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Wonbin is early. The neon sign of Sun Cinema is giving his black hair a green-ish tint and he fiddles with the bracelet on his wrist, stepping from one freshly-washed Converse-clad foot to the other.
There is no dirt under his nails. No specks of blood on the hems of his jacket. He smells like Juliette Has a Gun and decidedly not like graveyard and all in all, things are looking pretty good.
In short, Wonbin has the day off.
Not going out patrolling feels wrong—he feels a pang of guilt and dreads the news of yet another death that tomorrow’s Sunnydale Press could bring, but… but. It’s a Friday night. Maybe asking your strong, tall, Vampire ex-something to help you out with saving the town from all the other, less domesticated creatures of the night, so you can take your slightly less strong, slightly taller current -something out on a date is somewhat of a frowned-upon decision on his part, but Eunseok was game, so—again, things are looking pretty good.
Wonbin checks his phone; no new, vaguely alarming SMS from Taeil, telling him that Eunseok got hurt (he wouldn’t, it’s Eunseok) or that this was a bad idea (it most definitely was) and that he should come do his job himself (he really should).
Against all odds, the Watcher actually supported the idea of Wonbin slacking off for a night. At least verbally, that is. Wonbin has the faint notion that it might have something to do with his best friend Seunghan, who, if he really cares about something, can be so persuasive it’s actually easier to just agree with him immediately, or the fact that Sungchan—sweet, darling, beautifully regular Sungchan, who might or might not be standing him up right now—isn’t a Vampire.
Wonbin knows him from school, remembers seeing him in the hallway, usually wearing maroon and gold Razorbacks jerseys, hair sweaty from basketball practice and smiles pearly and wide. The first time they actually talked was about two months ago—Wonbin is in his final year of high school and, while he doesn’t have much free time for Normal Teenage Boy Things in the midst of crouching over Seunghan’s calculus notes while the other boy tries his best to get him up to speed for finals and staking musty bloodsuckers, he does like to go out once in a while.
The Bronze has good music and gives him an excuse to wear tight clothes. Him and Sungchan made eye contact across the bar, danced for half an hour and when Sungchan tried to kiss him to a Veruca Salt song, Wonbin only partially freaked out.
It’s weird—Wonbin hasn’t liked anyone since Eunseok, and even that was drastically different. Not even just because of the Vampire thing, even though that’s definitely a huge part. Pushing Sungchan off resulted in three people falling and a girl hitting her head so hard the bar was closed for the rest of the night. Eunseok could handle Wonbin’s Slayer-strength. Sungchan told him woah, you’re kinda strong and assured him he was fine, Wonbin punching his number in the older boy’s Sidekick as an apology. He’d wanted to kiss him—he just needed time.
Other things are different, too. The texting for example. Wonbin never received XOXOs from Eunseok. Pixelated pictures of bowls of soup. Good mornings and good nites and thinking of us. Eunseok’s dislike for chatting stems less from his being ancient and more from his lackluster personality. Their dates were nice and Wonbin felt rebellious and maybe even a little scandalous for being with him, but his butterflies turned into moths when he realized that Eunseok’s love for him would never be stronger than his hunger for those who Wonbin was destined to protect.
It just couldn’t work out. Countless of ice cream tubs and angry, metaphorically tear-stained, anonymous MySpace blog entries later, Wonbin decided it was for the best.
He finds it a bit concerning how perfect Sungchan seems to be compared to that. He’s so earnest. A little naïf. Wonbin asked for time and Sungchan gave it to him, the ball in his court. So, Wonbin proposed to go see a movie. If Sungchan was willing to be taken on the world’s lamest date, maybe he could stick around.
And he was. Of course he was.
Over the phone last week, he—wind-muffled, voice crackling over the speakers—told Wonbin he was down, talking about a film he desperately wanted to watch, then immediately backtracking, deciding that Wonbin should ‘definitely choose the movie, though’. It made Wonbin giggle into his homework for an hour.
It’s seven. Wonbin knows that the tingle at the back of his neck isn’t anything more than the fear of something new. Sungchan will be there. It isn’t really his fault that Wonbin would rather die than be late to something.
Sungchan jogs up to him two minutes later, a tote slung over his shoulder and a bouquet of sad-looking yellow peonies in his arm. “Howdy,” he says with an easy grin, pulling Wonbin into an awkward sort of half-hug, Wonbin’s nose touching the base of his throat, “I shouldn’t have gotten these this morning. Swear they were prettier before.”
Wonbin takes them and Sungchan shrugs. “Thanks,” Wonbin says. The scent of the flowers and Sungchan’s too-strong cologne fills his nostrils and almost knocks him out for a second. He looks at the peonies—they really are droopy, their petals dehydrated and beginning to wither. He looks back up at Sungchan and smiles.
There are groups of teens collecting at the entrance of Sun Cinema and Wonbin’s eyes flit over the street, scanning the area. It’s a habit he wouldn’t be able to shake even if he tried.
“So… we meet at last.” Sungchan sounds like he’s trying to be funny but Wonbin doesn’t know what to say, so he just chuckles slightly. His brain is drawing a blank. Wonbin doesn’t do this—doesn’t get flustered, not over boys. He has the reflexes of a cheetah, can read people (and hostile sub-terrestrials) like a book and he’s well aware of what he looks like—how come Sungchan goes howdy and brings him the roughest-looking bouquet he’s ever seen, and suddenly Wonbin forgets how to speak English?
He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “You, um… you look nice.”
Wonbin has never sounded less convinced of something. He watches Sungchan’s cheeks darken anyway. At least someone bought it. They’re still both just standing, a respectable distance between them, far enough for it to look strange. Good thing Wonbin doesn’t care what other people think. Especially other teens. Who are probably staring at them right now, laughing about how—
He checks. No one’s even remotely looking into their direction. Wonbin blows up his cheeks and lets out a ragged breath.
“You look nice, too.” Sungchan reaches out and his fingertips almost brush the sleeve of Wonbin’s jean jacket. “I’m really nervous.. hah.”
And, well. Wonbin could lie. Could deny his heart pounding so fast it’s tripping over its own rhythm. Could downplay the sweat coating his palms and the dryness of his mouth.
He decides to be honest instead: “Yeah. I’m nervous, too.”
Grinning, Sungchan pulls his shoulders up to his ears, big eyes peeking at Wonbin through his lashes. After shaking himself a little, he straightens his posture and holds up his right hand. It takes Wonbin a second to understand. He takes it with his left—it has an angry flush creeping up his neck. If Sungchan can feel his pulse through their intertwined fingers, he doesn’t mention it.
“You know what I think?” Sungchan swings their hands from side to side and a couple petals loosen, raining on the concrete. Wonbin looks down at his clean shoes. Sungchan’s wearing the same beaten green Docs he wore at the Bronze.
They fit into the picture Wonbin had painted of him then, messy hair pushed up by mirrored sports sunglasses, eyes smudged with kajal, lips stained pink from Vodka crans. He wore a leather jacket over a tight, sleeveless turtleneck-top, the black of his clothes a stark contrast against his pale skin. Wonbin only realized after talking to him for a bit that Sungchan dresses like a European rave-goer exclusively when going to the club—today, he’s wearing Futurama merch and JNCOs that are mud-stained at the bottom and it’s almost enough to make Wonbin reconsider this whole thing, but at the same time, he’s strangely enchanted by the walking oxymoron currently giving him a conspiratory look, his large hands almost as sweaty as Wonbin’s own.
Wonbin shakes his head and hugs the peonies closer to his chest.
“I think we just need to get, like, a huge serving of popcorn and eat it all before the movie even starts. That’ll loosen us up.”
Wonbin can’t help the giggle that escapes him. “Sounds good.”
“You know, I haven’t been to the movies in forever. Isn’t that crazy?”
Not really, Wonbin thinks. He hasn’t either. It’s very cute how keen Sungchan is to make conversation—Wonbin appreciates it. He hates how tongue-tied he is. His brain keeps telling him to worry more about Eunseok, but he finds that the single-most stressful thing going on right now is trying to come up with a topic to talk to the other boy about.
“What movie did you wanna watch again?” he asks. His voice wavers, but Sungchan lights up, so it’s okay.
“Well, I—I still think you should totally pick. But. If it so happens that you don’t know what you wanna watch…”
Wonbin sighs. He can feel Sungchan’s thumb running over the knuckle of his index finger—they get close enough to the building for the automatic doors to slide open with a hiss. “Please just choose, Sungchan.”
The air inside of the theatre smells of warm popcorn and their footsteps sound like heartbeats on the carpeted floor. They’re leaving behind a trail of peony but Wonbin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want Sungchan to feel bad.
Sungchan, despite being the one who got asked out, insists on buying the tickets. “I’m a little worried you won’t like it,” he admits after tucking his wallet back into his bag. “It might not be your style exactly.”
Wonbin tells him not to worry and makes it a point to interlock their hands again.
“How do you feel about salted?” He turns to Sungchan when they’re in line to get snacks, pulling his attention away from the big screen showing the outrageous popcorn prices. Sungchan hums in consideration.
“Hmmm, pretty disgusting? You wanna get a bucket?”
He laughs when Wonbin bumps their shoulders together, his glare weak. “First of all, I’m paying this time. And I like sweet.” After a beat, he adds, “I don’t mind sweet.”
They could just each get their own serving, but Sungchan seems excited about the prospect of sharing, and Wonbin would be lying if he said the thought doesn’t make him feel the slightest bit giddy. Hands brushing reaching for the kernels at the bottom—locking eyes in a darkened room—lips tasting of caramelized sugar.
Their seats are pretty far at the back and Wonbin is a man with a mission.
He buys a bucket of sweetened popcorn for both of them and lets Sungchan carry it, while he balances their drinks—grape soda for Sungchan and a diet Coke for Wonbin—in his flower-free arm.
“You know how I told you I was doing pretty good with classes ‘n stuff?” Sungchan asks and Wonbin is reminded of one of their phone conversations a couple weeks back. Sungchan had enrolled into UC Sunnydale this summer, planning on majoring in Mortuary Science—yet another thing about him that Wonbin had to wrap his mind around and somehow made sense regardless.
“I remember, yes. Something change?”
They walk into their assigned auditorium, only a handful of the seats already filled with people, most of them guys. Wonbin only recognizes Sohee from a grade below him, unable to miss his wild head of hair, even from behind.
Sungchan snorts and picks up a few of the top pieces of popcorn with his mouth. It should be gross but he chews happily and talks with full cheeks. Wonbin’s belly dances. “Yeah, I’m tellin’ ya, I’m gonna flunk out so bad. I considered rushing for Lowell House but people’re going around saying it’s, like, haunted, so… meh.”
Wonbin motions for Sungchan to go into their row first. “If you rush, I’m never talking to you again. You could look for a tutor.”
They plop down into their seats and Sungchan takes his soda out of Wonbin’s arm, followed by the peonies that he just drops on the seat next to him. Wonbin opens his mouth, eager to protest, but then halts when Sungchan shrugs out of his windbreaker. He makes eye-contact with the Bender printed on Sungchan’s shirt. He really hates Futurama.
“Yeahhh, but. I don’t know. Isn’t that sorta wack?”
“Sungchan. Dropping out is wack. Please stay in school. Can you hold this?” Sungchan nods solemnly, taking Wonbin’s Coke, too, putting it in one of the cup holders between them. Wonbin lets out an Oh, oops and Sungchan’s nose crinkles in adoration. “And anyway, I think being smart is hot.” He shrugs. “If that helps.”
Judging by the widening of Sungchan’s eyes, it does. “Duly noted.”
Wonbin jumps when the ads start and Sungchan points at him, laughing. Some more people filter in, the room buzzing with muttered conversation. The red, velveteen seats aren’t exactly comfortable, but Wonbin finds himself sinking in anyway, taking a sip of his Coke. It’s cold and sweet and exactly what he needed. He really hasn’t been to the theatre in so long—it feels wrong and he doubts he’ll be able to fully relax, but his phone is quiet, so he decides this is okay. For now. He doesn’t know how to break it to Sungchan that—should this turn into something more serious—it’ll be impossible for them to do this regularly. Hanging out. Spending a Friday night together.
He isn’t planning on taking Sungchan on patrol any time soon, so they’ll mostly have to stick to email-abbreviations and lengthy phone calls when Wonbin is supposed to be a sensible student and study. It’s not that bad—he does have a life. It’s greatly laced with tons of supernatural lingo and a too-close relationship with someone who’s supposed to be a regular high school librarian, but he doesn’t intend on introducing Sungchan to Taeil, like, ever, so. It’s cool.
Also... he always finds time to go to the Bronze. He’ll get his Veruca Salt kiss.
“If you hate the film, we can leave. Just saying.”
Wonbin rolls his eyes as Sungchan fits a whole fist of popcorn into his mouth. “I won’t hate it. I’m not saying I’ll like it either, though. Just saying.” He grins and Sungchan slurps down half his grape soda at once.
Wonbin does hate it. So much. He’s gravely concerned about how funny Sungchan finds it, but it’s a good enough distraction from his growing anxiety about trusting Eunseok not to fuck up tonight, so he considers it a decent experience.
He lets Sungchan ramble about the movie for the entire way to the car and attempts not to be too disappointed that he still hasn’t been kissed yet. A knot of doubt blooms in his chest—doesn’t Sungchan want to kiss him? Is that why Sungchan picked the most ridiculous comedy ever? Was Wonbin supposed to get turned off by seeing Ashton Kutcher making stupid faces on a bright screen for one and a half hours? If so, it worked.
But Sungchan throws his arm around Wonbin when they’re outside. Pulls him into a cloud of cologne and boy smell. Laughs into his hair and asks him what he thought about scenes Wonbin doesn’t even remember. His breath smells like popcorn and Wonbin wishes he could taste it—he doesn’t.
He nods when Sungchan offers to take him to Doublemeat Palace and giggles when Sungchan assures him it isn’t an innuendo. They listen to Eminem in Sungchan’s Mini Cooper and Wonbin sits in a heap of yellow petals.
“It’s really nice you got me flowers,” he tells Sungchan as he shuts the door, the lights from the fast food palace bathing Sungchan’s face in the prettiest shade of pale, lifeless orange. “You’re the first person to do that.”
Sungchan leans his elbows on the hood of the car and looks at him for a moment. Just looks, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Wonbin resists the urge to squirm. Tilts his head.
“What?” he hears himself ask. He wishes there wasn’t a car separating them, ruining the moment for a perfect first kiss. He pushes down flashes of Eunseok’s mouth on his. Feeling like he was getting eaten rather than getting kissed. Something slightly off about it.
Sungchan shakes his head and pushes himself up. He sighs. “Nothing. C’mon, let me get some fries in you.”
And maybe it’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to Wonbin.
Maybe, for a moment, he’s just a boy on a clumsy date. Maybe he’ll try and do the first move later: press grease-smeared lips against lips and taste salt. Snake his hands under a Futurama shirt. Slide down mud-stained JNCOs in the backseat of a Mini Cooper.
Maybe he’ll find yellow petals in his hair in the morning. Maybe he’ll take them out and put them in the jewelry box on his drawer and go to school and study and go back to saving a town as naïve as the boy holding open the door to DMP for him right now, wearing a shy smile.
Maybe.