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Sion did not come back from America a wimp. And definitely not a pushover of all things.
But the way Daeyoung is looking at him now, almost with a fire in his eyes and his usual polite half-smile nowhere to be seen, Sion can’t help but let himself be pushed around. Just this once.
He’s only just stumbling into the bathroom when Daeyoung immediately shoves him into a stall, right at the very end. Sion can only catch a glimpse of the bathroom’s pristine marble countertops and warm amber lighting before Daeyoung is closing the door behind him.
Shadows crawl over his face as the door comes to a near-silent close, his beady eyes staring at him in the dark. The only sound between them the click of the lock and Sion’s heart hammering loudly in his chest, everything else drowned in silence.
They’re so close. One step back and Sion’s ass will land square in the toilet, one step forward and he’ll almost feel Daeyoung’s breath right against his cheek. Warm. Alive. So, so close.
It makes him feel open. It makes him feel exposed. It makes him feel fucking nervous.
“Hyung,” Daeyoung starts, then stops. As if thinking.
Sion grasps at this opening. Immediately cuts through with the trembling edge of a serrated knife, his voice raw and unusually nervous.
“What do you want,” he spits out, finally dropping the act. Within the four walls of this tiny stall, Sion doesn't have it in him anymore to keep playing along with Daeyoung's games.
His fists clench at his sides as he stares back at Daeyoung, fingers wound painfully tight around his own self-restraint. Sion can physically feel himself holding back from punching Daeyoung square in the jaw.
It’s tempting. It’s possible. Hitting his future COO right in the face probably wouldn’t look very good on his record, and might just land him a flight straight back to America, out of everyone’s hair.
But it stares back at him now, the stupid line of Daeyoung’s lips dipping into a contemplative frown. His lips look thin, soft. And his lower lip immediately disappears the moment Daeyoung starts biting on it nervously.
God. They’re not getting anywhere with this.
Lest they forget, Sion is still standing there with the dying remains of a Shirley Temple clinging onto his pants, seeping past every layer and leaving him uncomfortably damp. And cold. Sion is really, really cold right now.
Sion sighs. “You’re such a waste of time. Seriously.”
He steps forward, making sure to avoid Daeyoung’s eyes as he reaches for the door. Daeyoung’s body heat is almost radiating off of him, and Sion tries to ignore it as he swallows down the bout of uneasiness that’s been crawling up his throat.
“Thanks for the drink, I guess,” he says flatly, trying not to let any nervousness slip into his voice as he fumbles with the lock on the door. “Next time try not to spill it over who you’re giving it to, dumbass.”
This seems to be what finally sets Daeyoung off, who’d been standing there, frozen, only moments prior, as the words only just start to sink in.
In a flash, Sion suddenly feels long, slender fingers wrap around his wrists, fucking up the carefully ironed cuffs of his suit. And the next thing he knows there's a surge of white hot pain shooting up his spine as his back is forcefully shoved against the door.
What the fuck.
That seems to be exactly what Daeyoung’s thinking right now, too, as he stares back at Sion with wide eyes. He’s standing over him now, the mere centimeters in height he has over him allowing him to tower over Sion as he pins him against the door.
What the fuck.
Sion’s fight-or-flight response immediately kicks in. Gathering all of his strength, Sion tries to push Daeyoung off of him, squirming almost pathetically in his grasp. There's blood fucking pounding in his ears, his heart threatening to lurch out of his chest the longer he stays here.
“Hyung, stop!” Daeyoung pleads, voice a half-whisper, half-shout as he desperately tries to keep Sion still.
But it only falls on deaf ears as Sion continues trying to wrench himself free from Daeyoung's grasp. Beneath his pleasant exterior, Daeyoung is surprisingly strong, so Sion has to hide the wince threatening to escape his lips from the mahogany wood digging into his spine. Fuck this guy and his stupid sleeper build.
“Seriously, hyung, please stop. Please.” Daeyoung full-on begs, eyes round and bright like warning signs, and Sion is but the deer caught in headlights. “I just want to talk.”
That finally kills the fight in Sion, the tension slowly draining out of his body and allowing the residual pain to cut through. Swallowing down a wince, Sion stares back at Daeyoung with a renewed air of defiance, chin tipping downwards to look him right in the eye.
“Then tell me what the fuck is your problem,” he straight up hisses at him.
At this point, Sion is completely sick and tired of Daeyoung's bullshit. He clearly doesn’t want to be around Daeyoung any more than he should, so why the hell does he keep cornering him like this?
But that reply only earns him a frown from Daeyoung, the sharpness in his eyes immediately subsiding into a small pout across his lips. He doesn’t seem to be aware of it, but Daeyoung's eyebrows also come together into a slight scrunch creasing across his forehead.
Sion would have almost found it cute if—well. If he didn’t hate his fucking guts, for one.
“No,” Daeyoung counters with the voice of a petulant child. His eyes then dart down nervously, trying to find the next words. When he finally looks up, he shoots Sion back with that same pouty glare. “What’s your problem.”
Wow. Real smooth.
Sion huffs out a laugh in disbelief, but Daeyoung only ignores him as he continues.
“Why’re you always so, so—”
“What. Tell me, Daeyoung-ah. Why am I so what.”
“Why’re you always such a dick to me?”
That finally catches Sion off guard.
It’s the first time he’s ever heard Daeyoung say anything remotely close to a swear, but it’s also the first time he’s ever seen a crack in that pleasant, well-mannered, fucking infuriating polite persona he always puts on.
The worst part is that Daeyoung doesn't even sound angry. No, the asshole has the audacity to sound hurt of all things. And it's practically melting off of him, dripping all over the sad slump of his shoulders and the pathetic jut of his lower lip.
He looks pathetic. Almost like a kicked puppy. Sion really wants to kick him right now.
But there's also another part of him that wants to grab him by the collar, pull him close, and kiss that stupid fucking pout off his face.
What?
The thing is, they weren’t really friends. Not even acquaintances, Sion would say. Just two guys around the same age, in the same circles, both subjected to be the unfortunate pedestrians in each other’s existence.
But whatever. Sion didn’t really care.
Back when they were younger and still forced to sit at the kiddie table, Sion didn’t really pay any mind to that one kid at the end, wearing a too-big suit and tentatively sipping apple juice from a wine glass. He was always too busy fucking around with Wonbin and Sohee, trying to find a way to sneak into the kitchen and raid the pantry.
And whenever a bunch of men in suits would come over to Sion's house, he never really paid any attention to the little boy peeking out from behind one of them, looking at him with poorly concealed interest in his eyes. Sion would always just sneak back up to his room afterwards, picking up his controller again to return to his save file.
So the moment Sion got that first stack of paperwork piled onto his custom-built mahogany desk, he'd booked the first flight he could to America and never looked back. Didn't even spare a single thought for that one kid that was nothing but a mere speck imprinted onto his childhood.
So you can imagine Sion’s surprise seeing those same round eyes and small curved mouth staring back at him now, only 180 centimeters taller, and standing right before the family car.
Sion blinks.
“Hello, Sion-ssi,” Daeyoung greets him in the same, pleasant ring his voice always had, but noticeably a few octaves deeper. He gives him a polite bow, too, as if he couldn’t piss Sion off even more.
“What’re you doing here?” Sion snaps, immediately dropping any hint of pleasantries that Daeyoung must’ve dreamed up between them.
The polite smile on Daeyoung’s face flickers, only for a fraction of a second, before he’s quickly plastering it back on. But there’s a tension that remains in the knot on his brow, giving his fake little smile an awkward edge. Sion only tightens his grip on his carrier.
“I’m here to pick you up,” Daeyoung says plainly, that once pleasant ring slowly trickling out of his voice.
He shifts on his feet. A small, minute movement that Sion immediately notices, almost like a predator sizing up his prey. Sion smiles. Of course. This is the same Kim Daeyoung that he’s known from his childhood, after all.
The same Kim Daeyoung that doesn’t utter much more than a peep at any social event. The same Kim Daeyoung that’s always been loved by everyone to an almost infuriating degree. The same Kim Daeyoung that hadn’t even put up a fight when one of the spoiled brats had shoved him into the dessert table, all because he’d picked up the same brownie he was going for.
In other words, the same Kim Daeyoung that’s a total pushover.
Sion smiles. At least that much hasn’t changed.
Daeyoung continues, completely unaware, “Here, you can give me your luggage. I’m sure you’re tired from your flight.”
“Your dad finally lost his position, huh?” Sion sneers, giving Daeyoung a once-over. He immediately stiffens under his gaze. “It was a long time coming.”
It’s a joke, of course. Just a lighthearted, friendly little joke. As the second-in-command, it wasn’t a position one could just lose overnight. And with the way their dads have been all buddy-buddy even since before he was in the womb, Sion is sure it’s not budging anytime soon.
But it’s fun. It’s fun watching Daeyoung squirm under his gaze, as if a bunch of rats had started crawling around under his stupid Louis Vuitton coat. And, knowing Daeyoung, he doesn’t seem like the type to cry and run off to papa, so he can get away with it as much as he wants.
Sion raises a brow at him. “I just didn't think personal driver was a spot you'd go for.”
“He didn't,” Daeyoung cuts in immediately, voice coming out considerably sharper. “And don't look down on Park-ahjussi like that. I'm not replacing him, he just called in sick today.”
“So what? They sent you of all people?”
Daeyoung opens his mouth, looking like he's about to argue, but ultimately decides otherwise. Instead, he shakes his head, then suddenly he’s sighing. A long, drawn-out one from deep within his chest.
Sion scoffs. The guy acts like he’s forty in a nineteen year old’s body.
“Please just get in the car, Sion-ssi.” Daeyoung squeezes his eyes shut. “Please.”
Daeyoung looks unusually defeated, shoulders slumping as he opens the door of the passenger side. And so Sion can't help the triumphant smirk that crawls up his face as he finally climbs in.
Daeyoung looks… nice.
That’s the only word Sion can really muster up as he eyes him from across the room as discreetly as he possibly could. Which is not very discreet, judging by the glances Daeyoung would send back his way.
But in his defense, Daeyoung was the one who’d started it first.
He’d immediately noticed Daeyoung the moment he’d stepped into the wide, open room, like a sore spot in his eye he couldn’t rub out. The glittering chandeliers hanging high above them couldn’t pull his eyes away from the sight of Daeyoung, standing awkwardly in the corner as a crowd of bedazzled aunties swarmed around him.
With the neat, gelled part of his hair, and the crisp cuts of his suit that finally stretched over his shoulders just right, Daeyoung looked… nice. Admittedly. And he was also looking right at Sion.
Sion had quickly glanced away, hailing over a waiter to pluck a flute of champagne from their tray. He’d gulped it down, almost like it was just another shot, much to the dismay of his mom who quickly unhooked her arm from his.
Unfortunately, Sion hadn’t been able to bring a plus one to this event due to the logistics, considering the one he had in mind was in a completely different continent. Since the event was such short notice, she had politely declined Sion’s invitation through a curt reply on iMessage.
So Sion had to watch her Instagram stories in the car as he grumpily swiped through videos of her licking beer off the chin of some senior, with Wonbin and Sohee’s distinct voices hollering in the back.
Whatever. They can all fuck off.
This is just some snooty event celebrating the company’s donation to a partner organization, anyway. In other words—not a real party. And Sion is pretty sure his dad would've just glared at his plus one all night, seeing her as some sort of symbol of his late-stage teenage rebellion.
God. Sion really needs another drink right now.
Just as he’s rising from his table, Sion’s mother suddenly tugs on his sleeve, her manicured fingers delicately curling around his arm. He looks down at her, staring back into a gaze framed by light mascara and a subtle pinch of eyeshadow.
“Aren't you going to talk to Daeyoungie?” she asks, voice as sweet as ever.
But the name seems to set off warning sirens blaring in Sion’s head, and it takes all of his willpower to keep a straight face in front of his mom.
Daeyoungie? Since when did they get so close?
Sion tries to be nice to his parents at the very least, making sure not to act like a whiny bitch in front of them. Or as nice as a sudden one hundred million won invoice for his tuition fee in America could be, anyway.
So Sion is definitely nice, albeit a little awkward, as he plucks his mom’s hand off of his and gently sets it back on the table, a polite smile plastered on his face all the while.
“I will, eomma,” he promises. That’s a lie. “I just need to get some water.” Also a lie.
But she seems to buy it nonetheless, giving him another warm smile before turning back to the other guests at the table. She also pointedly misses the glass of water still half-full next to Sion’s dessert fork, much to his relief.
When Sion glances back up, his eyes immediately zero in on Daeyoung’s corner of the room, almost on instinct. Daeyoung himself is nursing a glass of water, hand comically large as it wraps around the stem, while the rest of the people around him sport all sorts of colorful drinks.
He couldn't have even gotten a cocktail, or something. What a prude. Sion sniffs. He's not sure why it pisses him off so much.
But it quickly dissolves the moment Daeyoung's gaze rises once more, causing Sion to look away as always.
They don’t get along very well as friends. Or, like, at all. At this point, it’s nothing more than a silly little title to keep his mom’s mouth shut and his dad looking even just a pinch more satisfied.
But it doesn’t matter. Sion is just here for the summer anyway. It won’t be long before he’s off on the next flight to America and won’t have to think about Daeyoung for at least another year.
That doesn’t make things easier, though. Because of course it doesn’t. It’s Kim-fucking-Daeyoung.
The same Kim Daeyoung that’s staring at him now from across the break room, wearing his stupid tie and stupid glasses and stupid polite little smile. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sion doesn’t even want to be here. He’s only supposed to be here to do trivial, fake office job tasks or whatever. Apparently, it’s all a part of his training before they sidle him up all nice and cozy at the directors’ table in classic nepo baby fashion.
So, naturally, in true nepo baby fashion, he’d shown up at the company fashionably late, horribly underdressed, and with a hangover to boot. Sion doesn’t even know if what he’s tasting in his mouth right now is morning breath or the lingering soju from last night.
His hair is still sticking up the same way it had this morning as he hunches over the break room counter, deciding if the stain on the bright white linoleum was spilt coffee or just a side effect of his hangover.
But it quickly disappears the moment Sion brushes strands of blonde away from his face, leaving him to very stupidly realize it was his own hair blocking his view.
His dad hadn’t liked his hair, Sion remembers dimly. Because apparently being hungover made him oddly sentimental for some reason.
Sion had dyed it during his first week in America, since clearly flying there in the first place without permission hadn’t been rebellious enough. He still remembers the way his dad had clicked his tongue disapprovingly upon seeing him for the first time in three years, the first thing he said to him being to “dye it back.”
Whatever. Sion obviously doesn't have a good track record when it comes to listening to him, anyway.
Sion is in the middle of his sudden hung-over brooding session—which includes cringing over the instant coffee packets on the counter and wondering where the fuck the coffee capsules were in this place—when Daeyoung very rudely interrupts him.
“Oh. Hi, hyung.”
The first thing Sion notices is that he’d dropped the honorifics. As if they were friends. Which, technically, they are supposed to be. So he digresses.
The second thing Sion notices is the dark, thick-rimmed glasses now perched on his nose, only further complemented by the crisp suit and tie he’s donning. When he was Daeyoung’s age, Sion was busy getting shitfaced in someone else's backyard, so it’s a little weird seeing Daeyoung dressed so smartly in his whole little get-up.
The last thing Sion notices is that it’s Kim Daeyoung. And, well, he really doesn’t want to see Kim Daeyoung right now.
“What're you doing here?” Sion asks sharply, and it almost feels like deja vu.
“Other people work here too, hyung.” Daeyoung says, not unkindly.
There's a blank look on his face, leading Sion to believe he might be one hundred percent serious and it's not just some offhand jab, but it still strikes a nerve. Like with most things about Daeyoung. Unsurprisingly.
“No shit, smartass,” Sion says, leaning against the counter because he wants to look intimidating. And not because his legs are wobbly. “I'm asking what you're doing here.”
That’s enough to finally strike a nerve on Daeyoung’s end, it seems, because the polite half-smile on his face flickers briefly before placating back into serene calm. With that, he only hugs the folder in his arms tighter against his chest.
“I’m working as an intern here for the summer,” Daeyoung says, rather slowly, as if talking to a child. Maybe he’s just being nice after realizing Sion is still very clearly hungover. Unfortunately, it only succeeds in grating on Sion’s nerves.
Why is Daeyoung even interning for the company? His dad is the COO, for fuck's sake. He was practically saved a seat at the directors’ table from the moment he'd bitched and cried after leaving the womb.
In the end, Daeyoung is just as well off as him, and him trying to act all humble about it is seriously starting to piss Sion off. Just as fake as the rest of him. Go figure.
Sion looks at Daeyoung standing before him now, that same polite smile still on his face, and something in him just snaps.
“Intern? Trying to act all righteous now, are you?” he says lowly, the words coming out startlingly clear, and Sion realizes this is the most sober he’s felt all morning.
Sion takes a step closer towards Daeyoung, watching the polite smile on his face melt into confusion. “Trying to pretend like you don't have a golden spoon shoved up your ass, huh?”
Another step. “They'll hate you, you know. The employees. Especially if you try to act any lower than you actually are.”
Sion is leaning into Daeyoung now, all right up in his personal space, watching the tremble in his eyes in sick, twisted glee. They'd be fucking forehead to forehead right now if Sion wasn't considerate enough to avoid any workplace indecency.
“Because if there's anything people hate more than the rich,” Sion says, looking Daeyoung in the eye before his gaze flickers down to his chest. Right where he jabs a finger against it. “It's the rich who try to downplay it.”
Truth be told, Sion isn’t so sure why he’s so worked up. He wouldn’t normally be this much of an asshole to Daeyoung on any other day. Seriously.
But maybe it’s because it’s ass-o-clock in the morning. Maybe it’s because he’s hungover. Maybe it’s because it’s Daeyoung, and he just can’t stop thinking about him that it’s driving him fucking insane—
Sion cringes.
The moment shatters. Daeyoung bristles. He takes a step back, clearly flustered from Sion’s sudden advances.
“I know,” Daeyoung says quickly, his voice almost fragile amidst the lingering tension in the air. “I’m not–I’m not trying to act like I’m not.”
There’s a furrow in his brow when he looks back up at Sion, innocent, like he’d been wronged. Sion almost wants to laugh in his face if he still wasn’t so shaken up himself.
But it quickly melts away once Daeyoung’s gaze flits downwards, eyes turning sweet and sullen behind the lenses of his glasses. He absentmindedly fiddles with the folder against his chest, his arms tense and tight through the fabric of his sleeves. Sion has to drag his eyes away from the sight.
“I just,” Daeyoung pauses, eyebrows coming together in thought. He probably doesn’t even know he’s pouting right now, too, like some big, oversized puppy. The thought almost makes Sion shudder.
“I just thought it'd only be right. To work my way up the ranks first, I mean,” Daeyoung says, voice small yet sincere. “So I can know what it’s like in each position. I assume it’s easier to make decisions for other people when I know how to do their jobs, too.”
Sion laughs. A full-on belly laugh from deep within him that sends heads turning their way.
What a joke. What a fucking joke. Kim Daeyoung is nothing but a fucking joke, and Sion has front row seats to the entire show.
His laugh had been enough to startle Daeyoung, who suddenly drops the folder he’d been carrying. It sends papers flying everywhere, causing a mini whirlwind of white to flutter all around them.
Through the curtain of it all, Sion catches a brief glance of Daeyoung, who’s looking at him with a weird glint in his eye. And Sion suddenly realizes that he's far, far from feeling sober right now.
It’s just a quick, brief moment of electrical contact between them, before Daeyoung is finally ducking down to pick up the papers on the floor. Sion only stands there, silently staring down at him instead of moving even a hair to help.
Daeyoung almost looks pitiful, kneeling down on the floor in all his 180 centimeter glory, desperately scrambling for papers not worth even a lick of his shoe. It’s ironic, but maybe it’s what he fucking deserves. Especially if he wants to peg himself down the pedestal that much.
“You’re lucky you were born rich,” Sion says, stepping past Daeyoung to leave. It’s only a coincidence his shoe lands on the paper he was just about to pick up. “Because if you weren’t, everybody else would’ve stepped all over you by now.”
Daeyoung looks up at him then with those beady little eyes, and Sion can't help but smile.
Too bad Daeyoung is just unlucky enough to meet someone who finally will.
“See you around, Daeyoung-nim,” Sion says, letting the honorific drip from his lips sweetly, before he finally leaves.
It only dawns on him later that he'd left without the cup of coffee he’d gone for in the first place.
If there’s one thing that’s true about Kim Daeyoung, it’s the fact that he can't take a fucking hint.
“Hi.”
Sion kind of wants to kill himself right now.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut. Tilts his head back just a bit and breathes. Deep breaths. In, out. In, out.
When Sion finally opens his eyes again, he sees Daeyoung standing before him in his smart little suit, holding two colorful drinks in his hand. And of course with that irritating little half-smile on his face as always, because the damn thing just seems permanently glued to his mouth at this point.
Although they’ve been practically eye-fucking each other from across the room this entire evening, this is the first time Daeyoung has actually approached him since their little… disagreement in the break room.
All the other interactions they’ve had at the company have merely been in passing—brief, tense moments of eye contact from across a maze of cubicles. Mostly just on Sion’s part, though. because of course Daeyoung still had it in him to smile back at him, right before Sion could duck away.
But Daeyoung hasn’t properly approached him since then. Not until now, at least. Which means he must want something, and Sion is nothing if not fucking nosy, so fine. He’ll bite. Just this once.
Sion glances down at the two drinks in Daeyoung’s hands. “Part-timing as a waiter now, too?”
Daeyoung’s lip twitches before he replies, “No, I just wanted to get a drink for you.”
And Sion would’ve been touched at the gesture, heart melting straight out of his chest and onto a puddle on the floor, if he couldn’t see right through him. Sion almost finds it funny how Daeyoung’s politeness also makes him a bit of a liar, as ironic as it is. A terrible one at that, so Sion merely huffs out a laugh and turns away.
“No thanks,” he says into the white table cloth, nursing the glass of water in his hand. “I’ve had enough drinks for tonight.”
Which is true, mind you. Because he’s not a liar like Daeyoung—that’s a lie—and isn’t just getting a kick out of rejecting him for no reason. No matter how enticing it may seem.
Sion had, in fact, just been at the event’s mini bar earlier that evening, with the sole intent of flushing out the annoying parasite in his mind that was aptly named Kim Daeyoung. The bartender had even looked at him funny when Sion had asked for “whatever’s the strongest,” because apparently that wasn’t the type of order they’d usually get at a charity event.
“It’s non-alcoholic. A Shirley Temple,” Daeyoung pipes up. And then adds, quietly, “I’m not allowed to order anything alcoholic, anyway.”
And okay. Maybe that did make Sion’s chest twinge a little.
Because of course sweet little nineteen year old Daeyoung, who’s old enough to drive him from the airport, old enough to intern at one of South Korea’s biggest companies, and old enough to fucking drink of all things, won’t order alcohol just because his mommy told him not to.
God. He’s so pathetic Sion almost pities the guy.
So it’s certainly out of pity that Sion turns back towards Daeyoung, rolling his eyes, before saying, “Fine. Hand it over.”
Daeyoung smiles, and then he’s leaning over to hand Sion his drink when—
Oh.
Well. Maybe it’s a good thing Sion didn’t go for the white suit tonight.
Daeyoung blinks up at him from where’s holding a now empty crystal glass in his hand, its contents now spilt all over Sion’s pants. Sion can already feel it seeping into his boxers, too, seasoning his balls with a generous hint of lemonade. Yum.
Truth be told, Sion is pissed. No, he’s fucking furious. Pulling this type of shit at a company event where the whole damn GDP of Korea is now staring at him like he’s pissed his pants is… not ideal. Just to put it lightly.
“I’m–I’m so sorry, hyung,” Daeyoung says quickly, eyes wide like saucers as he sets down the glasses in his hands. Then he's reaching over for a table napkin and dabbing it all over Sion’s pants.
And now Sion is even more pissed because god, can’t the guy get any worse at acting? Sion can hear it in his voice. It's clearly the type of apology meant to simply appease the other person, to be nice and make sure they don’t cry and shit their pants, instead of one where he actually feels sorry.
In other words—polite, curt, and fake. All the things Daeyoung is, which means Sion really should’ve seen this coming from a mile away.
“Let me–let me help you,” Daeyoung forcibly stutters out, voice leaking with artificial concern. It tastes raw and bitter in Sion's mouth, mixing in with the furious pulse of his anger.
But then suddenly Daeyoung is grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of his seat, not even giving him a chance to protest. Sion almost stumbles from the unexpected force of Daeyoung’s grip, fingers so tight around his arm he swears he can feel the fucking pulsating of his veins.
And the next thing he knows he’s being dragged away from all the curious gazes and glittering lights of the party before finally being shoved into some bathroom.
They’re quiet.
The silence is deafening, to the point that Sion almost feels small, curled up in the corner of the big, sleek car like this.
It’s still the same as how he last left it. He'd been sleeping then, cheek pressed up against the window, as they drove off for his early morning flight three years ago. Plush leather seats, sleek dashboard, spotless touch screen. The only difference is the almost suffocating presence now sitting next to him.
Daeyoung hasn’t uttered a single word since he’d stored Sion’s luggage in the back, circled over to the driver’s side, and promptly buckled himself in with a huff. He hasn’t even put the key into the ignition yet, for fuck’s sake. Sion is already starting to sweat under his varsity jacket.
Finally having enough, Sion turns towards Daeyoung with the sole intent of bitching to him about the poor quality of his services. But the words quickly die in his throat the moment his gaze lands on Daeyoung’s face, who’s still staring straight ahead with an oddly determined look in his eye.
Huh.
Sion can’t help but notice how well-kempt Daeyoung looks—which he’d figured as much, especially for someone with a background like him. But then suddenly Sion can’t help himself at all, letting his eyes roam all over Daeyoung and his stiff, near-perfect posture.
Daeyoung’s coat is a bold black, matching the rest of the car, but there’s also a smart white button-up peeking out of the collar, enough to maintain that image of a kind, approachable guy he always carries.
Even his hair is well-maintained, obviously combed through to keep his delicate middle part in place. It's a striking contrast to the last time Sion had seen him, when he'd been hiding behind the bangs of his stupid-looking bowl cut.
And his face. Still the same round eyes and almost pouty cupid’s bow, but the fullness of his cheeks are now contrasted by a sharp jawline, which now stares back at Sion as proof of the three years they’ve spent apart.
Right. Sion would be stupid to think Daeyoung hadn’t grown too while he was away, but seeing the tangible evidence laid out before him now makes him feel uneasy, somehow.
“Sion-ssi.”
Sion jumps from where he's sitting in the passenger's seat, hand almost hitting the glove box. He tries to play it off, clearing his throat as he pulls at his seatbelt again. For good measure, of course.
“Sion-ssi.”
“Stop calling me that,” Sion snaps.
Daeyoung pauses for a second. Blinks at him.
He looks stupid, blinking at him as if he'd suddenly started malfunctioning. His mouth is also hanging open dumbly, just a bit, as no words continue to come out.
Sion quickly looks away, suddenly finding the empty dashboard very interesting. Unfortunately, it's just as dull as Daeyoung is.
“Okay,” Daeyoung begins again, then swallows. “Sion… hyung.”
Somehow Sion hates that even more.
He bites his tongue though, letting Daeyoung continue for once as he feels himself sink lower and lower into the plush leather seat. Similarly, Sion can also feel a pang of dread start to sink lower and lower in his stomach, mixing around with the first class meal he had earlier.
God. Sion really should've known better than to trust his mom with his ride back home. Of course she'd send Kim Daeyoung. Of fucking course. Since when did this kid even learn how to drive?
Daeyoung speaks up again, a cautious edge to his voice.
“I think—"
“Congrats.”
“I think our parents want us to be friends.”
Sion pauses. Hears a record scratch screeching loudly in his head.
Daeyoung's tone had been weirdly solemn, like he'd just been the bearer of bad news. And maybe he is. It's such bad news that Sion almost wants to laugh in his face out of pure fucking disbelief, actually.
Friends? Why the fuck should they be friends?
Wonbin and Sohee are just fine, even if they were partially the reason why Sion had run off to America, away from all of his flat-ironed responsibilities. And also the reason why Sion had tried weed for the first time on some rando’s living room floor.
But his point still stands. They were a lot better than those rowdy frat boys that hosted the parties he frequented, and definitely a hell of a lot better than the awkward, fumbling, shifting-nervously-in-his-seat Kim Daeyoung that's sitting next to him right now.
“Do you want to be friends?” Sion asks suddenly.
And Daeyoung blinks, as if he hadn't been expecting that kind of response from him. Hell, even Sion himself is surprised.
On any other occasion, Sion would’ve laughed. Cried, maybe. Thrown a fit. Fuck if he knows. Anything but ask the kind of question that's left both of them simmering in its aftermath.
Unable to handle any more silences, Sion speaks up again, desperately trying to take the words back in the air between them.
“You know what, nevermind,” he says, sitting up in his seat and reaching over for the keys cradled loosely in Daeyoung's upturned hand. “Just drive already. And turn on the AC, I'm fucking sweating over here.”
Just as Sion's about to retrieve the keys, his fingers are suddenly met with a border of skin as Daeyoung's closes around it. Sion immediately pulls back like he's been burnt, but still dimly takes note of how soft Daeyoung's hand had been.
“I would,” Daeyoung speaks up quietly, still not looking at him. “I would want to be friends with hyung.”
Daeyoung's gaze flickers down then, teeth catching on his lower lip as he bites on it nervously, lost in deep thought. Sion is left sitting there dumbly, staring at Daeyoung like he'd grown another head.
“Hyung hasn't been the—” a pause, and a furrow in his brow like he's trying to hide a wince, “—nicest to me so far, and I know we weren't very close when we were kids either.”
Daeyoung looks at him then, fixing him with that same, oddly resolute look in his eye. Sion tries not to shrink beneath his gaze.
“But he seems very popular, and I'm sure it's for a good reason,” Daeyoung says, the words ricocheting around in Sion's head like a pinball machine. “So I would like to get to know him.”
Sion swallows. Breaks the suffocating eye contact.
Right. Of course Daeyoung would. Because he's such a goddamn pushover. Sees the good in everyone, like some cliché, Disney-princess-type bullshit.
Well too fucking bad. Sion isn't some sort of charity case.
Sion knows the only reason his mom had sent Daeyoung was because she thought he'd be lonely back here in Korea. She wants him to have a little “friend” while he spends his summer here before going back to America to finish up his last year of uni.
And he knows his dad would like them to be friends as well, but mostly just because Daeyoung is the son of the goddamn COO. It's only natural that they should get along because, fucking hell, they'll be coworkers down the line. Daeyoung will be taking orders from him.
So, in the end, they've always just been forced to be friends ever since they were kids, and they'll inevitably be forced to get along the moment they're thrust into the company, too.
But Sion can't. He really can't. Just spending the past twenty minutes with Daeyoung after not seeing each other for three years makes him want to fling himself out the car.
He hates people like Daeyoung, down to his very bones. His fake smile, fake voice, fake politeness. Sion thinks the only thing not fake about him are the stupid clothes hanging off his back.
And don't get him wrong, it's not like Sion can't handle fake people. Sion has been around fake people his whole damn life. It's what the rich thrive off of, plastering up their plastic little smiles and polite little laughs at dinner tables as an accessory of their wealth.
But Daeyoung is—
Well.
He's different.
He's too nice. Usually, spoiled little rich kids like them don't have any reason to be nice. Because when everything is handed to them on a silver platter anyway, there's always been enough room to spit it back. Just for the hell of it.
But Daeyoung isn’t like that. In fact, he’s far from it. And that's what Sion hates the most about him.
He's fake because he's nice. It's the kind of fakeness that's rooted in genuity. That simple, plain desire to be good.
And it scares Sion. Fucking terrifies him, actually. All because it's just so unfamiliar to him. And the last time he's had to deal with anything unfamiliar, he'd booked the first flight he could and ran away from it.
But he can't run away from Daeyoung. Not now. Not when they're cramped in this decidedly spacious car, and not when Sion can feel the title of heir breathing down his neck with every move he makes.
So Sion can only sigh, a long drawn-out one, starting to feel forty himself despite his twenty-two year old body, before looking at Daeyoung.
“Okay,” he says, resigned. More defeated than anything else. “Let's be friends then, Kim Daeyoung.”
And Sion can almost believe that the smile Daeyoung gives him is anything but fake.
“Why’re you always such a dick to me?”
The question echoes in Sion’s head as he stares at Daeyoung in the dimly lit stall, silence soon falling over them. It's charged, electric in the air. A hiss of energy that courses through Sion’s veins.
Daeyoung still has his arms on either side of Sion’s head, pinning him into place, caging him in. Sion almost feels like prey. Trapped. Heart beating so fast he feels an ache in his chest, breathing so shallow his lungs are almost collapsing in on themselves.
But it’s soft.
So, so soft.
He can’t feel like prey when Daeyoung is looking at him, eyes round and bright in the dim bathroom stall, like he’ll break. So close he can feel his breath on his cheek. Slow, deep breaths against his skin. Like water. Like tides rolling over him. A gentle ebb and flow he can feel in the way Daeyoung’s grip on his wrists loosens, fingers almost delicate with how they brush against his veins.
It’s so soft Sion can feel it in his fucking throat. It’s swelling up in him, bruising against his neck, clawing its way out of him in a way he can’t understand but can taste between his teeth.
And then Daeyoung’s gaze is flickering down, and Sion knows it’s happening before he even feels it.
Daeyoung leans in, closing the distance, and kisses him.
Daeyoung kisses him, and it's crushingly soft. Painfully delicate. Just a soft press of lips against his, not even moving, not asking for more, not taking more than what he thinks Sion can give.
All the while, Sion can only stand there, stunned. He simply lets himself be kissed by Daeyoung, because he has no other explanation for it other than that he’s truly lost his fucking mind.
And then Sion pushes Daeyoung. Hard.
Suddenly Daeyoung is stumbling back, ass almost landing in the toilet himself if it weren’t for his arms finding purchase on the walls. But Sion doesn’t care. He couldn’t even bring himself to give a shit at all because he’s already turning around to open the lock on the door and swing it wide open and—
“Hyung.”
Sion squeezes his eyes shut. God. He’s so fucking weak.
“Please don’t leave,” Daeyoung murmurs, his voice meek and sincere. Desperate. And it’s melting off of him, spilling out of the soft, downturned curves of his mouth. This warmth that's completely flooded itself in Sion's veins until he's fucking burning with it.
And Sion is pissed. So fucking pissed off at Daeyoung and all his bullshit that he turns around and smashes his lips against his.
Sion, on the other hand, does not kiss softly. He is not gentle. He is not delicate. He is nothing like Daeyoung, because Sion is a fucking typhoon, and so he’s crashing into him with the full force of one.
Daeyoung whines, loud in the back of his throat, as Sion pulls him in by the neck and kisses him like he wants to bruise. Like he wants to hurt. Teeth clashing against Daeyoung’s, tongue breaching past his lips, nails digging into the back of his neck.
Daeyoung can only curl a pathetic hand around his arm before Sion is leaning in to take and take and take. So much Daeyoung is shivering with it. Sion can feel him melting against the slot of their lips together, slippery in his hands like the spit pooling in their mouths. Clearly drunk off of the lingering taste of alcohol and anger on Sion's lips.
And it’s obvious Daeyoung doesn’t know what to do. Poor, sweet little inexperienced Daeyoung who thinks a first kiss should always be gentle. Who thinks that kindness is rooted in lies and that good intentions can justify being a fake little bitch. Who thinks he can find that same goodness in other people if he just keeps digging for it. Who thinks that he can also dig into Sion, find that good in him, not knowing that digging too hard will only make him bite back.
So it’s easy, really. It’s easy for Sion to just take and take because Daeyoung just won’t stop giving. Because he doesn’t know how to stop giving. Because, at the end of the day, Kim Daeyoung will always be nothing if not a fucking pushover.
When Sion finally pulls away, he feels out of breath. Like he’d been underwater and suddenly all the air on the surface is now rushing into his lungs.
With this, Sion lets his gaze drift upwards, like the slow rise of those tides, and looks at Daeyoung. His eyes are met with the sight of Daeyoung looking as fucked out as he feels—gelled hair a mess, his once perfectly ironed suit now crumpled, and his chest rising and falling as he gulps down on air like Sion had stolen it right from his lungs.
But then his lip twitches, and suddenly the water's surface breaks.
“Hyung—” Daeyoung begins again, but Sion has finally had enough.
He yanks on Daeyoung's tie, pulling him in until they're face to face once more, watching the way he struggles to breathe around the tight grip of Sion's anger.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sion hisses out, fingers digging into the fabric until it burns, coarse against his palm. “Just shut the fuck up.”
Daeyoung swallows, blinking down at him, innocent. But Sion can see it. There's something simmering in his gaze, something new and unfamiliar that Sion can't grasp, claw his fingers around until it bleeds out.
“And don't you dare tell a single person about this,” Sion says, slowly, the words grating against his throat. He gouges them out, buries them in Daeyoung's mouth until it's all he can taste. “If I hear anything about it, I won't hesitate to ruin your fucking life.”
And that's all the warning Daeyoung gets before Sion is shoving him back with the same brutal force that's been curdling up inside of him. This time, Daeyoung actually loses his balance and finally lands in the toilet with a splash.
Great. At least both their pants are wet now.
Sion can only scoff at the sight as he moves closer, watching the way his own shadow casts a swathe of darkness over Daeyoung, its edges tinged amber from the warm lights. Daeyoung is stained with the pit of it, looking up at him from where he sits in its grasp. His eyes are wide and dilated in the dark, pupils engulfed in black beneath the dim lights of the bathroom and the heaviness in Sion's gaze.
“And to answer your question,” Sion starts, swallowing around the swell of his own anger, raw and aching in his throat that it almost devours him inwards.
“It's because I hate you, Kim Daeyoung,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at him. Pure fucking venom in his voice as he spits it out.
“I fucking hate you.”
And it's the most he's ever meant something in his life. Because if there's one thing that separates them, it's the fact that Sion is anything but fake.
“So don't ever fool yourself into thinking, even once, that I'd want anything to do with you,” he scoffs. “Let alone be your fucking friend.”
And Daeyoung, honest-to-god, smiles at him.
It's enough to leave Sion flustered, feeling like he hadn't even gotten the last word in at the end. But he ignores it. Instead, Sion simply turns on his heel, turning his back to Daeyoung and his stupid eyes and stupid lips and stupid, stupid smile, and finally leaves the bathroom.
Without washing his hands. Just to make a point.