Chapter Text
The death threats aimed at Choi San are starting to become a bit of a problem.
He didn’t think much of them, at first. As part of the massively successful four part Kpop band, AURORA, death threats come hand in hand with his job. The company receives thousands of letters and fanmail daily, and death threats have become common enough that they all learned to ignore them and move on.
But somewhere along the lines, it turned from a minor inconvenience into… a slightly less minor inconvenience. Enough for his members to sit him down before practice one day and have ‘a conversation’ about it.
In San’s opinion, this entire thing has been blown way out of proportion.
“Come on, guys,” San says. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Doubtful,” his captain, Hongjoong, says. He frowns, reading the comments from his laptop. “Unless you’ve gotten comments from one @sansexual6969 threatening to wrap a mic cord around your sweaty, meaty, neck while you perform Cyberpunk at our next concert.”
San hesitates. That’s definitely new. “How… specific.”
Mingi peers at Hongjoong’s screen from over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “Kinky. You’ve got some weird fans, San.”
This earns him a nudge and a reproachful look from Yunho. Mingi seems to have a knack for saying the most off-hand things at the worst moments.
“I’d be a little hesitant in calling them fans,” Yunho says, frowning.
San turns to Hongjoong, who’s sitting next to their manager. The captain of the group is always the first to be in the know, and San has no doubt that he and the company have already come up with some sort of plan behind his back.
“So, what now?” San asks flippantly. They’re wasting time that could be better spent doing something else. Like practising for their latest comeback, just a couple months away. “More security? Close our P.O. box? This really could have been an email. Or a phone call. Or something.”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “I talked to management earlier, and we agree that there’s no need for drastic measures just yet. We’ll probably just monitor the situation for now. But we do think it’ll be in your best interests that we up your security. At least, temporarily.”
“Ok,” San says. “More cameras?”
Yunho clears his throat. “Not exactly,” he says. “We thought it’d be better to get you something more… reliable.”
“I don’t think you can get any more reliable than some state-of-the-art security system.”
Hongjoong looks at San. “We’re getting you a round-the-clock personal bodyguard.”
It isn’t a question, which is the ridiculous part. San tilts his head to the side, sure that he must have misheard. “You’re getting me a what?”
“A bodyguard,” Hongjoong repeats. “24/7 security and protection.”
San balks. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s for your safety.”
San glares at him. “I do not need a bodyguard. I’m a 3rd degree black belt in taekwondo.”
Mingi blinks. “I thought taekwondo only worked if the other person also knew how to do the thing.”
“That’s not true,” San snaps at him. Turning back to Hongjoong, he insists, “Joong, seriously. I can protect myself.”
His captain raises his eyebrows, doubtful. The mere sight of it is enough to raise San’s hackles. “How often do you beat people up outside the controlled environment of a dojang?”
“Never,” San says. “Because I’ve never had to. So don’t bother sending one to the company next time I come to work.”
They glare at each other for a moment, neither willing to be the first to back down. But eventually, Hongjoong sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I won’t.”
☼
Hongjoong sends the bodyguard to San’s house instead.
To be fair, San probably should have known that this would happen with how easily Hongjoong gave up that day in the office, but he was too busy feeling smug to deduce any of his captain’s ulterior motives. Just a single knock on his door is enough to raise his suspicions — nobody ever visits San uninvited.
“Hellooo!” The voice outside calls. His cheerful tone pierces through the air like a bell. “Is anyone home?”
San considers pretending that he isn’t home for a brief moment, but the lights in his living room are switched on. Any good bodyguard worth his salt will be able to figure out that someone is at home.
The knocking grows more insistent by the minute. “I know you’re in there.”
“Alright,” San calls out, annoyed. “Coming!”
He opens the door, just a crack, to peek outside. What he sees has him making a strangled noise that nobody should ever have the displeasure of listening to.
“Hey,” the person on the other side of the door says. He drags out the single syllable in a way that immediately grates on San’s nerves. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m a tiny bit early.”
The stranger standing there is a willowy young man, his weight casually shifted on one foot. His raven-black hair glints under the sun, long enough to graze his cheekbones.
San inhales sharply, and it’s not just because this stranger looks like he’s just walked off the cover of a fashion magazine. But because this stranger standing at his door is not, in fact, a stranger.
“Wooyoung,” San breathes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
☼
Ten years ago
Choi San did not lose.
Being the son of a taekwondo teacher, it would be nothing short of an embarrassment if San were anything less than the martial artist that he was brought up to be. He worked hard and became good at it — or perhaps it was the other way around — trading belt colours for a new one every few months. Competitions upon competitions, where he always emerged as a victor.
And then, with years worth of experience and a black belt in taekwondo, he was almost invincible. Easily one of the best in Namhae, the pride and joy of his father and the other citizens of their small coastal town.
San was never really one for fanfare, but that amount of pride filled him up until he thought that he could have lived off of it — the triumph of winning, the rush of adrenaline, the attention that never seemed to end. He breezed past competitions so quickly that all of his opponents started to blur into each other, each of them nothing more than a warm body he had to work down, a task to be completed, as quickly and as ruthlessly as possible.
Until one winter in his twelfth year, when he walked into the mat for a competition. One just like the many that had come before it. San had retreated into himself, locked into the state of razor focus that he would get into for every competition.
His opponent walked onto the mat. San was already sizing him up, taking in his form, his physique. Skinny. Playful. Quick. San had fought a hundred boys just like him, and thought that it was probably going to be a quick match.
They bowed. Shook hands, put on their helmets. But then they faced each other, and San’s eyes caught onto his opponent’s. They were a deep brown, glimmering with a kind of mirth that could only come with confidence, entirely unshakeable. He winked, the corner of his lips pulling up into a small smirk.
And it was at that moment that San knew. Whatever he thought he knew about this boy? He was wrong. Entirely, completely, overwhelmingly, wrong.
Choi San did not lose. Until one day, when he did.
After meeting Jung Wooyoung, San never won again.
☼
“So you do remember me!” Wooyoung says. “I must admit: I was worried that all the fame might have gotten to your head.”
Of course San remembers Wooyoung. The sky would fall on their heads before San could even begin to forget about him.
“It’s nice to see you, San,” Wooyoung smiles, and it’s so familiar that San immediately feels like he’s 15 again, full of pride but choking with acceptance, walking onto the mat knowing that the fight has already been lost. “You haven’t changed a single bit.”
San blinks. “You too.”
San doesn’t like thinking about the last time he saw Wooyoung. He’s too inexplicably tied up to San’s developmental teenage years, years that, even now, remain a blight in his memory. It’s almost like a bruise that he pokes at every so often just to check if it finally stopped hurting.
And to this day, it hasn’t.
“Why are you here?” San asks, his voice coming out much harsher than he intended.
Wooyoung is unfazed. “I work here now.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are.” Wooyoung’s smile doesn’t slip at all. “Didn’t Hongjoong tell you I was coming?”
“Hongjoong,” San growls. He is going to have words with his captain after this. “That asshole.”
“Listen, I don’t know what altercation you’re having with him, but do you think you could let me in now?” Wooyoung nods down to the duffle bag at his feet, stuffed near to bursting. “I’ve got quite a bit of stuff to unpack, and I kinda want to get a head start.”
Unpack? Did Hongjoong expect San to let this stranger live in his house? With him?
Except he isn’t a stranger, the evil part of San’s brain whispers. You know him.
Bullshit, he tells the evil part of his brain. The only thing San knows about Wooyoung is that he wants to be as far away from him as possible.
San draws himself up to his fullest height. “Your services aren’t required,” he says, injecting as much authority in his voice as he’s able to, “So I hereby declare you fired. Goodbye.”
San proceeds to slam the door shut, locking out this man and every last trace of his perfectly styled hair. But Wooyoung is faster, and immediately wedges the tip of his boot against the door before San can close it completely.
“What are you doing?” San yelps. “Get your foot off my door!”
“You can’t fire me,” Wooyoung says, calmly prying the door open with his foot. “Hongjoong hired me, so I answer to him, not you.” He wags a finger at San, as if admonishing a naughty child. “And that was rude.”
San tries, in vain, to yank the door shut, but Wooyoung doesn’t budge a single inch. “Now,” the boy says cheerfully. “Where were we? Ah, that’s right. You were just about to invite me into your humble home, so I could give you the standard bodyguard introduction and settle in.”
They stare at each other for a moment, San with daggers in his eyes, Wooyoung with all the smugness of a cat who knows he’s about to get his way. Eventually, San sighs, stepping aside to let Wooyoung in. “You can wait in my living room while I contact Hongjoong.”
“Excellent,” Wooyoung says.
☼
“Alright, San, as you know,” Wooyoung is saying, “I’ve been assigned as your close protection operative, where your responsibility from this point is my safety. I’ll be coordinating with your schedule and security needs from this point onwards. I’ll also be personally escorting you to all the places you need to go to.”
“Mhmm,” San says. He pulls out his phone, and begins messaging Hongjoong in earnest.
S: Care to explain why there’s a random guy standing in my house?
HJ: Oh. Yeah. That’s Wooyoung. Please be nice to him.
S: I thought we agreed on no bodyguard.
HJ: YOU agreed on it. The rest of us didn’t.
S: Fire him.
HJ: Nope.
S: Oh, for fuck’s sake.
HJ: I did what I had to. You could at least say thank you.
San returns the message with an emoji of a raised finger.
“Uhh, hellooo,” Wooyoung trills. He’s frowning, and has placed his face right in front of San’s, at a distance that’s almost dizzying to look at. San tries to put a couple more inches in between himself and Wooyoung’s maddeningly handsome face.
“What?”
“Are you texting someone right now? Instead of listening to my very important introduction?”
“I was listening!”
“Uh huh.”
San rolls his eyes. “I am capable of multitasking, you know.”
“So what did I just say?” Wooyoung crosses his arms, leaning back on where he sits on the sofa. “Repeat the last sentence I just said.”
San has no idea what he was saying, but he is capable of being a bit of an ass when he truly wants to. So he stares directly at Wooyoung’s eyes, and says, in as deadpan a manner as he can manage, “‘The last sentence I just said’”.
They stare at each other for a moment, locked in yet another standstill. Wooyoung is the first to crack. To San’s greatest surprise, the slender boy tips his head back and lets out a cackle, pitched high and full of glee.
“You know,” Wooyoung says after calming down, “Everyone thinks of you as this messiah of the entertainment world, always standing shirtless by a pool with a glower and those chiselled abs—”
“Excuse me?”
“But it really made me forget just how full of shit you really are.” Wooyoung grins. A dimple in his left cheek flashes playfully. “I missed that side of you.”
Wooyoung missed San? He almost laughs at the absurdity of that notion. “Please,” San says. “The only thing you missed was winning against me. Lording that triumph over my head just for the sake of it.”
“Well, I’d feel a hell of a lot more triumphant if you could put your phone down for a second.”
San finally relents, making a show of placing his phone face-down on the coffee table in front of him. “Happy?”
“Maybe. Will you pay attention now?”
“Yes.” San rolls his eyes. “Go on.”
“Great,” Wooyoung says, beaming. “There’s nothing much to it for now, then. I stick around, and you go about your daily life as per usual. If you ever need to leave the house, let me know in advance. If not, I’ll probably lie low around here.”
“What do you mean ‘lie low around here’?”
Wooyoung frowns. “Do you not understand how having a live-in bodyguard works?”
“No. No.” San’s brain is whirling. This is progressing way too quickly for San’s liking. “You are not living with me.”
Wooyoung raises his eyebrows. “Yes, I am.”
“I don’t have room for you.”
“You live in a freaking McMansion.”
It wasn’t a mansion, to be fair. But it was a penthouse suite, so it wasn’t all that better for San’s case.
He looks around, as if seeing his house for the very first time. “I need all the space I can get,” He says. “I own a lot of things.”
“What things?”
“Just, things. Regular things. Things all regular humans have. You know, like clothes, food, alcohol—”
“Plushies?” Wooyoung interrupts, mildly interested.
“What?”
“You used to really love them. You brought them to our tournaments all the time. Oh my god, do you still have Shiber?”
“Of course not.” Shiber the shiba inu plushie is, in fact, sitting right on top of San’s bed. He makes a mental note to hide the plushie in his wardrobe as soon as possible. “No more plushies.”
“Right.” Wooyoung pulls out a piece of paper from a folder he left on San’s dining table. “All that’s left for you to do is to sign this contract. And that should solidify the rest of our arrangement.”
San folds his arms. “No,” he says, as bluntly as he can.
“Then Hongjoong will forge your signature for you. Or threaten you with blunt force.” Wooyoung rests his chin on his palm. “We call this the illusion of choice.”
“Does Hongjoong know that’s illegal?”
“Hongjoong seems like a very determined person. He gets what he wants.” Wooyoung shrugs. “You’re probably better off signing it yourself.”
San stares at Wooyoung. He imagines punching him across the face, the terrible satisfaction of having Wooyoung at his mercy. “Fine. I’ll sign it, but only on one condition.”
Wooyoung leans back in his chair. There’s an amused expression on his face, which is the most infuriating thing. “Do tell.”
“Spar with me,” San says. “If you can beat me, then I’ll sign it.”
☼
It’s a bad idea right from the start, and San knows it, but he’s too incensed to care. Perhaps this is his biggest flaw — he’s the most reckless he can be whenever Wooyoung is involved.
“Oh, San.” Wooyoung shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be making ultimatums.”
“Why not? Worried I’ll beat you?”
Wooyoung raises his eyebrows. “When have you ever?”
“I’m a lot stronger now than I was back then.”
“Maybe. But I can guarantee I’d have you on the floor in about five seconds flat.”
“And you’re confident about that?”
“Oh, yeah.” Wooyoung smirks, and San would love nothing more than to have the pleasure of slapping it off his face. “There’s nothing I’m more confident about.”
San has always been a competitive person, but something about Wooyoung seems to bring out the worst in him. Seeing him here now makes him feel vulnerable, like he’s a teen once more, a rookie idol, with a chip on his shoulder and way too much to prove.
“Ok, then.” San stands up, moving to the centre of his living room. “Take me down.”
Wooyoung clucks with disapproval, even though his eyes light up with the challenge. “You really wouldn’t want me to do that.”
“Why?” San goads. “I’m giving you full permission to take me down. If you’re able to.”
Wooyoung’s expression has turned sly, even as he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Well,” he says, making a big show of putting his hands up in surrender. “If you insist, I suppose I could indulge you a little.”
They’re locked in a standstill for a moment, each waiting for the other to attack first. Tension fills every one of San’s muscles, but in contrast, Wooyoung seems completely relaxed. Like this is just another one of his daily chores he has to get done.
San strikes first, aiming a punch at his jaw. But in the years that he’s stopped sparring with Wooyoung, he’s somehow forgotten just how quickly the boy can move. Wooyoung dodges his attack gracefully, before pivoting on his foot and landing a blow directly against the side of San’s ribs.
A full second later, San finds himself flat on his back, the wind knocked completely out of his lungs. His entire body rings from the force of impact.
Wooyoung’s face enters his field of vision. “I told you so,” he says. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his shit-eating grin. “You alright down there?”
“I’m great,” San wheezes. He forces himself to his feet, raising his arms in front of him. “Again.”
“Alright.”
San finds himself flat on the ground in less than five seconds flat. He groans, turning over to his side, folding into himself. Wooyoung offers him a hand up, but San glares at him as if offended, and hauls himself upright by bracing himself against the side of the couch.
He hates many things about Jung Wooyoung from their short time together as sparring rivals, but especially that. No matter how many times Wooyoung defeated him in a competition, he was always the first to put his hand out, offering to pull him to his feet.
San never took it, even when his entire back was bruised and his limbs were aching from the force that is Wooyoung. He has enough pride for that, at least.
“Ok,” San concedes, wheezing. “You win. For now.”
Wooyoung grins, shoving the contract in front of his face in response.
☼
“You traitor.”
San’s sitting in the recording studio with the rest of AURORA, pointing his finger accusingly at Hongjoong, who stares back with an eyebrow raised. The morning light streams in through the window, the bright skies beyond a stark contrast to San’s thunderous mood.
“Explain yourself,” he demands. “You didn’t even try to warn me.”
“You would only have argued with me if I tried,” Hongjoong says, nonchalant. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“No, because you sent a random person to live in my house!”
Yunho clears his throat. “San,” he says quietly, “Wooyoung is sitting right there.”
And he is, which is the most infuriating part. Wooyoung insisted on tagging along with San when he decided to confront Hongjoong in the studio that morning, claiming that it was part of his job to do so. After a bit of bickering, San finally relented. And it didn’t hurt that Wooyoung had offered to drive, which meant that San got to turn up the radio and marinate in his anger like an angsty teen the entire way to work.
All four members of AURORA turn to survey Wooyoung like he’s a specimen in a glass jar. The boy is lounging on one of the chairs in the corner of the room, legs folded over one another, looking like the very picture of suave coolness. He smiles when they all look at him, fully aware that they’re talking about him and enjoying the attention. Wooyoung’s gaze catches on San’s.
The boy has the nerve to wink. It makes San visibly recoil, and he turns away immediately, ignoring the way Wooyoung has to bite his lip to keep from cackling.
“Do you see what I mean?” San hisses at Hongjoong. “He’s fucking weird.”
“Again,” Mingi deadpans. “He’s literally right there.”
Wooyoung waves at them from where he sits. Eventually, he pulls out his phone and entertains himself on it.
A moment later, a ring sounds from San’s phone. When he glances down at, he realises it’s from an unknown number.
You’re breathing really loud. Are you ok?
San wants to stand on his chair and scream.
How did you get my number?
When San glances at Wooyoung, he finds that the bodyguard is already looking at him. He smirks. Guess.
“Just try to ignore him, alright?” Hongjoong says tiredly. “Come on. We should start rehearsing now. Can’t afford to slack off now.”
All members immediately rise to their feet. They really do need to nail this choreo.
AURORA’s been around for quite a few years now, and San’s known his members for even longer. They’ve been touring hard the past year or so, and it’s been a while since they’ve had a comeback. Their next one is scheduled for a month from now, and it’s going to be big. They all know that.
San’s seen his fair share of songs come and go in this industry. Above all, what you need to survive as an idol is consistency and continuity. But sometimes, you come across a song that you just know is bigger than anything you’ve ever put out. A song that’s going to leave its impact. A song that’s going to define AURORA’s career for generations to come.
Everyone has been supremely excited for their next comeback, but tensions have also been running high. With all the preparations in place, their next comeback needs to be nothing short of perfect.
Yunho turns the music on. It seeps into every part of San’s body, and he churns it out into movement with the rest of his members.
Like it’s the only thing that he was born to do.
☼
The only way to combat the terrors of the day is some loud music and a good lifting session.
It’s no secret that San loves working out. Everyone knows it. Everyone sees it. It definitely helps that moving a bunch of heavy weight around makes him look… better than the average human being, but there’s more to it than just that. So, so much more.
Being able to push his body to the limits of its physical abilities, and then some, is immensely enjoyable to him. Each movement, loaded with power, is a form of tangible poetry that San understands with utter innateness. And nothing compares to the high that comes from the satisfaction of having completed a challenging thing.
He loses track of time while he’s in there, and the next thing he knows, the sun has already started to set, and his muscles have been reduced to jelly. He grabs a towel off a shelf, slinging it across his shoulders before heading to the kitchen for a cup of iced water from his fridge.
It’s become a routine at this point for him. Gym, takeout, Netflix. There’s no better way to end his day. He’s not that big on cooking, for the simple reason that it would probably be a fire hazard for himself and everyone else in the building.
But when he opens the door, he’s met with a mouthwatering scent that makes his stomach start to rumble. It’s a familiar scent — rich spices, hearty meat, the slight tang of something fermented. Kimchi jiggae.
San can’t help following the scent. It’s been so long since he’s eaten homemade food.
He ends up in the kitchen, where Wooyoung is serving himself a generous bowl of kimchi stew from a large pot that’s sitting on the stove.
“I just made us some dinner,” Wooyoung says without even turning to look at him. “Come help yourself.”
The sight of nerdy, chaotic, jokester Wooyoung cooking, and cooking well at that, is so shocking to San that he blurts out, “Since when could you cook?”
Wooyoung smiles, amused. “Since I was in high school? I like cooking.”
“Oh.” San glances into the pot, where the stew bubbles, topped with blocks of tofu, slices of meat, and garnished with green and red chillies. It could honestly have passed for something served in a proper restaurant.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, but he’s smiling like he’s proud to have been able to surprise him. “‘Oh.’”
“How’d you get the ingredients for it?” San never keeps groceries in the house. Since he doesn’t cook, anything fresh that he buys tends to go bad waiting around for him to use it, for the ‘one days’ that never seem to descend upon him. His fridge is so poorly stocked that he’s embarrassed for any of his guests to peek inside.
But upon opening the fridge door, he’s surprised to find that it’s been stuffed full of groceries — leafy greens, fresh fruit, plastic packages of meat, and tubs of ice cream. San stares at them. “When did you even buy them?”
Wooyoung glances over. “Bought them online and had them delivered. Hongjoong gave me a grocery fund.”
“That’s…” San trails off. He’s not sure what to make of this strange boy standing before him. None of the bodyguards he’s had in the past have acted even remotely like Wooyoung is acting now. They sure as hell didn’t cook for him. “Sure.”
The side of Wooyoung’s lip quirks upwards, but then he’s striding back towards the room he’s chosen for his own with his large bowl in hand. “Night, San,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He doesn’t wait for San’s response before shutting the door firmly behind him.
San’s brain is still whirling, trying to comprehend what just happened. This is, by far, the strangest day that he’s ever had in a long, long, time.
☼
As it turns out, living with Wooyoung takes more than the average amount of adjustment.
It would help if San weren’t so unnerved by his mere presence, but he finds himself constantly on edge. He’s known Wooyoung for a long time, but it’s a different thing entirely to be living together with him. The constant proximity makes him feel extremely vulnerable.
Wooyoung, as a rule of thumb, exists loudly. From the songs that he sings while doing his laundry, to the sound of his footsteps on the carpet as he dances around the house, to the way he laughs with his mother on the phone, San can’t help but be surrounded by his sounds every day.
He’s never really thought himself to be a stickler for cleanliness, but compared to Wooyoung, he’s basically a domestic goddess. Simply cleaning up after Wooyoung seems to be a full time job in itself.
It’s easy to spot where Wooyoung is in his house just by following the trail of things left in his wake. From pens to socks to coffee mugs, the rumple of pillows from both his bed and the living room sofa. San could spend a whole day chasing after him with a vacuum, sucking up every last one of the beautiful hairs that he sheds, curling delicately on San’s marble floors.
And Wooyoung would of course be watching from the couch with a bag of San’s snacks in hand, lifting his feet obediently when San sweeps the vacuum under the seats. “You missed a spot,” He likes to say, pointing at a corner San knows he just went over, but Wooyoung always seems to run before San can hit him with his feather duster.
San makes a mental note to book an appointment with a therapist as soon as possible. And perhaps also the dentist. Grinding his teeth every day in frustration must not be good for him at all.
But it’s fine. This is fine! San has his comeback to concentrate on, and he throws himself into each rehearsal like his life is on the line.
He tries not to let it get to his head, but his frustration grows denser with every single exchange. San spends most of his time out of work in the gym, his headphones clamped tight over his ears. He sleeps more, just to avoid Wooyoung. Hell, he even downloads a meditation app.
It doesn’t help, of course. He finds himself rearing for a fight, just to get some of his pent-up energy out. But the last time they fought, it didn’t turn out well, so that isn’t a feasible outlet for him either.
“How do you live like this?” Wooyoung asks him one morning. San’s making himself an extra-strong cup of coffee in his fancy machine, inserting the pod and tapping on the buttons while Wooyoung watches from the island in the centre of the kitchen.
His morning cup of coffee is sacred to him, especially before long days of rehearsal, like the one that he has in just a couple short hours. He pretty much can’t function without it, so the routine is nothing short of ritual. As the spout of the machine starts to pour, the thick, rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeate the air.
“Like what?” San asks. His voice is still rough with sleep. Nobody should be forced to partake in such idle conversation before noon.
Wooyoung gestures around his house. “This. Look at this place.”
“What’s wrong with it?” San glances around. “It’s clean. Minimalist.”
“You live in a fucking IKEA catalogue,” Wooyoung says bluntly. “There’s no soul to it.”
San has to bite back his immediate instinct to defend himself, but it’s in that statement that he recognises the tiny foothold he has in getting rid of Wooyoung for good. It’s a far cry, but still. Desperate times, and all that.
“Well,” he says hopefully. “If you hate it here so much, you could always just leave.”
“I could,” Wooyoung agrees, and San’s naive, naive heart soars for a fraction of a second. “But I could also get rid of that awful painting of a mountain. Honestly, San, a mountain? How on the nose can you be?”
San’s hopes crash and burn. It was a good attempt. But as he opens his mouth to defend himself and his taste in decor, the coffee machine goes off, signalling that his perfect cup of coffee is ready. He can’t help but perk up at the sound. This is what he needs. This is what he deserves.
But before he can even react, Wooyoung swoops in to grab it, his fingers as quick as lightning.
“Mmm,” Wooyoung says, taking a sip as San watches in horror. “At least your taste in coffee is leagues ahead of your taste in decor.” He smacks his lips together, thinking. “But it could really use some sugar.”
San’s eye twitches as he glares at Wooyoung. If looks could kill, Wooyoung would spontaneously combust right this second. “You better drink that fast before I go over there and throttle you.”
☼
Even after being fuelled by his (second) perfectly brewed cup of coffee, practice goes terribly.
Nothing goes right. San and his members keep bumping into each other, forgetting their cues, losing their balance. Eventually, Hongjoong pauses the music, breathing hard, his bangs glued to his forehead with perspiration.
“I think we should call it a day,” he says. “I don’t think we can progress much at this stage. And we’re all exhausted already.”
It’s true. Mingi and Yunho are crumpled together into a heap on the ground, while San braces himself against the side of the wall, pressing his hands to his knees. They nod and let Hongjoong take his leave first instead of waiting for them all like he usually does.
Their captain is under a lot of pressure right now. Nobody is holding it against him.
Mingi and Yunho eventually rise to their feet, making plans to head out to grab some food. “You coming, San?” Yunho asks, somehow managing to muster a smile.
Yunho is the kind of person who always thinks of everyone. If you could capture sunshine in a bottle, that would be Yunho.
“You guys go ahead,” San says. “I’m going to stay for a while. Just mark the steps a little bit.”
Mingi raises his eyebrows. “What, like we haven’t been doing that all day?”
If you could put shit in a bottle, that would be Mingi.
“Don’t stay too late, then,” he adds.
“And don’t forget to switch the lights off when you’re done!” Yunho adds.
“Ok,” San says. “I’ll see you guys later.”
He has no idea how long he spends in the studio.
San gets into this little zone whenever he’s practising, so completely absorbed in what he’s doing that his perception of time gets warped completely. It isn’t until the music suddenly shuts off that San realises just how heavy his limbs feel.
He whips his head around. “Hey!”
Wooyoung stands next to the speaker, holding the end of the cord like a lasso. He points it at him accusingly. “You’ve been here for almost three hours.”
“And?”
“You were here another three hours with your members. You’re exhausted,” Wooyoung says. “You need to stop before you actually injure yourself.”
San glances at the clock. It’s already late afternoon, golden light streaming in through the single window near the corner of the studio. He hasn’t stopped to eat the entire day, apart from the single cup of coffee he’d grabbed on the way to work.
It’s amazing what you can make your body do when you lose all regard for it, whether consciously or unconsciously.
He doesn’t bother trying to put up a fight. Not when he and Wooyoung both know that he’s right. “Ok.”
“You’re agreeing with me? Just like that?” Wooyoung asks incredulously. “Now I know you’re really not ok.”
San takes a long draught from his water bottle. “Let’s just go home. You can nag at me more on the way there.”
☼
Five years ago
“You’re up early.”
The sun hadn’t even begun to rise yet, but San was already in the studio, warming up to get in some extra training hours. It’s a special kind of terrible to be awake when it still looked like the middle of the night, but it would be worth it if it meant being able to finally beat Wooyoung after five years of having his ass handed to him.
And it was supposed to be his special time training. Alone. So why the fuck was Wooyoung leaning against the door of the studio with a smirk on his face?
San straightened up. “And you’re up late.”
Wooyoung was terrible when it came to early wake up calls. He was wearing a loose white shirt and grey sweats, and San would have wagered that he was just getting ready for bed before he heard San in the studio.
“How’s your ankle?” Wooyoung asked. “You shouldn’t be training if it’s still acting up.”
On reflex, San rolled his foot gingerly, which had recently just healed after a minor injury during a competition. He hadn’t been out of action for that long, but was already itching to be back.
“What does it matter to you?” San snapped, more out of instinct than anything.
“What, can’t a fellow competitor show some concern?”
“Not if it isn’t warranted.”
Wooyoung smiled, his dimples flashing. “Maybe I’m just excited at the prospect of sparring with you again.”
“Well, I sure as hell am getting sick of it.”
“Already? I thought we were just getting started.”
“We’ve been sparring for five whole years, Wooyoung.”
“And yet you’ve yet to win a single time in those five years,” Wooyoung all but purred. “You plan on doing that anytime soon?”
Oh Wooyoung, San thinks. You have no fucking idea.