Work Text:
ENOUGH (PRONOUN): AS MUCH OR AS MANY OF SOMETHING AS REQUIRED
“So, on your initial questionnaire, you wrote that your main goal is to become happier with yourself, is that right?”
It’s his first session with the university therapist. Her name is Beth, which San thinks is a very American-therapist-esque name. Her office is tucked in the corner of the wellness building on the floor above the gym. The room is small and warm, the window cracked enough to let in a whistle of October air.
He nods, leaning to the left a bit, cringing at the creak of pleather under him.
“It’s a pretty broad goal,” Beth begins. “Is there anything more specific you’d like to talk about first?”
He shakes his head and shifts again, crossing his ankles together under his chair and pressing sweaty palms on his jean-covered thigh.
“That’s fine.” He can’t tell how old Beth is, his best guess lands her in her mid-thirties. Her dark brown hair is pulled off her face with a large claw clip that matches the tortoise frames of her glasses. Her voice is soft, but San can’t help but wonder if that’s her real voice or her shrink voice, playing an overly understanding listener. “Let’s start with this.”
San swallows.
“What makes you happy?”
--
“Sannie!” Wooyoung bounds across the parking lot, black duffel bouncing off his hip with every stride. As soon as he’s close enough, he throws himself forward, arms falling over San’s shoulders and lips meeting in a soft, sweet kiss. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d surprise you,” San shrugs, catching the contagious smile inches from his face and reaching for the strap of Wooyoung’s bag. “Thought you might want to spend the night?”
A flash of confusion flickers in Wooyoung’s eyes, and he softens. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” San cups his boyfriend’s cheek. “Just wanted to do something nice.”
“Then I’d love to. I missed you.”
“He did,” Yeosang sighs, appearing over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “He only said it five times during practice.” He shoots Wooyoung a pointed look. “Not like you ate lunch together today.”
“Shut up!” Wooyoung smacks his best friend’s arm playfully.
Yeosang’s teasing comes from a place of love. Wildly different to the love San feels for Wooyoung, Yeosang loves Wooyoung and wants nothing more than for him to be happy. Winning the best friend over was difficult, but that was ages ago, and San knows Yeosang secretly loves him, too.
San leans forward and kisses Wooyoung’s cheek. “I missed you too.”
“You’re both gross.”
“Why?” Wooyoung asks, petulance seeping into his voice.
Their friend fondly rolls his eyes. “You’ve been together since sophomore year. Officially . And you still miss each other after a mere,” he pauses to look at his bare wrist, “six hours?”
“Eight,” Wooyoung corrects.
San’s heart flutters, and he squeezes Wooyoung’s waist.
“Gross,” Yeosang repeats.
“You’re just jealous, Sangie,” Wooyoung says dismissively. “Do you want a ride back?”
Wooyoung and Yeosang, best friends of ten years, are also roommates, sharing the same dorm since Freshman year. They’re the perfect opposite to each other. Extravert and Introvert. Street-Smart and Book-Smart. Insanely loud and unnervingly silent. Winning Yeosang over was one of the hardest things San ever had to do, and four years later, it’s still one of his greatest accomplishments.
You got a full scholarship to the most prestigious school in the state? That’s cool, but I am on the good side of the Kang Yeosang.
“No thanks. I’ll see you in stats tomorrow. See you, San.”
“Be careful.” Wooyoung calls out as Yeosang turns away. “Love you!”
Silence.
“Say it back!”
“Love you too!” Yeosang says, waving a hand over his head dismissively.
San chuckles. “Ready to go?”
Wooyoung nods, shuddering again as a cold gust of wind rushes past them. San walks him around the car, opening the passenger door for him to climb inside. Before he closes it, a trio of girls approaches the Jeep next to San’s van. “Bye, Wooyoung!” The girls have stars in their eyes, all wearing shirts that match Wooyoung’s. He waves back, and they look elated.
San tucks Wooyoung’s bag in the backseat and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Friends?”
“They’re new flyers.” Wooyoung begins, going on to explain that they’ve started learning new routines, that he feels overwhelmed because his coach has been relying on him more and more, that there are only two weeks to clean the routine until their first performance at the upcoming festival. The entire time, his hand rests on San’s thigh under the steering wheel. “I’m just so ready to eat and cuddle.”
Their routine.
Wooyoung cuts himself off mid-sentence. “Thank you for turning my seat on.”
San slides his hand over Wooyoung’s knee, fingers curling against the thick material of his sweatpants. And because Wooyoung likes when he sings, San restarts the song and serenades him. His heart warms when Wooyoung’s hand finds his own, fingers lacing together as Wooyoung tips his head back against the seat and lets his eyes close.
San lives off campus, far enough to not feel like a student rental. The one-bedroom is his for the next two years. He cut a deal with the landlord, arguing that knocking $200 off the total each semester without annual increases would keep him there until graduation. He hadn’t expected such a bold request to land, but the incentive of not searching for tenants each year was seemingly enough for the middle-aged man.
The building is four-unit. The apartments downstairs have two bedrooms, upstairs with one each. The small parking lot around the side is almost full, San easily recognizing the cars, who is home and who isn’t. As he parks, he notes Mingi’s van’s unusual absence.
“I can carry that, you know.”
San doesn’t hand the duffel over, carrying Wooyoung’s bag up the stairs, using his free hand to fish his keys from his pocket and unlock the door.
“Byeolie!”
He drops his keys in the dish by the door and sets the bag on the floor.
“We’re home, baby girl!” Wooyoung’s voice pitches up, and he’s on his hands and knees, hoping to summon the cat.
Home.
It’s as much Wooyoung’s apartment as San’s, unofficially. When San started apartment hunting, Wooyoung was overjoyed. No roommates, no persnickety residence assistants, and a real kitchen. A kitchen where Wooyoung could cook whenever he wanted. San had asked Wooyoung to move in with him, but his parents vetoed that idea very quickly, even after Wooyoung had begged them to say yes.
“We love San,” his mom told him. “We really do.”
“But no living together until after graduation,” his father finished.
His parents don’t need to know that less than half a year later, Wooyoung was spending more nights in San’s bed than his own.
--
“How did you meet?”
It’s one of his clearest memories. “My family had just moved. Dad got transferred from one location to another, given an ultimatum to go or find other work. He couldn’t do that—Mom wasn’t working at the time, and Haneul had just started uni.” The corner of San’s mouth lifts in a sad sort of smile. “Naturally, moving meant a new school.”
Beth tilts her head to the side. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.” He clears his throat. “My first year of high school. Looking back on it, I know it wasn’t that bad, but I remember it feeling like the end of the world. I didn’t know anyone.” He laughs at himself, the sound coming out bitter. “I’m not the most...outgoing person. Making friends doesn’t come easy.”
San spent most of his childhood alone or with adults. The year before moving he finally felt like things were going his way, had a small, small circle of friends at school. Then the moving announcement came.
He continues, “It was the first school I’d been to that didn’t require a uniform. Skinny jeans were the only acceptable pants at the time, so I used all my allowance money to buy a pair. I wore them on the first day with a white button down and a navy vest over top.” He shakes his head, picturing his scrawny, lanky fourteen-year-old self. “I looked like a bible school kid.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit.
“The school had one of those student welcome committees, you know, for making new students feel at home. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to fly as under the radar as possible, and I thought that being walked around the school would only draw attention to myself.”
“Did it?”
He shrugs. “I guess? Wooyoung was one of the volunteers, and he ended up being my guide. Everyone knew him, he was friends with everyone—he still is.” An unexpected wave of embarrassment crashes over his shoulders, realizing he over-answered the question. It was eerily effortless for Beth to pull all of this out of him. “But yeah, that’s how we met.”
“Do you think he was the right person to show you around?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else.”
“Even though he was so popular?”
San doesn’t have to think before he nods.
“Why?”
“He made me comfortable.”
--
“You gonna grab a shower?”
Wooyoung pushes himself off the floor, a pout on his lips, the lack of cat in his arms the cause. “Yeah, I’ll be fast, though. I promise.” He rests his chin on San’s shoulder, chest against his back. “Should we order first?”
“I cooked.”
His chin disappears, then large warm hands guide his shoulders until San is facing him. With furrowed brows, Wooyoung asks, “You cooked?”
San’s heart glugs up to his throat, and a nerve-filled laugh bubbles from his chest. “I know it doesn’t happen often, but yes.”
“It doesn’t happen ever,” Wooyoung corrects, hands sliding from San’s shoulders to his waist. “Are you sure everything's okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine!” A piece of hair has escaped Wooyoung’s ponytail, and San tucks it behind his ear. “You always cook for me. I just wanted to try.” His explanation makes Wooyoung look no less concerned, so he rambles. “It’s nothing special or difficult. I picked something I wasn’t going to mess up and that I thought you’d like. I tasted it, and I think it’s pretty good, and I—”
“San-ah,” Wooyoung says softly, snaking his arms around San’s waist and stepping closer until their bodies press together. “Thank you.” The hug is long, a comfortable silence surrounding them. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, then he looks up. “I’ll go shower now.”
When the bathroom door clicks shut, San pulls the casserole dish from the fridge and slides it into the oven, and when he hears the rush of water through the pipes in the walls, he finds the bowls he bought earlier, fancy low-rimmed pasta dishes, gives them a quick scrub, and arranges them neatly on the two-seater in the center of the room.
San doesn’t know much, but he knows romance. He’s watched enough dramas and read enough books. He lights a candle, one of the nice ones with a wood wick, scented with lavender and oak, and sets it in the center of the table.
--
“You called yourself a romantic boy. What does romance mean to you?”
While he did ramble a bit, San doesn’t remember calling himself that. And calling yourself something as cheesy as a romantic boy is surely something he would remember.
“San?”
“Sorry,” he mutters after clearing his throat. “Um, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s a feeling more than anything. Like a cup of hot tea on a cold day. Or a homecooked meal after an exam day. Cuddling on the couch and watching a show.” He pictures all these things as he lists them, and he gets a little lost in his head, wanting nothing more than to wrap Wooyoung up in his arms and tuck them both into bed. He licks his lips. “Sorry.”
Beth chuckles. “No need to apologize.”
San reaches for his water bottle and takes a long drink. The room is quiet. Almost uncomfortably so. Any other time or place, San would crack a random joke, but he feels at peace in this silence.
The therapist tilts her head to the side and asks, “What does romance mean to him?”
--
San’s excitement seeps into every word, is visible in his twinkling eyes. “After dinner let’s walk to the pier and sit by the water. We can stop at that little coffee shop on the way so we don’t freeze.”
“I thought we were gonna watch Signal House tonight.”
“I know that was the plan,” San begins, reaching across the table to link their pinky fingers together, “but we haven’t gone out in a while.”
Wooyoung, visibly confused, blinks back at him.
“What’s wrong?” San’s shoulders slump.
“I just,” the younger looks down at their hooked-together fingers and blinks again, brows furrowing. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in?”
Of course San would rather stay in—homebody might as well be his middle name—but this isn’t about him. It’s about making a sacrifice for romance. He thought Wooyoung would be excited to go out. A night of plans that doesn’t involve the sofa. He hadn’t expected resistance. The whole night had been dancing around in his mind. He could practically hear Wooyoung’s laugh as they sat on the dock, feet dangling just over the too-cold-to-swim water.
Now all he sees is the crease between Wooyoung’s brows.
“If you really want to,” Wooyoung continues, “we can go. But we normally just hang out here.”
San laces all their fingers together and leans forward, his other forearm flat against the tabletop. “Wooyoung-ah, I want to go. I know you like nights out, and I never plan anything like that, and I should be better.”
“Wait.” Wooyoung pulls his hand away. “What’s this all about?”
He’s said too much. “Nothing. I just want to take you out.”
“No. You said you should be better.” His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”
San knows that tone. Tonight is about romance, and there’s nothing romantic about fighting. At the same time, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know where Wooyoung’s anger is coming from.
“San?”
His thoughts whirl like wet towels in a spin cycle, and he sits there, mouth agape, like a fool. He had planned everything perfectly.
Where did he go wrong?
What should he have done instead?
“Where is this coming from?”
What’s wrong with you?
Beth’s voice floods his mind, but it’s garbled, just noise between his ears. Panic crashes over him like a wave. He’s frozen in his chair, helpless under Wooyoung’s confused stare. He puts his chopsticks down and squeezes his eyes shut, starting his count to ten, trying to breathe, trying to keep the anxiety at bay.
A pair of warm hands finds his cheeks. The chair beneath him creaks as a weight settles on his thighs. Thumbs gently soothe his squeezed-shut eyelids. Warm, dry lips press a kiss to the center of his forehead.
“Hey,” Wooyoung’s breath is warm against the shell of San’s ear. It tickles.
Fingers circle San’s wrists, guiding them to his boyfriend’s waist.
Wooyoung cradles San’s head against his chest. It’s grounding.
“Breathe, baby.”
A tear forces itself from the rim of his eye as he takes a deep breath. He focuses on Wooyoung: the softness of his shirt, the familiarity of his cologne, the way his dull nails still scrape his scalp a bit as he gently runs his fingers through San’s hair.
“Breathe.” Wooyoung must feel him relax a little. “Are you okay?”
San nods, face still pressed to Wooyoung’s chest. “M’sorry.” The wetness on his cheeks seeps into the cotton of Wooyoung’s top. He sniffles as Wooyoung gently shushes him.
“Don’t be sorry.” Still, he holds San close, somehow knowing he isn’t ready to let go. The fingers in San’s hair move to rest on the back of San’s neck, squeezing gently every few seconds, a reassurance. He stays until the tears stop slipping, until San regains his breath.
San peeks up, eyes red and wet. “I’m—” he stops himself, mouth twisting sheepishly to the side. “Thank you.”
Wooyoung wipes the tracks of tears away with his thumbs wearing a wistful smile. “You’re welcome.”
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
For a moment, San thinks Wooyoung will say no. It’s like he can see the lightbulb in Wooyoung’s mind flicker on, hesitating before nodding. “Let me get my shoes.”
Feet stuffed into matching sneakers with matching hoodies pulled over their heads, the couple makes their way down the stairs. It’s dark outside, the moon a sliver in a black sky. San’s neighborhood, full of middle-aged, middle-class families is silent, streetlights luminating the pavement at the end of each block.
They walk with their fingers laced together and stuffed into San’s sweatpant pocket. It’s cold, the sun’s warmth long gone, the night’s sharpness numbing their noses.
They walk without words, leading each other around corners and down straightaways. They walk and walk until they lose track of time. Only when San’s watch buzzes do they realize how long they’ve been walking. It’s half-nine, time to feed Byeol.
“Let’s go home,” San says quietly.
--
“So,” Beth pauses to put her pen down. “Do you think this will make you happier with yourself?”
San nods without thinking, eyes bright, shoulders lighter.
“Why?”
San doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. His mind races with ideas. So many options. So many things they hadn’t done, places they haven’t gone in ages.
“San?”
His eyes snap back to Beth who watches him with a single raised brow. “Yeah?”
“Where did you go just now?”
“No where.” The lie is a reflex.
He’s see-through.
“You know your happiness is more than his, correct?”
He nods, once again moving too quickly, not allowing the words to really sink in.
“You’re your own person. Couples often have a hard time navigating that line.”
“Line?”
She nods slowly. “The line of taking care of your partner and taking care of yourself.”
Disappointment settles in San’s stomach like concrete.
“You mentioned feeling like you weren’t enough. Does Wooyoung make you feel that way?”
“Of course not.” Reflex. Beth says nothing. A crease appears between his eyebrows. San doesn’t think it’s that simple. Wooyoung doesn’t mean to make him feel that way. He has never done anything to San to make him feel inferior.
He sighs. “He doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s not direct.”
“Have you talked with him about that?”
“There’s nothing he can do about it, so why would I?”
Wooyoung is so bright. He’s the sun in the sky, happiness that surrounds everyone in warm rays. Being with him is like sitting in the park on a summer day with strawberries and iced tea. People want that happiness, that warmth, and San can’t blame them. He certainly can’t blame Wooyoung.
Instead of answering the question, Beth asks another. “Did something happen to make you feel like you aren’t enough?”
She may as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. Words run laps between his ears. He nods, eyes falling to his hands where they’re folded in his lap.
--
The hum of the fan saves the bedroom from a deafening silence. Tucked under the duvet, San pretends to be asleep, intentionally slowing his breathing and holding still as Wooyoung lies in his arms. Unanswered questions sit heavy on San’s shoulders, so he lies there, doing his best to think of only the sound of the fan blades spinning.
“San?”
He closes his eyes, hoping his body didn’t tense.
“I know you’re awake.” Wooyoung’s voice is hoarse like his mouth is dry. He audibly swallows. “I can’t sleep.”
San says nothing but holds him a little tighter and presses his cheek to the top of his head.
“What’s going on?”
His heart jolts at the shakiness in the other’s voice. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to cry, but he doesn’t want to talk. This is San’s burden to bear, and he’d much rather stuff the feelings in a taped-up cardboard box and shove it in the back of his brain to (hopefully) collect dust.
Wooyoung hasn’t done anything wrong. But he doesn’t deserve this either.
San doesn’t want to be the reason behind those tears.
He hears a wet sniffle and feels the tug of his shirt bunching up in Wooyoung’s fist. He looks down at the man in his arms and crumbles when he sees tears fall on his chest. San hauls him up until their eyes meet. He holds Wooyoung’s face between his palms. “Baby, please don’t cry.”
Wooyoung cries harder.
“Hey, hey,” San presses kisses all over his face. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“Are we?” Wooyoung gasps, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Of course we’re okay,” San hugs him to his chest, tears welling up in his own eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He hiccups, body jolting. “Please, please just talk to me.” Another hiccup with another sniffle. “Please tell me what’s happening because I’m so confused. Everything was fine yesterday and now I feel—”
San shushes him gently, whispering apologies against his temple.
“ Please .”
San swallows around the lump in his throat and sits up. Wooyoung follows, sitting cross-legged across from him so their knees touch, so they can see each other. The moonlight casts a glow against his face, and San has to reach up, has to wipe those tear tracks away.
Wooyoung looks so small like this. His hair falls softly over his forehead, a bit mussed where it was pressed against San’s arm. He worries his bottom lip, the beauty mark hidden where it’s pulled behind his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” San says, shaking his head. “I never wanted you to cry.”
“San-ah, please talk to me.”
“Lately I’ve been—” He sighs. There’s no good place to start. No easy way to explain. It’s going to sound awful coming out of his mouth. “I feel like we aren’t the same.” Wooyoung’s eyes widen with fear, and San realizes just how bad it sounded. He quickly continues, “When we’re here, together, alone, or you know, with friends, it’s fine. We’re fine. I—it's hard to explain. You are so,” he pauses to let out a frustrated huff, searching for the words, “perfect and full of life. And I’m just me .”
Wooyoung licks his lips, looking more confused than ever.
“I’m a loser. A freak. A nobody.” His cheeks flush with embarrassment, and the words tumble from his lips. “Something happened at Pridefest.”
--
Pogue Student Center is decorated to the nines. An arch of balloons stretches across the doorway like a rainbow. Dozens more have been scattered on the floor, and streamers in silver and black hang from the ceiling. There’s a food truck just outside the door, booked for the entire afternoon, and the dining area inside is occupied by a bake sale with an assortment of sweets, a majority with some kind of rainbow-themed icing.
It’s pretty. San likes pretty things.
But it’s crowded.
Wooyoung just finished performing, still looking as handsome as ever in his uniform: long, smooth legs leading up to his burgundy skirt emblazoned with the university initials and trimmed in black and sparkly silver. The matching top fits the man’s frame perfectly, almost like it had been made for him. The long sleeves cling to his toned arms without squeezing too much and cut off just at his wrists. Per usual, his hair is done half-up, bangs pulled off his face in a little ponytail, but instead of the squad’s standard burgundy or silver sparkly bow, all the members have rainbow ribbons. Glitter highlights his cheekbones, and Wooyoung went an extra step, dotting his cheeks with little black hearts.
Beautiful.
The cherry on top is the megawatt smile stretched across his face. Happiness looks best on him.
San can tell the festival is everything Wooyoung had hoped it would be. The man has been talking about it for weeks, since the student government members gave the LGBTQ+ Alliance the okay to hold the event on campus. All his hard work has paid off, and now he gets to enjoy it.
Wooyoung races to San’s side, throwing his arms and legs around him. “What’d you think?”
“You’re perfect,” San says, arms around the younger’s middle.
His cheeks flush pink. “I meant the routine.”
“That too. You’d never know it was brand new.”
And he would know—he’s been to enough performances and competitions to know what is supposed to happen and what isn’t.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” Wooyoung says, pulling San into another hug.
“I’m glad I came. I miss watching you perform.”
It hadn’t taken much to convince San to tag along. One look with Wooyoung’s doe eyes and pouty bottom lip was all it took, San agreeing not only to attend, but also to let Wooyoung do his makeup.
“Just something subtle, please?” San asked.
“Of course, Sannie. And earrings?”
“Maybe.”
When Wooyoung lets go, he takes San’s chin between his forefinger and thumb and gently turns his head to the side. “Still perfect,” he says with a resolute nod, admiring the little rainbow he painted onto San’s ear.
“Wooyoung-ah!” Yunho calls out from across the room. “We’re taking pictures on the quad!”
He presses his lips to the corner of San’s mouth. “I’ll be right back.”
San can’t help but smile, nodding for him to go, smile growing as Wooyoung skips over to his team, kicking a purple balloon along the way. He watches them disappear through the door and leans back against the wall, slipping his hands in his pockets and letting his toe tap to the playlist he’s sure Wooyoung didn’t curate. Catchy and cute, but not his boyfriend’s style.
“Choi San?”
The mix of surprise and confusion is likely evident when San’s head turns. He doesn’t recognize the owner of the voice. A stranger. Still, he offers a polite smile and stands up straight as his brain runs circles, trying to place the face now directly in front of him. “Do I know you?”
An outstretched, open hand. “Song Sangmin.”
San shakes the stranger—Sangmin's—hand, wincing a bit when the other squeezes hard.
“They did great out there, didn’t they?”
“They did.” San tries to relax. Maybe he's one of the other cheerleader’s boyfriends? It’s likely—Pridefest isn’t just for gays. But the air around them thickens, a suffocating fog that screams at San to leave. To walk away. He credits the awkwardness to this being his first time out with this many people in several months. Content to stay home, to confine himself in the comfort of his own apartment, surrounded by books and movies and Wooyoung. He swallows his anxiety. “Do you have a partner on the squad?”
Sangmin sneers. “Not yet.”
The air gets heavier.
“How long have you and Wooyoung been together?”
“A long time.”
San’s brain tries to catch up. Sangmin clearly knows who San is.
“You don’t come around a whole lot, though.”
His heart lurches.
Sangmin runs his hand through his hair, black as night and long on top. “Dangerous. If I were you, I wouldn’t let that pretty little thing out of my sight for too long.” A low chuckle. “Someone might steal him away.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Are you dumb?” A cold laugh follows, and Sangmin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “I mean, I heard you were a bit odd, but no one said you were stupid.”
San’s heart pounds in his chest. Pretty little thing. Steal him away. Anger pumps through the blood in his veins. He should leave. He should walk out the door, find Wooyoung on the quad. Offer to take the fucking picture that put him in this place. Scoop Wooyoung up and take him home.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hm,” Sangmin hums around a deep breath. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re Choi San, son of a taekwondo instructor from Namhae. Makes sense, really, that you’re awkward. Growing up in a town that small? What I don’t know is how you nabbed a catch like Wooyoung.”
San’s heart pounds in his chest. Anger is replaced with fear and discomfort. The walls are closing in on him, the ceiling inching toward the top of his head. Yeah, he really should go. He should find Wooyoung. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even speak.
His silence feeds the monster.
“A guy like Wooyoung should be out on the weekends, walking down Main with the girls, drinks in hand. Playing pool or dancing.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, seemingly lost in a mental picture San doesn’t want to see. “He certainly loves to dance.
“His name floats around all the time. ‘Where’s Wooyoung? Is Wooyoung coming?’ Every party. Every Saturday night at the bar.” He scoffs. “They crack jokes about him being stuck at home with his old man.”
Stuck .
It’s not true. San always, always makes sure Wooyoung is fine with staying in. He gives him ample opportunities to go out. They’ve had the conversation a million times over. Fought about it even, that San never wanted to go out. It was bumpy after Wooyoung’s twenty-first birthday until they sat down to talk, to establish that Wooyoung is more than welcome to go out on his own. Tears spilled over both their cheeks that night, realizing that for the first time, they truly trust each other.
What if that wasn’t enough anymore?
What if Wooyoung was waiting for him to ask?
What if he wanted San to take more initiative?
No—Wooyoung wouldn’t lie. He doesn’t lie to San. If he wants something, he asks for it. If he wants to go out, he makes plans.
“He can’t be happy being cooped up so much.” Sangmin winces. “A guy like you can’t keep someone like him happy for long.”
“We’ve been together since high school,” San snaps.
Sangmin’s head jerks back a bit, surprised at the bite in San’s voice, then he huffs out a laugh. “Then he’s never had a taste of anything else. Of anyone else. He doesn’t realize how good it can be.”
San jerks upright, fists balling up at his sides. “Shut up.”
“It’s just a matter of time. Someday he’ll get tired. Tired of the same-shit-different-day, boring, monotony. He’ll get curious. If I'm with him, would it be better?” Like a true villain, he pauses, eyes taking in each of San’s features before driving his point home. “He’ll realize you’re holding him back. That it's not enough. You’re not enough. You can’t give him what he needs.” He looks over the door toward the quad. “And when he does, a real man will be there for him.”
“You don’t know anything about us.” He can’t shake the need to stand his ground. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Sangmin’s laugh is hollow as he slaps San’s shoulder. “You said that already.”
The door from the quad swings open.
“That’s my cue. See you around, Sannie.”
The nickname is wrong coming from his mouth. San, alone once more, can barely breathe. Everything is wrong.
You’re not enough.
Wooyoung’s laugh pulls him out of the trap set in his mind. “Sannie! We should get some food before the truck leaves!”
He forces a nod and a smile, let’s Wooyoung pull him toward the doors. The doors he should’ve walked through the second Sangmin shook his hand too tightly.
“Everything okay?” Wooyoung chirps.
He clears his throat. Nods again. Loser like you. Not enough.
“What do they have?”
He tries to focus on Wooyoung’s smile. His lightness. He can’t help but wonder if Sangmin is right. If Wooyoung is bored, too afraid to say anything.
“So much! We requested everything they offer!”
He follows, one arm wrapped snuggly around Wooyoung’s waist.
You can’t give him what he needs.
--
San doesn’t realize he’s crying until Wooyoung’s hand leaves his own to brush a tear from his cheekbone.
“San, I need you to listen to me.” There’s a firmness in Wooyoung’s voice that San hasn’t heard in a while. Apart from bickering over trivial things, they haven’t argued in years. Does it drive Wooyoung crazy when San leaves the scissors on the counter after using them? Yes. Does San hate when Wooyoung puts the toilet roll on backwards? Yes. But those things don’t warrant Wooyoung’s serious voice.
It’s a bit worrying.
“Sangmin is nothing. Do you understand?” There’s poison in his words. “I’m sorry that he made you feel inferior, and you have every right to be upset over thinking that it’s true. But you have never been more wrong, San. You are the love of my life. You’re my best friend—my entire world. You’re sweet, and kind, and selfless, and beautiful.” Wooyoung scoots closer. “You have a beautiful soul.” He kisses San’s lips, a dry press of lips. “And you’re handsome.” His second kiss lingers. “And you take such good care of me.”
San’s heart twists, and he reaches for his face. “But I know we don’t go out enough.”
“We could never leave this apartment, and I’d still be the happiest, luckiest man alive.” Wooyoung’s sigh sounds a bit wistful. He pulls San forward by the front of his shirt until their foreheads rest together. “Sometimes I wish we never had to go. Keep you here all to myself.”
San huffs a laugh of disbelief.
“Jagiya, I don’t think you realize how many people watch you.”
He shakes his head. “They’re looking at you.”
Wooyoung bonks their heads together lightly.
“There’s no reason to look at me.”
This time Wooyoung snorts. “Have you looked in a mirror?”
“Stop it,” San says quietly, blood rushing to his cheeks.
“You’re stupid hot, Sannie. Everyone wants you. Anyone who denies it is either insanely jealous or lying.” He opens his mouth to keep talking.
San kisses him.
Wooyoung giggles against his mouth then pulls back. “If I ever see Song Sangmin, he’s going to regret putting these thoughts in your head.”
Despite all the emotions, the ache of opening up and exposing himself, San feels better. His heart flutters at Wooyoung’s words, the protectiveness, the willingness to fight. He can’t help but pull Wooyoung onto his lap. Their lips slot together easily, Wooyoung eagerly licking over the seam of their mouths and slipping his tongue inside.
Wooyoung kisses him like that until San can’t remember why they’re still awake.
He pulls back, keeping their foreheads together. “We should probably get some sleep.”
Wooyoung’s chest heaves with a sigh. “Probably.”
“Thank you,” San whispers. “Thank you for not being upset. For understanding.”
“Of course,” Wooyoung’s hands are on either side of San’s neck. “You can talk to me about anything. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” San takes a slow, deep breath. “Beth told me I should work on not keeping all my feelings to myself.”
Wooyoung pulls back, confused. “Who’s Beth?”
“Ah,” San says with a sigh. “She’s the school counselor.”
“You went to a counselor about this?”
He nods and squeezes his eyes shut.
Wooyoung’s lips surprise him. “You’re adorable.”
They kiss again then force themselves to lie back down, twisting their limbs together like a knot.
“I love you so much, Choi San.”
“I love you too, Jung Wooyoung.”