 hours. I’ve got responsibilities.”

Doyun considers Hongjoong stuck in Seonghwa’s form. “Are they responsibilities you can do looking like someone else?” he asks doubtfully.

“Well, I don’t know, but we could—”

“Then it’s best for everyone if you wait things out too. Consider it an all-expenses-paid day trip for your trouble.”

“But—”

“The hotel sounds like a good idea, hyung,” Seonghwa interrupts. “I’ll pack a bag now, so we can go before any of the members come back.”

Hongjoong starts protesting, but Seonghwa grabs the unbruised wrist and tows them both toward his bedroom.

Once the door closes behind them, Hongjoong says, “Seriously, I promised a friend that I’d help with her event tonight. I can’t drop out. Just because I’m not some hotshot doesn’t mean I don’t have anything important going on.”

“Can I call you Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa asks, already pulling out the small bag he uses for short trips.

“What? Yeah, I guess.”

“Hongjoong-ah, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission with Doyun hyung. He’s my manager; he can’t tell me it’s okay to go running around unaccounted for all day, especially in weird circumstances like this. But if I sneak out, he can pretend to know nothing about it as long as no trouble happens. And if there is trouble or he catches me, I can just apologize and pay fines or whatever.”

Seonghwa packs pajamas and an extra set of clothes for both of them, as well toiletries and his daily skincare travel kit. He grabs the charger for his phone too, plus the universal backup charger for when Yeosang and San forget theirs. When he stops to consider whether there is anything else to bring, he discovers Hongjoong watching him.

“What?”

“How much trouble will you be in if we’re caught?” Hongjoong asks.

“Not a lot, really.” 

Doyun would scold him, which always sucks because he hates disappointing Doyun more than anyone besides his own family. He’ll lose some trust and freedom for a while, which will also be hard. But it’s a risk Seonghwa is willing to take. After all, it’s unfair for Hongjoong to put life on hold because of something his stalker did. And Seonghwa is used to taking risks like these to live a little. He’d go insane if he followed all the company’s rules 100% of the time.

Although, maybe he should be a little more obedient. If he hadn’t gone out alone last night, none of this would be happening.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Hongjoong says slowly, “I’d appreciate it if we sneak out. My friend Jisoo has a fashion showcase tonight that’s really important, and she needs my help.”

“I’m sure. Sitting around hotel rooms is boring anyway. We’ll be careful.”

Doyun books them a room at a nearby hotel and drops them off with a company card. He has Hongjoong sign a preliminary NDA and alludes to more paperwork coming soon. Then he reminds Seonghwa to behave before leaving to pick Jongho up for an individual schedule.

Then it’s just Seonghwa and Hongjoong, alone again.

“When will we need to leave for your friend’s show? It starts at eight, right?” Seonghwa asks. Hongjoong looks at him askance, so he explains, “I saw it on your calendar.”

“The show starts at eight, but we’ll need to get there early for setup. And there’s stuff I’ll need to pick up at my apartment first. With travel time…we should leave by six?”

That gives them hours and hours before they need to be anywhere. Seonghwa lays down on one of the beds, starfishing to stretch Hongjoong’s limbs. Even reaching as far as he can, Hongjoong’s hands and feet don’t reach the ends of the mattress. Seonghwa tries to remember the last time he was this small. Maybe the end of junior high? Puberty hit him hard. He shot up practically overnight and, in no time at all, became one of the taller boys in his grade. It took him much longer to stop feeling like a stranger in his own body. Nowadays, he’s glad for his height since it gives him a slight edge in the industry, but he still sometimes feels gangly and too big.

He wonders if Hongjoong likes being this size.

Hongjoong perches on the opposite bed. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s order lunch. I missed breakfast, and your stomach is killing me.”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I eat a lot.”

“Your metabolism must be amazing. I skip breakfast all the time, and I never get half this hungry.”

“It’s because we burn so many calories in dance practice. But I do have the biggest appetite.” Seonghwa takes out his phone—they exchanged earlier—and searches for nearby delivery options. “What do you feel like eating?”

Since the company is paying, they order a veritable feast of fried chicken and ramyeon. They eat at the room’s little table, the television providing background chatter to keep things from getting too awkward.

Hongjoong is quieter than Seonghwa expected. At 7-Eleven, Hongjoong always greeted him warmly and provided friendly chatter. But he supposes it is different when you are on the job. Seonghwa has never worked in customer service per se, but he knows all about smiling and being pleasant for pay.

Still, Seonghwa gets the impression that Hongjoong is feeling down. So, he says, “I really am sorry about all this. I know it’s weird, and you got dragged into my trouble when you don’t even know me.”

“Stop apologizing like it’s your fault. As long as we get through Jisoo’s show tonight okay, no harm, no foul.” Hongjoong slurps up a large volume of ramyeon as if genuinely starving. “Besides, it’s been sort of interesting. How many people can honestly say they’ve walked in another person’s shoes?”

“You seem upset though.”

Hongjoong chews slowly, assessing Seonghwa from across the gap between their beds with big eyes. “Well. It’s kind of uncomfortable occupying a different body. No offense. Your body’s great, you should model. It’s just…not what I’m used to.”

Seonghwa considers that as he eats a drumstick down to the bone. He doesn’t mention that he has modeled.

“I like being you,” he says. “It’s different, but it’s nice.”

“I like being me too.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Hongjoong glances over the rim of the plastic ramyeon bowl, raising Seonghwa’s eyebrows.

Already, Seonghwa is second-guessing himself, but he forges onward. He really wants to understand who Hongjoong is and how Hongjoong lives.

“Your friend Mingi called you noona. And I saw your clothes.”

“That’s two statements and zero questions.”

Seonghwa tries to organize his thoughts. The problem is that he doesn’t know what to ask or how without causing offense. This is uncharted waters for him. 

“I just…I wondered how I should address you.”

“We’re the same age, aren’t we? 98? We can just keep addressing each other casually, if that’s all right.”

Seonghwa almost asks how Hongjoong knows before remembering his information is splashed all over the internet. And he, of course, confirmed Hongjoong’s birthday with the ID card. He nods and gives up that avenue of inquiry. It’s probably none of his business anyway. He’s just so curious. He doesn’t just want to understand; he feels like he needs to.

Hongjoong swallows the last of the broth and sets the bowl aside. “I’m just messing with you. I know what you’re really asking.”

“You don’t have to say anything if it’s private.”

“I mean, it’s private, but it’s also not?”

Hongjoong raises a hand head-high, fingers curled, and then seems to remember how short Seonghwa’s hair is. The hand lowers to meet its pair in Hongjoong’s lap, fingers fidgeting.

“I’m nonbinary. Have you ever heard of that?”

“I think so. It means between male and female, right?”

“Or both. Or neither. Or a load of different things. I think everyone experiences it differently. For me, it’s like…how I feel shifts around, but if I had to pinpoint it on a scale, I’d say I fall somewhere midway between androgynous and feminine. Like, 75% feminine? But I don’t think of myself as a woman. Does that make any sense?”

It makes a lot of sense, actually. Well, the shifting around part does, at least. Seonghwa can’t really wrap his head around what 75% feminine is.

“I feel different some days too,” Seonghwa says, picking through the remaining fried chicken to find the best piece. Hongjoong’s stomach fills up quickly, so he wants to make the most of what he can fit in.

“Yeah?”

“We do different styles a lot.” Seonghwa finds another drumstick hiding beneath a breast and plucks it out. “Me especially, since I don’t mind doing more extreme looks. Masculine, feminine, whatever, I’ll try it. Sometimes, I’ll wear something really pretty for a shoot, and I love it. But then I’ll try the same thing the next day, and it doesn’t feel good. The stylists are always complaining that I’m fussy.”

He takes a big bite of the drumstick, crunching through the fried coating and hums in contentment. When he opens his eyes, he finds Hongjoong staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hongjong looks away, jabbing chopsticks into the pickled vegetables that came with their chicken. “I was just thinking—you know, I considered auditioning to some entertainment companies during high school. It’s one way to get into the music business, and my oppa is a dancer, so I had an idea of what it’d be like. But I decided not to.”

“Why not?” 

Maybe Seonghwa is biased (he is totally biased), but he thinks Hongjoong would’ve made a good idol. Love for music, natural charisma, unique visuals—all the essential elements are present. All someone really needs are those three things, a lot of good luck, and even more hard work.

“I didn’t like the idea of giving up control over my style. Around that age, I started dressing more femme, and I didn’t think that would be allowed. Maybe for a stage performance or a photo shoot, but not everyday wear in public.” 

“You do have to give up a lot,” Seonghwa admits. 

It’s something he’s never said to someone outside the group. Even when talking to friends and family, he focuses on the positives. There are plenty of them. But working as an idol does mean submitting yourself to the whims of others to an extent. 

Hongjoong leans back on the bed, propped against the hotel’s massive pile of pillows. Maybe it’s unintentional, unaccustomed to operating Seonghwa’s longer body, but the position looks…flirtatious. 

“What have you given up, Park Seonghwa?” Hongjoong asks.

The quiet hotel room, dimly lit despite the daylight hour, suddenly feels ten times smaller. A space just big enough for the two of them and any confession Seonghwa feels brave enough to put into words. Hongjoong doesn’t make any promises, but Seonghwa senses that no matter what he says, it will never go past this room.

And usually—usually, he plays it safe. He must. But maybe it’s this weird intimacy they’re experiencing by inhabiting each other’s bodies. Maybe it’s just Hongjoong. Whatever it is, Seonghwa finds himself eager for Hongjoong to know him.

“A normal life,” he begins. “Everyone else my age is on a totally different path from me, so it’s hard to keep up with old friends. And privacy. Virtually anything could wind up online with thousands of people dissecting it. And.” He hesitates but only for one heartbeat. “I’m gay.”

Hongjoong hums softly in acknowledgment, plainly not surprised.

“My family is fine with it, and I—if I wasn’t doing this, I would be out. I am, sort of. Everyone close to me knows. People who aren’t close to me suspect. Fans suspect. But I can’t ever actually say it. It’s fine if everyone thinks it as long as I never confirm it publicly. You’d think that’d be enough, but…”

“It’s not,” Hongjoong finishes. “That sounds frustrating.”

“It’s fine.” Seonghwa pauses. “I could say it. My group would back me up if I really wanted to go public. Some of the other members might even come out with me. But the backlash would be huge. It’d hurt our reputation. The company would lose money; people might even lose their jobs.”

“You could gain new fans though. New opportunities too,” Hongjoong points out. “It might all even out. Or end up net positive, maybe.”

“Maybe. But…it’s too much for me. I know it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but I don’t want to deal with it.”

“You don’t have to. Just live your life.” Hongjoong makes a flicking gesture in Seonghwa’s direction, indicating the body he’s wearing. “You’ve seen me. I go around looking and acting how I want, but I don’t announce myself everywhere I go. The people who know me know. Everyone else thinks whatever they think.”

“I assumed you were gay,” Seonghwa confesses.

Hongjoong laughs. “I mean, you weren’t wrong. I date all sorts of people, but no matter what, it’s always pretty gay.”

Seonghwa wonders how that works. “Do you always use female honorifics? You said oppa earlier, and your friend calls you noona.”

“It depends. I like using them because it feels like…balancing my gender presentation out? But I won’t use them around people I don’t know are safe. I don’t mind being called hyung anyway. It’s just not my most preferred.”

Seonghwa has never really thought about gender presentation or balancing it beyond things like wearing mixed clothing from the styling team or doing choreography that blends masculine and feminine movements. He never thought about it as something for regular life too.

“You seem very curious,” Hongjoong says, still lounging against the pillows. Seonghwa swiftly apologizes, but Hongjoong waves it away. “It’s fine. If I didn’t want to answer, I wouldn’t.”

That’s a relief. The last thing Seonghwa wants is to offend Hongjoong. “Thank you,” he says. “I just…”

He trails off. Eventually, Hongjoong prompts him with a “What?”

“I think you’re really cool.”

Hongjoong blushes, the familiar full-face blush that Seonghwa always does. The compliment doesn’t appear unwelcome, so Seonghwa dares to take another metaphoric step forward. “I usually come to the store just to see you.”

“I figured,” Hongjoong says, clearly trying to sound cocky. It doesn’t quite land with the pink cheeks.

Seonghwa assesses Hongjoong, searching for any cue that an advance would be unwanted. It’s oddly hard to read his own body’s language when someone else is occupying it, but it feels safe to add, “You fascinate me.”

He watches his own mouth twitch as Hongjoong tries to keep cool—and fails. Hongjoong breaks eye contact with an embarrassed but pleased laugh, rolling to hide against the overstuffed pillows. 

“Is learning to flirt part of idol training?” Hongjoong asks. “I had you pegged for a lot shyer than this.”

Not exactly, but yes. “I’ve always been straightforward when I’m interested in someone.”

“But are you interested in me or interested in me?”

“What’s the difference?”

Hongjoong’s face turns away from the pillows, peering at Seonghwa with one eye. After a moment that seems to stretch into a millennium, Hongjoong says, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We’re not doing anything sexy right now. Not when we’re stuck like this.”

Seonghwa lives with five members, as well as sometimes one or two managers. He deeply understands the value of a private room with a potential partner, and he’s not one to let such a precious opportunity go to waste. Especially since the person he’s been obsessed with for ages seems, unbelievably, also into him.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Hongjoong repeats, sputtering. “You’d fuck yourself?”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Park Seonghwa, I can’t believe you. So narcissistic.”

He thinks being at least a bit narcissistic is a job requirement for idols, but he doesn’t want to get into that. “It wouldn’t really be fucking yourself,” he points out.

“I suppose not. Like, I’m looking at you, but even though it’s me, you don’t seem like me.” Hongjoong sighs. “Okay, honestly, yes, in theory I’d be down for once-in-a-lifetime Freaky Friday sex. But I’m not really in the mood. Again, no offense to you, but I’m feeling kind of…crap. Dysphoric. It’s the deeper voice, and the hands, and the stubble. It’s been years since I had to shave.”

“Really?”

“I got electrolysis for my face years ago because I couldn’t stand the hair anymore. It’s, like, the one medical transition thing I’ve ever done. Maybe will ever do.”

Seonghwa runs his hands over Hongjoong’s cheeks and chin; the skin is as utterly smooth as it was that morning. It feels nice. Seonghwa has never thought much about his stubble before, but it can be annoying some days. He understands why a person wouldn’t want to deal with it constantly. Especially if you are 75% feminine—whatever that means.

Seonghwa doesn’t know what “Freaky Friday” is either. But he got the gist that Hongjoong is attracted to him too. Not one to let that slip by, Seonghwa presses the point to seal the deal.

“Later, after we get this fixed and you feel better, would you want to…see each other?”

Hongjoong laughs. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I told you, I think you’re really cool. And pretty. The prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”

“And I told you, you need to figure out if you’re interested in me or interested in me.”

That is no more illuminating than it was the last time. “What does that mean?”

Hongjoong gives him that assessing look again, tongue pointing slightly through his lips. Seonghwa thinks it’s his body’s habit rather than Hongjoong’s.

“It means,” Hongjoong answers slowly, “do you want to be with me, or do you want to be me?”

“Be you?” Seonghwa repeats.

“Yeah. The way you look at me, I can’t tell which it is. And it’s fine either way, but you should sort that out.”

Even with the explanation, Seonghwa can’t really understand. He doesn’t want to be Hongjoong. Occupying Hongjoong’s body temporarily is interesting, even fun, but Seonghwa likes himself fine. He likes his life.

Hongjoong seems definite that they won’t be fooling around in their luxuriously private room, so Seonghwa puts the matter out of mind. Maybe another time. Hopefully.

Seonghwa checks the alarm clock on the hotel’s nightstand and starts clearing up the lunch mess. “Tell me about Jisoo. What do I need to know before we see her?”

It’s a blatant change of subject, but Hongjoong rolls with it. After all, in just a few hours, Seonghwa must perform a brand-new role: nonbinary university student, Soundcloud music producer, and reliable friend Kim Hongjoong.

Strangely, he’s looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

As the sun sets, they return to Hongjoong’s apartment to pick up whatever is necessary for the fashion show. Hongjoong unlocks the door and freezes in the entryway.

“What?” Seonghwa asks.

“It’s…clean.”

Not really. Seonghwa only tidied the kitchen slash dining slash living room area. It’s not remotely to his standards; that would require more time and cleaning supplies than were available that morning.

“I just threw out things that were definitely trash and organized a little. Everything is close to where you left it, I promise.”

“You cleaned?”

“It seemed polite?”

“Well, thanks. Come on, Mingi should still be out.”

Mingi is indeed out. They enter the bedroom–its even cleaner appearance goes unremarked, but Seonghwa notices Hongjoong looking around appreciatively. As Hongjoong packs a heavily stickered laptop into a duffel bag, Seonghwa remembers the little mystery from that morning.

“Mingi thought I sounded weird as you.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, he didn’t say weird. But he asked if I was sick. And said he hadn’t heard you sound like that in a while.”

“Ahh…” Hongjoong doesn’t look up, hands busily coiling a power cord. “Among friends, I usually speak in my girl voice. I’ve done a bunch of voice training to alter my instrument, but it’s also partly a conscious habit I turn on and off.” Hongjoong packs the cord and switches to a brighter tone. “I can do it with your voice, see? Just not nearly as well.”

Seonghwa startles at the last part. It sounds like him but also not at all. He didn’t think his voice could get that high without sounding fake, but Hongjoong makes it sound natural. Huskier than a typical woman, but nothing that would raise eyebrows to listeners, so long as they didn’t see him.

“How do you do that?”

“Lift the larynx, learn how to form your vowels and consonants differently, blah blah blah. It’s not something you’ll be able to replicate tonight, so don’t worry about it. Anyone who knows me will just think I’m sick like Mingi or being cautious or in a more masc mood or something.”

Once Hongjoong has finished packing, they head to the subway and ride to the showcase venue. Seonghwa scans their car; it’s empty except for some junior high students with earbuds in and eyes locked on their phone screens. It seems safe enough to pick up their conversation from the hotel.

“So, Jisoo’s showcase. What exactly is it? What do you need to do? Wait, I’m you–what should I do?”

Hongjoong fiddles with a beanie borrowed from Seonghwa’s closet, rolling it down to completely cover the bright pink hair. “Like I said, Jisoo is a fashion designer. This showcase is for her brand’s spring/summer collection. The brand is small but growing, and some important industry people have taken notice of her work lately. They’ll be attending tonight, so if things go well, it could mean a big boost for her brand. I don’t know the details, but that’s the gist of it.”

“And you’re helping?”

“I’m in charge of the light and sound boards.”

Seonghwa nods; he knows about light and sound operators from concerts and other live shows. Then he panics because he’s seen those boards, and they look terrifyingly complex. Dozens of buttons and switches. Maybe hundreds? Thousands?

“But I’m you. And I don’t know how to do any of that.”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ve got this figured out. You are me, obviously. And you–that is, me–are my friend who has graciously agreed to help. I’ve done events like this for Jisoo before, and it’s always just me in the booth. So I can do my thing looking like you, and you can just enjoy the show.”

“Won’t she think it’s weird that you brought help if you always do it alone?”

Hongjoong flicks a hand back and forth. “Jisoo will just assume you’re some guy I’m seeing. I already texted her that I’m bringing someone.”

Seonghwa wonders what it says about Hongjoong’s dating life that his close friends wouldn’t blink an eye at a stranger randomly appearing. After the brief mention of picking up foreigners in Itaewon, Seonghwa has to assume Hongjoong is much more daring than he is.

Hongjoong continues the crash course on Jisoo and her fashion show for the rest of the ride, telling him what to say and not to say to avoid detection. Seonghwa is used to cramming before shoots, interviews, and meetings, but it’s still a dizzying amount of information. Usually, he only has to present a better version of himself, not an entirely different person. 

He’s mentally reciting Jisoo facts (same-age friend, met through the uni’s LGBT organization, they attend something called a “stitch and bitch” together) as they walk up to the venue. It’s a small theater, old but well-maintained. The place sits between a Chinese restaurant that smells amazing and a tailor shop.

“Jisoo’s parents own the alterations place, and they are good friends with the theater’s owner. He lets Jisoo use it for events at a reduced rate,” Hongjoong explains, voice lowering to a whisper as they pass through the doors and into the lobby.

Seonghwa hums in acknowledgment, thinking about Chinese. He’s not even hungry thanks to Hongjoong’s small appetite, but it still sounds good. Maybe he’ll order some sweet and sour pork to celebrate when they return to normal.

Suddenly, Hongjoong elbows him and hisses, “That’s Jisoo! She’s coming!”  

The nudge gives Seonghwa precious seconds to collect himself before a woman bounds up, crying, “Joongie!”

“What’s wrong?” Seonghwa asks as she clasps him in a desperate hug. She’s little, even compared to Hongjoong’s compact frame, but she’s got strong arms. Awkwardly, he pats her back. He hasn’t held a woman besides his mother so closely since graduating high school.

“Nothing’s wrong!” Jisoo declares. “I refuse for anything to be wrong! But tell me that the show is going to go okay.”

This, at least, is familiar territory. Yunho is New World’s leader, but Seonghwa is the one the members come to for reassurance. “It’s going to go perfectly. You’ve worked hard, and you’re ready.”

Jisoo pulls back, surprise plain on her face. Then her eyes narrow beneath the hime bangs falling in a straight line. “I must really sound upset for you to be this sweet.”

Behind her, Hongjoong’s shoulders heave with a silent sigh. Jisoo catches the motion from the corner of her eye and spins around.

“And this must be your friend,” she says. She gives Hongjoong a deliberate up-and-down glance, not that there’s much to see, given the beanie and mask. Seonghwa isn’t famous enough to get recognized everywhere he goes. Still, he did model for a Vogue editorial recently, so there’s a non-zero chance that someone attending a fashion show would recognize him from that. Or from a music show or variety program. Or a New World fan could even be attending.

Suddenly, this entire venture feels much riskier than when Seonghwa proposed it in his safe bedroom.

Hongjoong bows, hands clasped in front. “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Kim Seongmin. I was born in 98 as well. Sorry about the mask. It’s just allergies, I promise.”

Quickly, Seonghwa says the line Hongjoong fed him on the subway. “I figured since this show is so important, everything should go as smoothly as possible. So it’d be good to have some additional help.”

“Sure,” Jisoo says with a not-subtle wink. “Just don’t let your friend distract you in the booth, okay? Save it for the afterparty.”

Jisoo links her arm through Seonghwa’s, chattering rapid-fire about the preparations thus far and what’s left to do. She does sound nervous, so Seonghwa pats her hand and just listens as she winds herself down. In the background, Hongjoong drifts away to help others set up equipment on stage.

Jisoo notices. “Oh, he really is a helpful one, huh? And polite. Are you planning to keep him around? You should. He’s hot.”

Seonghwa laughs and hopes Jisoo doesn’t notice the blush spreading over his neck. “How do you know he’s hot? Maybe he secretly has a huge, ugly nose under the mask.”

“Okay, first of all, a big nose just means a big dick, and I know what you like.” Seonghwa sputters, but Jisoo just carries on. “Second of all, he totally has Hot Guy aura. Like, it just radiates.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Jisoo chatters on, walking Seonghwa upstairs to the theater’s booth. He manages to keep up with her banter, easing into it. She reminds him of the girls from his high school. He misses hanging out with them. It was always a totally different vibe than hanging out with guy friends. Even if they were only comparing test scores and commiserating about their hardass history teacher, Seonghwa always loved being included in their circle. It left him feeling a little…brighter. Like a star was glowing inside him, warm and soft.

Jisoo drops him off in front of the sound and light boards and then vanishes to get back to work. Seonghwa puts down his bag—Hongjoong’s bag—on the chair as he takes in the boards. They are smaller than the ones he’s seen at work, but the sheer number of knobs, switches, and buttons is still overwhelming. There’s a three-page cue sheet on the table covered in shorthand notations. Seonghwa flips through it, taking in nothing, and then jolts to attention when his phone buzzes. It’s Doyun calling.

“Hello?” he answers.

There’s a pause. “This is Seonghwa-yah, right?”

“Yes, hyung.”

“Good. How are things at the hotel?”

Seonghwa looks through the booth’s window at the people setting up the theater. “Everything’s fine. We’re just watching TV.”

“Good, good. Okay, I don’t have much time. I just wanted to let you know that I heard back from some old coworkers and got more information about this kind of curse.”

“All right,” Seonghwa says, still mentally adjusting to the fact that magic is real and idol managers apparently gossip about it.

“I confirmed that the curse typically results in the caster and cursed person swapping bodies. The effect lasts anywhere between a few days to a few weeks, depending on the strength of the curse.”

Seonghwa is aghast. “That long?” He likes wearing Hongjoong’s body, but they have lives they must return to as soon as possible. Even a few more days would spell big trouble for them both.

“Yeah, I was surprised too. Apparently, it’s one of the longer-lasting curses. See, they work through belief. The caster has to sincerely believe it will work and then keep believing in it for it to stick. If they curse someone into a worm but aren’t around to see it, doubt kicks in and makes the magic falter.”

“And if they swap bodies with someone, they would know for certain it worked.”

“You see the issue,” Doyun says. “However, we got lucky. You didn’t switch with the caster, and she has no idea it worked. So, my contacts think the usual one- to two-day curse timeline should hold true for you.”

Seonghwa runs Hongjoong’s polished pointer finger between a row of buttons on the light board. “Did anyone know why I didn’t switch with the caster?”

“Who’s to say? These things aren’t science. My understanding is the curse relies on making a strong impression.”

That stirs Seonghwa’s memory. “She wanted me to look at her. Really, really desperately.”

“Apparently, Kim Hongjoong made a stronger impression,” Doyun says wryly.

Heat creeps over the back of Seonghwa’s neck again. “Hyung,” he whines. Doyun will never let him live this incident down, he fears.

“That reminds me, I talked to Legal to get a special NDA written up. Put Hongjoong on the phone.”

Seonghwa quickly checks the theater below but can’t spot himself anywhere among the roaming people. “Uh, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Hongjoong’s…showering?”

Doyun, of course, doesn’t buy it, but he also doesn’t call out Seonghwa’s bullshit, which is why he is Seonghwa’s favorite manager. He just says, “You aren’t doing something stupid, are you?”

“No, hyung.”

“If I look up your phone’s location later tonight, your ass will be sitting in that hotel, right?”

“Absolutely, hyung.”

“Uh-huh.” In the background, Wooyoung screeches something, and Doyun sighs. “I’ve got to go. Get Hongjoong’s email for me. And stay safe. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Was that your manager?”

Seonghwa yelps at the unexpected voice, spinning to find Hongjoong standing in the booth’s entry. “Shit, you startled me.”

“Sorry,” Hongjoong says, not sounding sorry at all. “Well? Any updates?”

“Uh.” Apparently, Kim Hongjoong made a stronger impression. “Not really. He still thinks the curse will end quickly. And he’s got a new NDA for you to sign later.”

Hongjoong settles into the desk chair in front of the sound board, knees knocking against the table’s underside. After some fiddling, the chair sinks enough to give Seonghwa’s longer legs clearance. Then, with a jab to something that must be a power button, the board lit up in a few places.

Seonghwa finds a dusty stool tucked in a corner and perches on it. Hongjoong’s toes skim the floor. “You really know how to use these things?” he asks.

“Of course. It’s not hard once you know what you’re doing, especially for a simple show like this. Basically, all I’m going to be doing is turning two mics on and off, looping a few different tracks, and flipping some light switches. I don’t even have to remember it all because everything’s written out here. See?”

Hongjoong points at the top of the cue sheet. “When Jisoo comes out and does her intro, I’m dimming the house lights and turning on stage lights 1 and 5. And mic 1, obviously.”

With Hongjoong’s explanation, the codes and symbols on the cue sheet make more sense. Seonghwa can match up the notes to the labels on the boards. Still, it seems like a lot of pressure to pay attention and anticipate other people’s timing for an entire event. He’s a performer; he intimately knows how easily a live show can go awry.

Hongjoong removes the laptop from the bag and plugs it into the soundboard. “I tested the venue’s sound mixing during yesterday’s rehearsal, but it never hurts to double-check.” With a few clicks and button presses, music begins drumming through the theater’s speakers, an understated rhythm suitable for catwalking.

It’s a simple song, but it reminds Seonghwa of what he heard on Hongjoong’s Soundcloud the night before. “Did you make this?”

“Hm? Yeah. I know Jisoo’s brand well, so it’s easier for me to quickly make something that suits her than to search around for license-free tracks.”

“What can’t you do?” Seonghwa wonders aloud. Then he quickly adds, “Never mind, I saw the state of your apartment.”

“Hey,” Hongjoong protests. “I’m not that bad. Mingi and I are busy, and stuff piles up quickly in a small space.”

“You’re too busy to throw out your empty drink cans?” Seonghwa teases.

Before Hongjoong mounts a defense, the booth’s door swings open, and Jisoo flies in. “Joongie,” she says urgently, looking at Seonghwa.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa both say “What?” at the same time, but she doesn’t notice.

“Harin just messaged me that she’s sick with a nasty stomach bug. She can’t make it.”

From the corner of Seonghwa’s eye, Hongjoong looks alarmed, so Seonghwa asks, “Is she going to be okay?”

“Sunmi is taking care of her, so she should be fine. But we’re down a model, and you’re the closest person to her size.” Jisoo takes both of Seonghwa’s hands, squeezing them. “Please, please? I’ll barely have to alter anything if you model.”

“Uh…” Seonghwa hedges, unsure how to respond. 

Jisoo turns to Hongjoong. “Seongmin-ah, could you handle the lights and sound alone? Like, do you actually know what you’re doing, or was Joongie lying?”

“I’ve worked shows before, and the cue sheet seems easy,” Hongjoong says. “I can handle it, no problem.”

“Excellent! Get on the headset; I’ll tell the stage manager to do a speed-run tech rehearsal with you.” Jisoo pulls Seonghwa off the stool and starts towing him downstairs. “You’re a lifesaver, Kim Seongmin! I’m sorry for thinking you were just a pretty face!”

Caught in typhoon Jisoo, Seonghwa helplessly follows after the petite woman. He casts a final glance back over his shoulder, and Hongjoong gives him a shrug and mouths, “Good luck.”

Jisoo takes him out of the theater proper and into a green room where the other models—primarily women—are getting prepped and in various states of dress. Seonghwa catches sight of someone’s bare breasts and quickly averts his gaze. No one seems to care about him (Hongjoong) being here, so he says nothing.

“Okay,” Jisoo says, “have your measurements changed since I last did you?”

“I…I don’t think so?”

“Let me get your waist, just in case.” 

Jisoo whips out a tape measure, tucks it around Hongjoong’s waist, then withdraws it and points him to a chair. “All right, we’re golden. I need to find some shoes that will fit you. Yuna can do your hair and makeup while I look. Yuna unnie!”

A tall woman wearing a romper answers. Jisoo leaves, and Seonghwa waits as Yuna puts the finishing touches on a model’s eye makeup, sitting once the chair is vacated. 

“How’ve you been, Hongjoong-ah?” Yuna asks, already running a wide-toothed comb through Hongjoong’s hair. Before Seonghwa can think of a safe answer, she says, “This is Mingi’s work, isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Looks bitchin’. Wish he would’ve touched up your roots before the show though. Oh well. It’s Harin you’re replacing, right?”

Seonghwa mentally rewinds the whirlwind of the last several minutes. “Yes.”

Yuna glances over at a clothes rack. “Hm. Your hair, plus Harin’s two outfits, plus not much time…I’m thinking French braid. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“You’re very agreeable tonight,” Yuna remarks as she starts dividing hair.

Seonghwa laughs, hoping it doesn’t sound nervous. “I figure Jisoo’s already stressed enough without me causing trouble.”

“Very true. She’s gonna be a blast at the afterparty once this is over, and she can relax.” 

In the mirror, Seonghwa watches Yuna’s deft movements as she swiftly forms the braid Seonghwa can’t see. This—sitting in a stylist’s chair, getting ready to be seen—is by far the most familiar part of the evening. 

Yuna finishes the braid in no time, wafts some hairspray over him to make Hongjoong’s flyaways submit, and then switches to makeup. She says, “Did Jisoo tell you that Sunmi is taking care of Harin? I knew something was going on there.”

Seonghwa worries at first that gossiping will out him as clueless. But Yuna seems happy to share her insights into Harin and Sunmi’s suspiciously couplely behavior with minimal input. All he has to do is say, “Totally,” and “Yeah, that’s girlfriend behavior,” in the right places while she works. 

He has no idea who these people are, but it’s always fun to hear gossip. His favorite fancalls are the ones where the person dishes on juicy relationship drama, and he gives a sympathetic ear. Like Jisoo chattering and walking arm-in-arm with him, it reminds him of his high school friends. He had guy friends too, obviously, especially from judo, but he usually ate lunch and talked between classes with girls. How strange to think that by now, some of them are probably married, maybe even raising kids.

Seonghwa wishes he’d kept in touch with them. He tried, but he rarely had time to meet anyone while he was training, and they got busy with college and work too. And then he debuted, and he was even busier, and hanging out with female friends became risky. He gets along well with their female staff, but it’s not the same. With his high school friends, there was no business or boundaries separating them.

“What are you thinking about, pretty?” Yuna asks as she dusts highlighter over his cheekbones.

“High school,” he answers. There’s no reason to lie.

“Good memories or good riddance?”

Seonghwa has no idea how Hongjoong feels about high school. “Just people I miss.”

“Well, don’t get too sentimental. There’s no time to redo your eyes.” Yuna swaps the highlighter brush for a lip brush. “All right, stop talking.”

Seonghwa obeys, and she spreads lipstick over his mouth. Then she steps back, examines him, and nods.

“Beautiful, babe.”

Seonghwa reaches for Hongjoong’s glasses, and Yuna picks up a mirror to show him the back of his head too. But Seonghwa barely sees the braid. He’s too lost in Hongjoong’s reflection. His reflection.

It’s not like how Seonghwa’s mother would style him in secret, childishly colorful. It’s not like the sleek, camera-ready looks for public appearances and performances. It’s…delicate. Clearly, Jisoo doesn’t want the models’ makeup to distract from the clothes, but it has a softening effect on Hongjoong’s sharp features. It looks beautiful, just like Yuna said.

“You like?” she asks.

“Yes. Thank you, unnie.”

The word slips out. Once he hears it, knee-jerk panic rockets through his veins—he’s not supposed to say unnie. But just as quickly, he reassures himself that it’s fine. He’s Hongjoong right now. Hongjoong says unnie to trusted people, and the familiar way Yuna talks gives Seonghwa the impression she’s in that circle of trust.

Yuna takes no notice of Seonghwa’s emotional roller coaster. She ushers him out of the chair and towards the clothes rack, already seating another model. “Harin’s clothes are labeled. Go get changed for set A.” 

Seonghwa finds the two outfits with a Harin nametag wrapped around their hangers. Like most of the items on the racks and the clothes worn by the already-dressed models, Harin’s two outfits are white and black with red accents. Seonghwa wonders if Hongjoong’s split-dyed hair was a bizarre show of support for Jisoo’s brand or a coincidence.

The set A outfit is a dress that appears misshapen on its hanger, its top loose, and its bottom structured in some odd manner. The outside is white, but the inside is black. Fabric roses run down half of the top part. Seonghwa tries to imagine how the dress would look while worn, but his imagination fails him.

The set B outfit seems to be a white, lightweight blazer, if a blazer was meant to be worn as a mini dress with no underlayer. Its long sleeves create an interesting contrast with its short length. There is a wide black belt to cinch the waist and a slim red braid to overlay on the belt.

“Okay!” someone says behind him. Seonghwa startles, but it’s just Jisoo with black knee-high boots cradled like a baby in one arm and red heels clutched in her free hand. “These boots might be tight on your calves, but we can lace them loosely. And the heels are probably half a size too small, but have I ever told you that I love you and appreciate you so, so much?”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I have to walk that far.” He’s glad he’s practiced in heels before.

“Perfect! So, the heels are for set A, and the boots are for set B.” Jisoo places the shoes at his feet with movements as quick as her words. Then she grabs a hanger. “Set A needs some taping. I’ve got a minute, so I’ll help you get dressed.”

Jisoo seems to expect him to strip right there, which—sure, there are often female staff around when Seonghwa and the other members change between performances, but they usually aren’t staring right at him. Still, he’s a professional. He quickly removes Hongjoong’s clothes, puts them aside, and takes the dress from Jisoo.

“I already unzipped it, so just step in and—yeah, there. Now the straps—no, that’s the left, that’s the right. Here, I’ll zip you. Shake the skirt out. No, no, it’s already facing forward, don’t twist it. Perfect. Okay, let’s see if we can get your feet into these heels. Oh, thank God, yes. Now the tape…”

Jisoo produces a roll of double-sided tape and applies plenty to his bare chest to keep the dress’s front in place. Her fingers tickle, but Seonghwa holds himself rigid.

“This is maybe my favorite design from the spring collection,” Jisoo says as she finally steps back. “There! See?”

Seonghwa checks Yuna’s mirror since it’s the closest. The dress’s top gives the impression of crisscrossing sashes, broad enough to shield the wearer’s modesty but loose enough to be provocative. The skirt is asymmetrical and strategically pleated to resemble a flower bud blooming around the legs.

“What do you think?”

Seonghwa can’t stop staring. Somehow, an answer emerges from deep within. “...It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn.”

The person in the mirror—that’s Hongjoong. Hongjoong with the long, braided hair and the soft, delicately painted face, and the prettiest dress ever. But Seonghwa is the one wearing it all. And something about it feels wonderfully, terribly right in a way that no other style has ever felt.

Jisoo nudges Seonghwa, and the spell breaks. “You are really too sweet tonight,” she says. “But I’ve got to go; we’re starting soon. Make sure to take your glasses off. Oh, and get Yuna unnie or someone else to help you change between sets. That blazer dress needs two people, one to hold it close and the other to clasp the belt in the back. And—”

Someone pokes their head into the green room and calls, “Jisoo noona, ten minutes!”

“Shit!” Jisoo flails her hands and springs away. “Ten minutes, everyone!” she shouts as she goes. “You’re all superstars!” The door swings shut behind her.

Everyone remaining hurries into action. Seonghwa is all set, so he helps some of the other models with zippers as they explain Harin’s place in the two sets and how the show will run. Some are acquainted with Hongjoong, but others are strangers. The ones who know Hongjoong seem to expect nerves, but Seonghwa is in his element and ready to take to the stage. He’s never done a fashion show, but it’s just another kind of performance.

Since the theater doesn’t have a catwalk, the models slip through a hidden hallway to linger in the empty lobby, murmuring to each other. They’ll walk down the aisle through the audience, take their places up on stage momentarily, and then walk back.

Seonghwa listens to the hum of the music and small audience inside the theater as they await their entrance cue. The heels are already pinching his feet, but it’s no bother. A familiar buzz courses through him, the anticipation of stepping on stage soon. Then the women’s whispering stops, the doors open, and the first model steps out.

He’s fourth in line. Seonghwa counts beats as he waits for his turn. The second model goes. The third model goes. Then it’s time.

Seonghwa straightens his spine, sets his shoulders back, and places one foot in front of the other. His long strides carry him through the theater doors and down the aisle. The audience is more numerous than he expected, and some camera bulbs flash in his face, but he keeps his expression natural, hands relaxed, and gaze fixed forward.

Jisoo and someone else are speaking, describing the design and construction of the dress, but Seonghwa hardly hears. Hongjoong’s music rings around him, the subtly powerful beat propelling him onward to the stage. In a few steps, he climbs the stage’s stairs and takes the center position.

The stage lights are blinding. But after a moment, Seonghwa adjusts and takes in for the first time the full scale of the audience. A pose comes naturally; Seonghwa leans on one hip and scans the crowd with eyes only, resisting the urge to smile at the countless gazes all fixed on…him.

No, not him. Jisoo’s work. Hongjoong’s body.

Not him.

Something bright and hot bursts in Seonghwa’s chest, burning so fiercely that he fears everyone can see it shining through cracks in his skin. It's breaking him. It’s warm. He worries, This isn’t right, and just as quickly thinks, This is right.

It’s the word unnie crossing his lips. It’s the sensation of long hair brushing against his shoulders. It’s laughing with his high school friends with a hand over his mouth. It’s applying makeup with his mother, a secret meant to never leave their small bathroom.

It’s Seonghwa being seen in a gorgeous dress, momentarily the most beautiful star in the room.

Seonghwa, glowing like debut all over again.

Chapter Text

As promised, Jisoo is a blast at the afterparty.

She leads the models, seamstresses, stage crew, and select guests to the Chinese restaurant neighboring the theater. The place has been rented out, and a feast of dishes and drinks greet them as soon as they walk through the door. After Jisoo greets and thanks the restaurant owners—apparently also family friends—she raises a glass and proceeds to get delightfully drunk.

Seonghwa has attended plenty of afterparties in his career so far, and Jisoo could drink with the most seasoned executives and directors. She guides the group through toasting and applauding everyone involved with the showcase, shares several anecdotes that get the entire room laughing, and then opens a makeshift dance floor between the tables, arms high in the air. Seonghwa didn't keep track of how many drinks she knocked back during her toasts, but he suspects there's a god in this Chinese restaurant.

"Jisoo will go far in life," Seonghwa tells Hongjoong. Hongjoong slouches slightly to hear him over the ruckus.

"That's what I'm always saying," Hongjoong says. "Never to her face, of course."

"How much of a grump are you usually? People keep being surprised at how sweet 'you' are when I talk to them."

"I'm not a grump," Hongjoong grumbles, arms crossed.

Seonghwa laughs, but it's true that Hongjoong is plenty popular. The two of them stick to a corner, Hongjoong eating sweet and sour pork to satisfy Seonghwa's needy stomach, but people keep seeking Hongjoong out. The stylist Yuna dishes about the older woman she started dating recently. A classmate rambles about her thesis on cross-dressing in the Joseon dynasty. Someone calling Hongjoong noona details his trip abroad for top surgery. Somehow, Seonghwa navigates these conversations and more without anyone realizing that the real Hongjoong is listening at Seonghwa's side.

Never has Seonghwa spoken to so many openly queer people one after another. He knows plenty of gay and bi idols, as well as some staff members. But they usually aren't so vocal about it, even at a closed-door party. Even with the entertainment industry being as queer as it is, people are cautious. They have to be.

Speaking with Hongjoong's friends and acquaintances is nice. It's also a little sad. Seonghwa will probably never live a life like this, not unless he gives up his dreams. And nothing could make him give up, not even how he glowed on stage earlier. At least, he doesn't think so. But Seonghwa wiped away Yuna's beautiful makeup before leaving the theater, and he already misses it.

Now isn't the time for an existential crisis though. So Seonghwa stuffs the feelings and questions deep inside himself as if he's cramming too many clothes into an already cramped closet.

Plenty of people are curious about the masked person accompanying "Hongjoong." When drawn into conversation, Hongjoong manages to give away zero concrete answers about alias Kim Seongmin or their relationship. Still, everyone cuts coy glances toward Seonghwa, undoubtedly assuming that once the afterparty winds down, their night will truly begin.

In reality, about an hour into the celebration, Hongjoong's phone beeps with several texts. Hongjoong studies the screen, texting back and furrowing Seonghwa's big brows together.

"What is it?" Seonghwa asks.

"One of the other 7-Eleven part-timers messaged me, and—well, look."

Seonghwa takes the proffered phone from Hongjoong, and soon he's frowning as well.

Kang Bumi (711)

Oppa, sorry to bother you on a day off
But there is a situation
A woman called Lee Eunjung is looking for you
She didn't know your name, but the guy she's describing is definitely you
I told her we're not allowed to answer questions about schedules
She hasn't left though
She's been waiting outside for the last hour
I just wanted to warn you

I don't know a Lee Eunjung
What does she look like?

A little older than you?
Short bob
Kinda boyish looking

"That's your stalker, isn't it?" Hongjoong asks.

"Sounds like her," Seonghwa agrees. He wonders if Lee Eunjung is her real name. Then he wonders if she knows Seonghwa took Hongjoong's body and thought he'd come work Hongjoong's job, but it seems more likely that she'd assume the curse failed entirely. "I'm sorry. She must be mad at you for helping me escape last night. Or she thinks you can give her information on me. I didn't mean to get you pulled into this mess too."

Hongjoong dismisses his apology with a wave of a hand. "It's not your fault she's criminally obsessive. What do you want to do?"

Seonghwa thinks, shutting out the noise of the Chinese restaurant. If she was loitering outside the company building or dormitory, he'd call Doyun and ask whether they should contact the police. Surely there's be enough security camera footage of her lurking around his work and home to file a report. There might even be a shot of her grabbing him the other day. The company typically doesn't press charges against sasaengs; it's hard to build legally viable cases when all they've done is follow a celebrity. But the company would probably make an exception for this sasaeng since she's proven herself capable of escalation.

But it's Hongjoong's work she is loitering outside of, not his. And she has no way of knowing with 100% certainty that Hongjoong is Seonghwa right now. That means he has a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"I want to talk to her."

It's miserably damp and chilly outside, but Hongjoong insists on accompanying him.

"I'll just wait here," Hongjoong says, patting the concrete face of 7-Eleven's rear wall. The nearby bar's red neon light casts an eerie glow across the alley. "She won't see me, but if you yell, I'll hear."

"I doubt she's going to attack me—you. I wouldn't put your body at risk like that."

"Still. You should have backup."

It's a fair point. Even if Lee Eunjung isn't the home-invading, knife-wielding, drink-poisoning sort of sasaeng, she does unnerve Seonghwa.

He shoulders the bag with Hongjoong's gear. They agreed that he should carry it since it makes him seem more like Hongjoong and less like Seonghwa. Hongjoong, however, holds on to the laptop since it's the most likely thing to break if Seonghwa has to drop the bag and run. Then Seonghwa goes to the front of the narrow alley and checks both directions.

Someone is sitting on the bench in front of 7-Eleven, lit up a sickly yellow by the streetlamp above. Seonghwa can't see her face, but he recognizes the fall of her short hair.

"It's her," he confirms. "All right. I'm going."

Hongjoong clasps his shoulder. "Good luck."

Seonghwa steels himself and then steps out of the alley. As he moves, he sheds the posture and habits trained into him by the company for moving in public. He tries to throw away the furtiveness that usually follows him when he attempts to go unnoticed these days. He's just a random citizen walking down a sidewalk in Seoul, one among ten million. Someone that no one will recognize and stare at or point their phone camera toward or tail behind, giggling.

Hongjoong's body feels like an impenetrable shield.

Eunjung is too focused on the storefront to notice him approaching until he's almost upon her. She jumps when Seonghwa says, "You shouldn't be here."

"You!" She half-rises from her seat, then seems to reconsider and sits again. "You're that clerk."

"Yeah." Eunjung still doesn't know Hongjoong's name, and Seonghwa isn't going to introduce himself and give it to her. He repeats, more firmly, "You shouldn't be here."

Eunjung bristles at his brusque manners, but she remains stubbornly seated, folding her hands tightly on her lap. "It's a public place, and I'm not causing any trouble. You can't make me leave."

"You're wasting your time. He won't come back here again."

"Do you know him?" Eunjung demands. "Did he tell you that?"

"I don't know him, so you're wasting your time talking to me too. I just happen to work here. But yeah, he told me that."

Eunjung sizes him up, assessing the truthfulness of his words. Seonghwa sizes her up too. It's hard to tell while he's standing and she's sitting, but she looks a bit taller than Hongjoong. Under the lamplight, the scar near her nose stands out more. Or maybe Seonghwa just takes it in better with less panic surging through him. He's only ever seen this sasaeng in hurried glances and that one long look she forced from him yesterday. Her eyes tonight lack the bleeding desperation from when he knew she had Seonghwa in front of her. Now, they are only brown.

She could be an office worker, public servant, even the mother to a small child. Or, more likely, the wife or daughter of someone rich, if she has time to waste on stalking him. But no matter who she is, she's just a person.

"Can I sit?" Seonghwa asks, and then he remembers that he doesn't need to be polite. There's no reason for "Hongjoong" to worry about image or anti-fan retaliation. "I'm going to sit."

He claims the opposite end of the bench, settling the heavy bag between them and sighing. His feet ache. The heels Jisoo gave him for the showcase really were too small. Eunjung watches him from the corner of her eye, her gaze sharp even at an angle. 

"So," Seonghwa says, recklessly throwing the word out into the night, "what's your deal?"

"My deal?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than follow a small-time celebrity everywhere?"

"I don't follow him everywhere," Eunjung says, mouth flat. "I'm not like those girls."

"What do you do then?"

She doesn't answer. But she doesn't get up and leave either. For a while, they both sit on the same bench, staring into the fluorescent-lit 7-Eleven. Through the window, Seonghwa can see a young woman straightening items on the shelves and an older man sitting by the register. There are two customers, a pair of high school boys bent over cup ramyeon at the counter. It's not yet late enough for Hongjoong's usual midnight to morning shift.

When Seonghwa was younger, his only goals were to dance his best, improve his rapping, and find a company that would debut him. He never dreamed of anything except performing. Now, however, he wonders what it'd be like to really live a life like Hongjoong's. Go to university. Work a part-time jobs. Do favors for friends. Date anyone. Wear whatever is most comfortable.

Be whoever is most comfortable.

"Why him?" Seonghwa asks.

Eunjung turns, her sullen mouth still flat. 

"I know you're not sitting out here in the cold for some clerk," Seonghwa presses. "What's so interesting about this idol that you'd waste your time like this?"

All fans, even the stalkers, are the same in one regard: they love to talk about their idol. Seonghwa watches as the temptation wages war against her annoyance and reticence, her lips pressing thinner and thinner.

Finally, however, she unfolds her hands and spreads her fingers across her legs. Her mouth parts stiffly, and she says, "He's perfect."

That...wasn't what Seonghwa expected. Not something so common; he's heard that he's perfect from fans so many times that the words has ceased to convey any meaning to him. 

"No one is perfect."

"I don't mean like that." Eunjung's gaze cuts over to him, that desperation from last night flashing briefly in her eyes. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Seonghwa says. "What do you mean by perfect?"

Eunjung looks away. She rubs the side of her nose, finger brushing against the scar on her cheek. "Seonghwa's visual is my ideal."

This, too, is common. He's used to hearing compliments about his appearance, and he's become confident in his looks.

But it wasn't so long ago that he grew his bangs out and avoided mirrors so he wouldn't have to see himself. He hated his big nose, his bushy brows, his too-wide mouth, and his too-narrow eyes. Some days, he felt like the ugliest person in the world. Even after his debut and cosmetic surgery, he still felt that way some days.

He confessed this to Yunho once. Yunho stared at him like he was crazy. 

"So you like how he looks," Seonghwa says, struggling to wrap his mind around how this is somehow enough to lead a person to stalking. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people like how he looks, but the vast majority would never do what Eunjung has done.

"He looks exactly how I want to look."

The confession sinks slowly into the night between them, the moisture-laden, tension-filled air made even heavier. It takes Seonghwa a moment to process it. He first thinks, Ah, so that's why it was a body-switching curse, and then he thinks, Wait, what?

"What do you mean? Look like m—him how?"

Fortunately, Eunjung doesn't notice the slip. "It's not fair," she says. "When I see him, I think 'That should be me.' The way he looks...I want that."

Seonghwa remembers Hongjoong watching him carefully from the hotel bed, asking Do you want to be with me, or do you want to be me? But then and now, it is wrong.

"You can't be someone else," Seonghwa says. Eunjung scowls, but Seonghwa keeps going. "You can change yourself. But you're never going to be satisfied if you make someone else your goal."

Eunjung huffs and stands, cutting off any further discussion with sharp movements. "Like I said," she shoots at him, "you wouldn't understand."

With that, she steps out of the lamplight. The night obscures her form as she strides past the alley where Hongjoong hides without a glance. Seonghwa stays on the bench, turning the short, stranger conversation over and over. After a while, Hongjoong emerges and comes to him.

"Is that it then?" Hongjoong asks, arms crossed over the laptop.

"I guess."

Eunjung will probably find again later, so long as she knows where to look. Maybe she'll try to curse him again, or even attack him with more ordinary methods, and he'll have to get her arrested. At least now he knows to be extra cautious of her. 

But maybe she'll give up. Maybe she'll work on herself instead of focusing her energy on him. Only time will tell.

"Did you find out what you wanted?"

Seonghwa rises, sore feet protesting. He stares down the dark street where Eunjung vanished one more time before settling his gaze on Hongjoong beside him.

"No. But that's okay."

They return to the hotel, the end of their very long day finally approaching. 

While Hongjoong showers, Seonghwa calls Doyun to check in. Doyun instructs him to call immediately if anything changes and promises to stop by in the morning after dropping Jongho and San off at the dermatologist.

"You should be hitting the twenty-four hour mark soon," Doyun reminds him. "So the curse might end overnight. But it might not."

Given how unscientific this entire adventure has been thus far, Seonghwa knows there are no promises. He isn't sure which outcome he hopes for. Pausing work, even for just a couple of days, makes him anxious, worried about losing ground in the industry's rapid rat race. At the same time, it feels good to step away, to take a break and breathe. The poison is its own antidote, as his mother would say.

For Hongjoong's sake, it would be best if the curse ended soon and their normal lives resumed. 

Doyun reviews the two plans for tomorrow—Plan A if they are still swapped, Plan B if they are back in their own bodies—and then his manager must hurry off to the next schedule. Hongjoong emerges from the bathroom just as Seonghwa hangs up. He wonders if it is a coincidence or the result of polite eavesdropping.

"Are you going to wash up?" Hongjoong asks, briskly rubbing a towel through Seonghwa's hair. Their stylist has banned Seonghwa from towel drying since his hair is so damaged from back-to-back bleaching, but he figures the poor strands can survive one bout and keeps quiet.

"In a minute." He's still reviewing the Plan B schedules that Doyun texted over. Tomorrow, New World has dance practice in the morning, followed by a meeting with management, another interview after lunch (this time with a Korean publication), and a presentation from the merchandise team. Add on the private rap lesson Seonghwa booked in the evening, and it's a full day, but there's nothing crucial. Nothing will fall apart if Seonghwa has to call out "sick" again. But that doesn't stop the stinging buzz that runs through Seonghwa at the notion of missing another day's worth of schedules.

"What's wrong?" Hongjoong asks, tossing the damp towel in the direction of the laundry rack. It falls to the floor; Seonghwa makes a mental note to hang it later. "Mingi always tells me I look constipated when I'm worried. This is my first time seeing it though."

"Everything's fine," Seonghwa says. Everything will be fine, at least. Whatever will happen will happen, and that's it. He will get through this curse, however long it lasts, and then he will get back to his normal life. 

That would be the simplest thing to do, at least.

"That stalker said something weird to you, didn't she?"

Seonghwa looks up from his phone, finding his own face watching him carefully. Hongjoong wears the face differently. The eyes are a little pinched, like Hongjoong is too used to squinting to stop doing it even with Seonghwa's clear vision. The mouth a little flatter, probably lacking the years of image training that ingrained a soft smile as Seonghwa's neutral resting expression. It's Seonghwa's face but not quite.

"She said that she likes how I look," Seonghwa explains.

"That's weird? I could probably poll a hundred random people and they'd all say you look good."

It's more or less the same compliment as what Eunjung said, but hearing it from Hongjoong makes Seonghwa flush, the now-familiar warmth creeping over Hongjoong's neck. 

"Not like that. I thought that's what she meant too, but she said it was actually more like...that she wants to look like me. Exactly like me."

Hongjoong considers this, lips parting slightly and then closing again. After a few beats of silence, Hongjoong sits down on the bed, hands sliding into the pockets of the hotel's white bathrobe. "Huh. All right."

"What were you going to say?" Seonghwa asks.

"What? Nothing."

"You were clearly about to say something and stopped."

"Ah. Well." Hongjoong leans back against the mass of pillows at the bed's head, eyes fixing on the opposite wall's mirror instead of Seonghwa. "I shouldn't make assumptions."

"I want to hear your assumptions though."

Hongjoong sighs. "I just—what your stalker said to you makes me think the fixation on you might be rooted in gender envy."

"Gender envy," Seonghwa repeats. He understands the concepts separately, but he doesn't know what to make of them when pressed together the way Hongjoong says it.

"It's like. You see how someone wears their masculinity or their femininity or both or whatever. The way they present themselves to the world. And you want to present yourself like that too." Hongjoong pauses, as if waiting to see whether Seonghwa will jump in, and then forges forward, quicker than before. "It's not a bad thing. It's normal. But sometimes people can get really obsessive about it. And it seems like your stalker sort of...went off the deep end."

"...I see," Seonghwa says, more out of an effort to break the awkward atmosphere than actual understanding. "So...is that something you felt before?"

"Sort of? I don't like framing it as 'envy.' For me, it's more inspiration. Like fashion inspiration. But I don't mean just clothes—I mean everything. If someone is doing something that I like enough to try, then I'll try it and decide whether it's something I want to keep doing."

That makes more sense to Seonghwa. His image management is half the company advising him on what to do and half Seonghwa thinking about how he wants fans and the public to see him. A lot of his ideas come from other celebrities, the way they dress, their speaking tone, how they act on stage, and so on. Maybe it's not really comparable, but he understands the concept better if he thinks of it like that.

Hongjoong's hands clap together. "Have you ever seen a guy and thought his particular style of manliness was really cool?"

"Maybe? But that's more—those are guys I'm attracted to, usually." 

"Yeah, that can make it confusing. But then what about a woman and her femininity?"

Three people immediately come to mind. First, a junior high teacher who had the shortest hair among all the female staff but also wore dresses every day rather than the slacks that the others preferred. Second, Lee Hyori, who is, of course, a legend, no further explanation needed. And finally, New World's head manager Sunghee. All of their other managers are men, so she stood out for that reason alone, but she never tried to blend in as one of the guys. She embodied the very idea of "boss," handling every situation with not just competence but grace and commanding rooms without ever raising her voice.

"Maybe," Seonghwa repeats, still mentally running through every woman he's ever admired. He tries to gather himself. "I think I get it now."

"But listen—I don't know your stalker at all. I could be totally wrong. And even if I'm right, that's no reason to harass someone. It's not healthy to dwell on it to that extent. If all you do is envy, you end up destroying yourself."

Seonghwa plucks at the bed covers, unable to meet Hongjoong's eyes. That question from earlier replays in his mind. Do you want to be with me, or do you want to be me?

"I should wash up," Seonghwa blurts, and then he makes his escape.

He showers under cold water, scrubbing as he shivers. It's not enough to quiet his mind though. When he gets out, he confronts the mirror, looking past Hongjoong's reflection to try to find himself.

The way he feels about Hongjoong—is it just an escapist fantasy, relieving stress by daydreaming about a different life? Is it a crush, like Wooyoung has been claiming ever since Seonghwa started frequenting Hongjoong's 7-Eleven? Is it this gender envy thing?

When he used to perch on a stool and stand beside his mother, watching her transform both their faces—was that just childhood fun or something more? When he stood on stage earlier tonight, wearing Hongjoong's smaller body, longer hair, and the most beautiful dress—was the sensation that burst from his chest just the familiar hunger to be seen that's so common among idols, or was it the hunger to be seen as a woman?

Seonghwa flosses and brushes Hongjoong's teeth. He applies a nighttime face moisturizer. He shrugs on the soft hotel bathroom that matches what Hongjoong is wearing. As he ties the belt, Seonghwa looks into the mirror and cinches it tighter than necessary, pulling the fabric taut at the waist so that something resembling an hourglass figure forms around Hongjoong's flat body.

For a moment, he only looks. Then he picks the belt's knot apart with trembling fingers and reties it loosely.

When he emerges, Hongjoong has gotten into bed with the laptop.

"I'm just replying to some school emails," Hongjoong says, fingers tapping against the keyboard with rapid clicks. "I'm ready to go to sleep whenever you are."

Seonghwa tugs the blankets of his own bed loose and settles underneath them. The layers rest heavily on top of his body, pressing him down. It's weirdly comforting. "You can keep the light on if you need it. I'm used to it."

Hongjoong grunts in response, still typing away. Seonghwa closes his eyes. Eventually, the laptop lid shuts, Hongjoong reaches to turn off the lamp between their two beds. The room darkens behind Seonghwa's lids. He keeps them closed, listening to the sounds of Hongjoong shifting a couple of meters away, settling in. Finally, the room falls silent except for the sounds of them breathing.

Seonghwa can't sleep. He opens his eyes, licks his lips, and speaks into the dark.

"Hongjoong-ah."

"Yeah?" Hongjoong mumbles.

"Could you do that girl voice thing again? In my voice."

Hongjoong doesn't reply for a while. Seonghwa wonders if Hongjoong already drifted off or if it was a weird request to make. But then Hongjoong shifts and pats the mattress.

"Come here."

Mystified, Seonghwa tosses back his bed covers and crosses the short distance, first perching on the edge of the mattress and then laying down when Hongjoong tells him to. His heart drums in his ears, flipping over with little lub-dubs, and his entire body is on high alert. Hongjoong borrowed the shampoo and conditioner that Seonghwa brought from the dorm, the expensive treatments that he hides between showers so the members won't steal it. Smelling the familiar fragrances on another person makes something in Seonghwa's gut tighten.

It's been some time since Seonghwa last laid in bed with someone besides the New World members. Even longer since he laid in bed with someone he wants to kiss.

With the lamp off, the only illumination comes from the moon and streetlights glowing through the sliding door's curtains. The muted glow casts soft shadows over Hongjoong's face—Seonghwa's face. 

"What should I say?" Hongjoong asks, still in Seonghwa's normal baritone.

"Anything."

Hongjoong frowns. Then, in the uncannily feminine tone Seonghwa only heard a snatch of earlier, Hongjoong says, "I'm worried I'll say the wrong thing to you."

It's perversely thrilling to hear something like a woman speak in Seonghwa's voice, to watch the sounds emerge from his own lips. A beat passes before he registers Hongjoong's words.

"Why worried? What would the wrong thing be?"

"I don't even know." Hongjoong sighs, knuckle digging into one eye. "The thing is. You remind me of myself. But just because something is right for me doesn't mean it's right for you. It's important to figure out some things by yourself. And I'm scared that I might ruin that for you or rush you or...I don't want to mess up your life. I kind of hope that you don't even understand what I'm talking about right now."

"Sorry, but I think I do," Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong groans. "You're not going to mess up my life."

"You're an idol. A male idol in a boy group," Hongjoong stresses, switching back to a man's voice. "I'd hate for you to start dwelling on this stuff and get stressed out or depressed. Some people feel fine at first, but then once they notice something is wrong, everything they've been ignoring and repressing starts to flood them and rub them raw."

"If I've been ignoring it and repressing it, isn't it better to finally let it out?"

"Is now the right time in your life for it?"

Seonghwa supposes that Hongjoong knows a lot more about these matters than he does. And he certainly doesn't know what the future might hold for him. Still, he's certain about one thing.

"I'm glad we talked about this stuff," Seonghwa tells Hongjoong. "I'm glad I met you."

Hongjoong studies him, still frowning.

"Whatever happens, that won't change," Seonghwa insists. "You're an amazing person."

Slowly, the frown shifts into a small, hesitant smile, barely seen under the dull light. A hand reaches up and covers Seonghwa's eyes and the top half of his face. Seonghwa blinks, lashes brushing Hongjoong's palm.

"You're sweet. But I'm not doing this while I can see myself."

Then Hongjoong leans over and kisses him. It's close-mouthed and chaste, just a press of lips to lips, but it startles Seonghwa. He opens his mouth in surprise, but Hongjoong has already drawn back, waiting a moment longer before lifting the hand away.

Hongjoong resettles against the pillows, dodging Seonghwa's gaze.

"What was that for?" Seonghwa asks, still frozen.

"I just wanted to see how it felt," Hongjoong says, clearly aiming for cool and non-committal and failing on both fronts.

"To kiss yourself or to kiss me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think we should do it again."

Hongjoong laughs. "Very bold, but nope. Anything else is going to have to wait until I've got my body back. And until you feel more certain about what you want."

"I'm pretty sure that regardless of anything else, I think you're really hot, and I like you."

Hongjoong blushes at that, the visible-from-space, full-cheeked flush that can burn through primer and foundation on Seonghwa's face. "Well. I still want to wait. For my own peace of mind. Now let's go to sleep, I've been awake since dawn."

Seonghwa settles down beside Hongjoong carefully, unsure whether he's allowed to stay in the same bed. Hongjoong lets it happen though, so Seonghwa lets it happen too.

He closes his eyes and listens to the body beside him breathe, timing the rise and fall of his own chest until they match.

This time, it's easy to drift off to sleep.

Seonghwa wakes up with the urgent need to pee. He stumbles from the bed, stumbling out of the bed covers snarled around his feet. Hotel rooms are mostly the same all over the world, so he finds the bathroom more on instinct than anything else. It's still dark, and his eyelids feel swollen and sore.

When he's done relieving himself, he washes his hands. Dries them. Snaps his head to get his pink bangs out of his face and then checks his reflection to see how poor his condition is.

It takes him a moment to remember that finding his own face in the mirror should be a surprise.

Seonghwa pinches himself to make sure he's not dreaming. It stings, but he's still unconvinced. So, he goes to the lump on the bed and shakes what he thinks is Hongjoong's shoulder.

"Hongjoong-ah! Hongjoong-ah, we're back."

"Back?" Hongjoong croaks, not rising at all.

"We're in our own bodies again."

"Mm." Hongjoong rolls over, pulling the covers up. "Five minutes..."

Seonghwa turns to the mirror hanging over the desk, examining his reflection properly. He looks exactly how he left himself the night before last. His hair is still bubblegum pink and one more bleaching session away from total annihilation. The persistent pimple by his ear is still there, hidden under his sideburns. His cheeks are a little puffy from all the greasy things Hongjoong ate in his body yesterday.

He's really back.

Doyun springs to the top of Seonghwa's mind. He's supposed to call his manager right away to get picked up and resume the usual schedule now that the body swap has ended. Hongjoong needs to return to normal life too. It's the right thing to do, for both of them. Seonghwa is antsy to start practicing again and ensure this weird blip won't slow the team down any longer.

But even knowing this, even feeling eager to work, he hesitates.

Seonghwa pads across the bedroom and unplugs his phone. There's a message from Doyun, checking in to see if anything's changed. Seonghwa stares at the screen for some time, considering. Then he sends a reply and puts the phone down.

Their hotel room has a little balcony. Doyun told them to avoid the outdoors, but Seonghwa wants fresh air, and the chance of being spotted is low. So, he pulls back the curtain to let in a little more of the sunshine and pushes the door open enough to hear the traffic on the street, the sounds of people going to school or the office or the shop. He drags a chair over and watches the world pass by below.

Compared to the last couple of damp, chilly days, today is dry and warm. A breeze brushes his cheeks and he tips his head back, letting the sun soak into his skin. His body.

Hongjoong finds him like that.

"We're back?" Hongjoong asks, crawling out of bed and scratching a bird's nest of hair.

"Yeah."

Hongjoong lets loose a jaw-cracking yawn and stretches each limb, shivering from the effort. "Guess that means I've got to get back to class this afternoon. Do you think your manager would give me a ride?"

"He will. But I haven't told him yet."

"Why not?"

Seonghwa shrugs. "I just wanted a little more time."

They order room service for breakfast. When the food arrives, Seonghwa pushes the curtains and sliding door all the way back so they can eat on the balcony. After everything, he desired something familiar, so he ordered a spread close to what his mother would prepare on the weekends. The hotel sends up rice so white it gleams, bean sprout soup generously topped with scallions, a fluffy rolled omelet, and the side dishes of the day.

Hongjoong goes straight for the omelet, plucking a segment from the plate before sitting down. "Didn't your manager say to stay off the balcony?"

Seonghwa gulps down his soup. "Are you going to tell on me?"

"Nope. I guess this is nothing compared to sneaking off to Jisoo's showcase. Besides, it will be your problem if he finds out, not mind."

Hongjoong snags more of the rolled omelet, chewing slowly with eyes shut. Seonghwa watches as Hongjoong eats, studying the once-stranger across from him. Even in just a plastic-frame glasses, cream-colored bathrobe, messy hair and zero makeup, Hongjoong exudes a queer, understated sort of femininity. Something that can't be attributed to the chipped nail polish or long locks or dozen piercings.

He wonders if Hongjoong was like this since birth or if it's something practiced like the girl voice.

He wonders if either could be true for himself.

"How did you know for sure that you aren't a guy?" Seonghwa asks.

Hongjoong's eyes open. For a while, Hongjoong just keeps chewing, considering Seonghwa under the morning sunlight. Then Hongjoong swallows. "I didn't. I still don't."

"You don't?" Seonghwa echoes.

"Not for sure."

Seonghwa turns this new information over is his head, trying to fit the piece into the image of Hongjoong that he's built up in his mind. "But then—how did you end up...changing yourself?"

Hongjoong moves on to the rice but seems more interested in poking the chopsticks into it than actually eating. "Remember what I said about not wanting to mess your life up?"

"Yeah."

"Keep that in mind. Because this is just me. I don't know how things are for other people."

Hongjoong shifts in the chair, legs crossing so the knees poke out from the open sides. The bathrobe rides up the thighs dangerously. Seonghwa allows himself a quick glance.

"One day..." Hongjoong begins, and Seonghwa snaps his gaze back up. Hongjoong laughs and gives him a mock stern look before starting over. "One day, I wondered if I'd be happier if I wore what I wanted, even if other people thought it was weird. I tried it, and it made me happy, so I keep doing it. And then another day, I wondered if I'd be happier if I could train my voice to sound less masculine. I tried it, and it made me happy, so I keep doing it. Eventually, I wondered if I'd be happier if I asked my friends to call me noona and unnie. I tried it, and it made me happy, so I keep doing it."

Hongjoong's chopsticks tap against the side of the rice bowl. "People assume that transitioning is this all-or-nothing, all-of-a-sudden thing and that everyone knows exactly what they're doing. But that's not true for me. I just wake up each day and decide if I want to keep doing what I'm doing or if I want to try something new. That's what transitioning is to me: trying to live a life I'm happy with every day."

Seonghwa has no idea how to follow that, but Hongjoong doesn't seem to expect a response right away or ever. They let Seoul fill the silence between them; the city bus creaking to a stop at the intersection. Pigeons descending from a neighboring rooftop, their fluttering wings like music against the city's traffic sounds. A pair of kids in junior high uniforms racing with their school bags beating against their backs, shouting something indistinct to one another.

Ten million people living in Seoul, and by some miracle, Seonghwa found himself beside exactly who he needed to meet. Someone he didn't even know he needed to meet.

"I'm happy," he says. "But. Maybe I could be happier. Maybe I...maybe I should try some new things. I just don't know where to start."

"There's no rush," Hongjoong assures him. Then an unfamiliar shyness settles across Hongjoong's shoulders, making them lift up to the ears. "And. You have my number if you want help. Or if you just want to hang out."

"I'd like that," Seonghwa says. And Hongjoong turns away, but Seonghwa catches the corner of a smile reshaping the mouth.

He remembers how that smile felt on his face.

Perhaps, one day, the sight of it will be as familiar to him as his own reflection.