Work Text:
Yujin is drunk enough to admit it out loud: she’s pissed. No one responds to her dramatic proclamation, possibly because their group is nestled unfortunately close to a speaker and the thumping bass is almost too loud for thought.
That’s fine. Yujin isn’t saying it to be heard, but rather to feel the acidic weight of the truth on her tongue. She’s pissed. She’s been pissed, felt the fires of anger licking up her windpipe, since an hour ago, when Wonyoung wandered away from her and into the orbit of some 6’3” loser who keeps leaning in closer and closer, now daring to play with the ends of Wonyoung’s hair.
Wonyoung is smiling up at said loser the same way she’d smiled at Yujin yesterday as she wound a lock of Wonyoung’s hair around her finger. Right before she’d leaned in for a kiss. Soft and sweet and familiar, like they’d done it a hundred times, because they had.
Yujin watches it like a trainwreck in slow motion. The flutter of Wonyoung’s eyelids closing, the 6’3” loser’s hand on Wonyoung’s cheek, touching her soft skin. Leaning in closer, closer, so the distance between them is barely the span of a heartbeat.
Yujin feels like she’s going to throw up. Says it out loud, not expecting anyone to respond, because the one person who always listens to her is halfway across the dance floor, making out with some guy who is, frankly, not even hot enough to deserve her anyways, and Yujin isn’t just saying that because she’s a lesbian and Wonyoung is her—they’re—
“I’m going to throw up,” she says again, feeling the acidic weight settle on her tongue once more. Only not quite the same, she realizes, because the acidic bile rising up her throat is quite real, as were the three consecutive shots she took when she realized Wonyoung wasn’t standing next to her. Gaeul seems to have heard her, turning around and placing a concerned hand on Yujin’s arm, but it’s too late. Yujin shakes her off as the bile rises and rises.
Yujin sprints for the bathroom, or at least moves in a way that approximates a sprint, gently and then firmly elbowing people aside in her flight to somewhere she can safely empty the contents of her stomach. She has to pass Wonyoung along the way, which does nothing to lessen the sick churning of her stomach. At least her heels are short enough that she doesn’t have to take them off as she runs.
As if the universe is apologizing to her, there’s no line for the bathroom. Yujin probably would have cut in front anyways, but she would have felt bad about it. As is, she can burst her way into the stall nearest to the door, bile behind her teeth, and vomit into the toilet, one hand resting on the rim and the other holding her sweat-damp hair back. Her forehead thunks against the cool ceramic of the toilet once she’s finished.
“Ugh,” Yujin groans. She should be used to this, by this point. The sick unease that lingers even after her stomach has settled. Her vision of a fun night out with friends, already on its last legs, crumbling into dust and blowing away somewhere Yujin can’t follow.
And Wonyoung. She should be more than used to Wonyoung by now.
They’d gone on a trip last month, just the two of them. Driving, instead of by train, just so they could prolong their isolation from everyone else they knew, anyone else they could ever know, as long as possible. That’s how Yujin had thought of it, anyways, watching Wonyoung drink in the landscape, letting out these little gasps of wonder as if all of it, nature included, was brand new to her. From the way Wonyoung turned that same awestruck gaze on her, Yujin thought Wonyoung felt the same way.
That night, Wonyoung’s head resting on Yujin’s thigh as they inched their way towards doing what they usually did when they were alone together with a bed, Yujin asked, casually, certain she knew the answer, “So, what are we, exactly?”
Wonyoung stiffened. “What do you mean? We’re best friends, obviously. We established that years ago, I thought.”
“No,” Yujin said, “Well I mean, yes, we did. But now…I mean, considering that we’re…you know…”
“Oh,” Wonyoung laughed, a harsh, shrill sound, removing her head from Yujin’s thigh to sit up straight. “That.”
“Yes,” Yujin pressed on, her certainty turning to anger. “That. We’re fucking.” Wonyoung flinched.
“We’ve been doing it for months, actually, and we’re on a vacation without anyone else, and we pooled all our birthday money from the last year to rent out this cabin, just so we could spend a night out here. Alone. So I’m asking, what are we? What is this?”
“Unnie,” Wonyoung said, twisting her hands in her lap as she spoke. “We don’t—we’ve always wanted to travel together, even if it was just for a weekend. It was the two of us before anyone else, right? And, you know, I like that our relationship has…changed, recently, but I’m not like that.”
Yujin flinched. It was as if Wonyoung had slapped her. When she’d finally gathered the courage to come out to Wonyoung, a few years ago now, Yujin had barely finished rambling her way through explaining how she thought maybe none of her past boyfriends had felt like the one because she wasn’t meant to be with a man at all before Wonyoung interrupted her.
“You know, I feel that way too, sometimes,” Wonyoung had said casually. “Like, just that it feels…wrong, when he tries to kiss me or whatever.” Yujin didn’t know it then, but this was the moment a flicker of hope started blooming in her chest.
The warmth of that hope felt so far away then. “What do you—we’ve been fucking! For months! If you don’t want anything more that’s—” well, not fine, but understandable, “whatever, but don’t sit here and pretend that it doesn’t say anything about you when it does.”
“I think,” Wonyoung said, drawing back even further, as if Yujin was contagious, “I’m going to get ready for bed. The car ride was very long, and I’m tired.”
“Wonyoung—”
“Good night, unnie,” Wonyoung said, and that was that. The next weekend, when they’d gone out with their friends, Yujin tried to pretend everything was normal, like she could fit her relationship with Wonyoung into something that made sense if she just gave Wonyoung the space and plausible deniability to figure it out for herself.
Instead, Wonyoung had gone home with the first guy who offered to buy her a drink that week, and the next, and the next. Trying to wash off every trace of Yujin’s touch, even though she calls Yujin over at least twice a week, even though she leans in first just as often Yujin does. It’s as if she has something to prove, though Yujin isn’t sure who she’s proving it to—Yujin, or herself.
Yujin would be certain that Wonyoung is probably doing the same thing again right now. Except for the fact that she hears Wonyoung’s voice calling to her, in this club bathroom that Yujin is now just sober enough to recognize as absolutely disgusting.
“Unnie? Yujin-unnie, are you—oh, unnie,” Wonyoung says, entering the stall and resting her hand flat against Yujin’s back. “Are you okay? I saw you running, and—wait, you should get up, this toilet is probably filthy, even if they clean it regularly—”
Yujin lifts her head, hand grasping blindly to flush the toilet as her gaze remains fixed on Wonyoung’s face, the picture of friendly concern. She groans, wiping at her mouth, and grabs Wonyoung’s outstretched hand, allowing Wonyoung to pull her to her feet and guide her towards the sinks.
“Your makeup is all smudged,” Wonyoung says, clicking her tongue. “Hang on, I can fix it, just give me a second.”
“I don’t need to. I don’t think I’m staying much longer anyways.”
“Noo, come on, it’ll be so quick!”
Yujin sighs. It’s easier to give in than keep arguing about this. Wonyoung is always especially intractable when she’s had a drink or two. And, well. Yujin can’t deny she feels a certain thrill when Wonyoung gently cups her chin, tilting her head this way and that so she can reapply Yujin’s eyeliner. It feels like taking something back, like she can seep some of her essence into Wonyoung’s skin. So that even when she goes home with the 6 '3'' loser, there will be an indelible trace of Yujin in Wonyoung’s palms, her hair, her fingers.
“There,” Wonyoung whispers, her breath ghosting across Yujin’s face. “All done.” She makes no motion to move away, and for a moment they just stare at each other, Yujin’s chin still resting in Wonyoung’s hand.
“Thank you,” Yujin whispers back. The best and worst thing about being this close to Wonyoung, especially alone, and even in this dingy bathroom, is that everything else seems to fall away: how gross this bathroom is, the 6’3” loser, Wonyoung’s cruel and absurd quest of self-confirmation, or perhaps self-delusion. There is only the muted warmth of Wonyoung’s thumb, curling upwards to stroke her cheek, only the soft smile spreading across Wonyoung’s beautiful face.
“Why are you looking at me like that,” Wonyoung breathes, but she’s already leaning in. Like an absolute fool, Yujin meets her halfway. And then there is nothing but the familiar comfort of Wonyoung’s lips pressing against hers, her hand migrating from Yujin’s chin to her cheek. The silky-soft feeling of Wonyoung’s hair running through Yujin’s fingers.
Wonyoung steps closer and closer into Yujin’s space until Yujin has no choice but to stumble backwards, the backs of her thighs hitting the edge of the sink. Yujin grunts, unconsciously, at the sensation. And all of a sudden, the discomfort of the sink pressing into her thighs is the focus of Yujin’s attention, because Wonyoung has pulled away from her.
Yujin’s eyes fly open. “What—” happened, she doesn’t say, because Wonyoung’s eyes are blown wide too, only she’s not looking at Yujin but rather at the mirror behind her. Yujin turns to look in the mirror too, trying to see what Wonyoung is seeing: hair, mussed from where Yujin’s hands had been running through it; lipstick, smudged from kissing Yujin. Visual evidence of what they’ve just been doing.
“Oppa is waiting for me,” Wonyoung says in a far-away voice. “I should—I should get back to him.”
“Oppa?” Yujin says derisively.
“Yes,” Wonyoung says, “Junseo-oppa, who is very nice, and tall, and has a steady job, and—”
“Notice,” Yujin spits, too tired of this to be anything but furious, “How none of those things have anything to do with you being attracted to him,”
Wonyoung is silent for a moment as she pulls her lipstick out of her bag and grabs a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall. It isn’t until after she’s fixed her lipstick that she says, in a small voice, “It will come, eventually. Sometimes these things take time, that’s what everyone says.”
“And how many tries will it take,” Yujin says, “Before you try looking somewhere else?”
“There’s nowhere else to look,” Wonyoung says, smiling sadly. She sounds almost confused, and it’s nearly enough for Yujin to forgive her. Nearly.
“In that case,” Yujin says, peeling herself away from the sink, “We can’t do this anymore.”
“What? No,” Wonyoung says, panic leaking into her voice. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, maybe if things get serious, then—but until then, we don’t have to stop, right? And maybe, even after…I mean, some people don’t mind that, these days…”
“What are we, Wonyoung?” Yujin asks again. “What is it, exactly, that you don’t want to stop. Say it.”
Wonyoung shakes her head. “We both know, I don’t know why I have to—”
“I don’t think we do both know, actually. So. Say it, and maybe we can actually have a fucking conversation.”
“I—” Wonyoung shakes her head again, unable to even admit that she can’t admit it.
“Okay,” Yujin says. “Okay, then—then it’s over, alright? We don’t have to stop being friends, but I’m done with this. Have a good night.”
She storms out of the bathroom, leaving Wonyoung’s shocked, broken face behind her. Going as fast as possible, so she can at least reach the dance floor before Wonyoung can see her cry. In the end, the bathroom door has only just swung shut when the tide of oncoming tears becomes impossible to hold back. Her makeup is going to be absolutely ruined. Not that it matters, when Yujin is intent on going home as quickly as possible.
Not that it matters, when Wonyoung can’t fix it for her.