Chapter Text
“And I heard about the twister
That lives inside your heart
If you speak, then I would move
Then I would run right where you are”
⸺⸺⸺⸺
i.
It’s midnight by the time they get back to their Airbnb.
It’s thirty minutes past by the time half of them settle into their beds.
Wooyoung only gets about an hour of sleep before his and Yunho’s bedroom door creaks open for the first time.
The light from the hallway hits him first—a perfect stream of light that shines right in the face. Wooyoung isn’t a heavy sleeper. He never has been. So he feels it when the pitch black of the room is disrupted by the monstrosity that is the white hallway light cutting through.
He winces and throws his arm over eyes. It does the job.
But then he hears it.
“Wooyoungie…” A deep voice. Unmistakable and clear as day.
Wooyoung tries not to groan. He really does try. But Mingi doesn’t even sound like he’s tried to go to bed. He sounds far too conscious for that to have been the case.
Wooyoung throws his arm down. The light is harsher when he cracks his eyes open. And there he is. Silhouetted in the doorway, a blanket gripped in one hand while the other still rests on the door handle: Mingi.
He’s at least had the dignity to pretend he was trying to go to sleep earlier and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. But he has this unrumpled look to him. Like he lied down for a moment or two—perhaps tossed around a bit to make it believable—before he decided to do what he’s about to do.
Because Wooyoung knows. He knows what he’s about to ask. The shy smile he can just make out against the light that pours in around Mingi’s frame tells him as much.
Mingi clears his throat.
Wooyoung doesn't give him the chance. He really doesn’t want to do this tonight. He doesn't want to play this game with Mingi. The one where Mingi pretends he’s fine with their sleeping arrangments—the same arrangements they’ve had since the beginning of this branch of the tour—and then decides after everyone has settled in for the night that he doesn’t want to sleep there.
The blankets are too stiff. The pillow is too soft. Hongjoong is snoring. The air conditioning is too strong on his side of the bed. You name it, Mingi has probably used it as an excuse to drag Wooyoung out of bed so he can sleep with Yunho.
You’d think he’d be more subtle about it.
“Wooyoungie, can we —”
Wooyoung actually groans. He can’t hold it this time. It slips out before he can stop it.
And then he rolls over. Scoots until he can feel the heat radiating off of Yunho’s back and presses his forehead between his shoulder blades. Yunho lets out a small noise in his sleep, and Wooyoung smooths his hand over his hip. The tension in Yunho’s back releases. He leans back into Wooyoung unconsciously.
Wooyoung can practically hear the moment Mingi frowns. The blanket in his hand falls to the ground.
Wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut. If I hide and pretend he’s not there, he’ll go away…
And he waits.
Mingi stands there for about thirty seconds before Wooyoung hears him pull the door shut. It clicks, but Wooyoung has to check that he’s gone first. He opens his eyes and peers over his shoulder.
Yep. Gone.
He smirks and pulls Yunho closer, wrapping his arm properly around his waist.
The bed is much warmer on this side. Wooyoung loves it. It reminds him of sleeping with San. His personal heater.
Wooyoung rearranges the blanket around himself and Yunho and closes his eyes. The heat wraps around him, and he can almost pretend it is San. Pretending makes it easier to cope with the fact that he knows he’s just down the hall with Seonghwa, arms wrapped tight around whatever his sleepaddled brain thinks to pull closer. Wooyoung wishes it were him.
God, he wishes it were him.
Sleep weighs heavy on his shoulders. It pulls at the edges of his thoughts, scattering images of a sleepy San blinking softly at him throughout his subconscious.
And that’s when he hears it again. The door. The creak as the hinges protest against the opening. The light that floods in around it. The soft thud as it bounces against the wall from opening too fast for whoever opened it to stop the momentum.
It pulls Wooyoung from the precipice of sleep with a violent yank. A sound akin to a whine rips from his throat.
“Yah! Song Mingi, go away,” he curses.
Yunho stirs. Wooyoung buries his face further between his shoulders.
A hand rests on his shoulder. Wooyoung startles.
He’s prepared to curse Mingi out, when—
“Young-ah.”
Seonghwa kneels beside him on the bed. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his hair is mussed in a way that only a shower will fix. Wooyoung leans back. Mingi, again, stands at the door. This time, he steps further into the room. His blanket is back in hand. His shy smile from earlier is replaced with something more smug.
Wooyoung narrows his eyes but looks back at Seonghwa with more patience.
Seonghwa’s hand on his shoulder shifts to take Wooyoung’s hand. His eyes close. He tries to smile. “Take my room.”
Wooyoung freezes.
Seonghwa continues. “You take mine. Mingi takes yours. I’ll take Mingi’s.” He sighs. “Problem solved.”
It’s perfect. Truly. The perfect solution. Mingi gets what he wants—Yunho. Seonghwa gets to pretend like he’s helping their situation instead of getting exactly what he wants—Hongjoong. And Wooyoung… Wooyoung would get San.
Except—
“No,” Wooyoung spits out. “Let me sleep.”
Mingi gapes. Seonghwa practically has to hold back the urge to slap his forehead.
Wooyoung rolls back over and is met with a faceful of Yunho’s shoulder. His nose hits hard against a protruding bone. He yelps.
He jerks backwards and lands in Seonghwa’s lap.
Yunho blinks. Then blinks again. He squints against the light, but his eyes trail from Wooyoung, to Seonghwa, and then, finally, to Mingi. And, in an instant, it’s like Wooyoung didn’t even exist.
Yunho smiles softly, and his hand raises slightly off the bed. It’s barely a gesture. But Yunho knows what he’s doing, and Mingi takes it as an invitation.
Yunho scoots closer to the center of the bed, making space on his side for Mingi to fit. But, even then, there isn’t enough room. Mingi pauses at the end of the bed and fixes Wooyoung with a look that can only mean one thing.
Wooyoung sighs. “I hate you.”
Seonghwa takes the cue and stands. Wooyoung throws the blankets off himself with force and follows after Seonghwa.
Mingi crawls over Yunho and settles into the space Wooyoung vacated. Yunho wraps him in his embrace, his fingers finding purchase at the back of Mingi’s head. Mingi sighs so heavily his body shudders from the force of it. The tension leaves his body in seconds, his head coming to rest perfectly in the curve of Yunho’s neck.
Wooyoung scoffs, but there’s no real malice behind it. Seonghwa pats his shoulder gently and guides him into the hall. Wooyoung shuts the door behind them.
The light is even worse standing directly under the bulbs. He squints. Seonghwa looks even worse for wear than he did when Wooyoung could only see his silhouette. The bags under his eyes are prominent and remnants of his stage makeup still cling to his lashline like he’d been too tired to take it off completely. He, too, winces when he tries to open his eyes more under the light.
Wooyoung clears his throat.
“Hyung, you don’t have to trade me rooms,” he says, voice low. “I’ll go with Hongjoong-ah. It’s fine.”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “No, go to San.”
Wooyoung opens his mouth. Seonghwa cuts him off.
“He asked to trade rooms with Yunho first.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“Earlier today,” Seonghwa lowers his voice, “San asked Yunho to trade rooms. He said no because Mingi only knew that he was in this room.” A gentle smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “He pouted the entire time he was getting ready for bed.”
Wooyoung’s heart skipps a beat. He wrings his hands in front of him. “Oh…”
“He’ll sleep better if he doesn’t have to cuddle a pillow the whole night.”
Wooyoung looks up. A weak laugh slips from him. “I thought he’d try to hold you.”
Seonghwa looks at him for a long time. His smile is still soft, but his eyes are far too knowing. Wooyoung feels the weight of his gaze in the pit of his stomach, like rocks sitting at the bottom of a bag. He doesn’t… he doesn’t know what to do with a look like that.
Finally—
“He only does that with you.”
Oh.
Seonghwa doesn’t give him the chance to respond—doesn’t even give him a second to digest what he said. He just reaches out, pats Wooyoung on the arm, and starts down the hall. Hongjoong and Mingi’s room was on the opposite side of the house, so when Seonghwa turns the corner, Wooyoung knows he won’t see him again until morning.
San’s room is ten paces down the hallway. His door and Wooyoung’s are separated only by a bathroom at the center of the hall. He is a handful of steps away.
Wooyoung swallows hard. Then he pushes forward.
San’s bedroom door doesn’t creak when it opens and Wooyoung slips inside. The room is almost a perfect mirror of Wooyoung and Yunho’s. The bed at the center is large, flanked on either side by short, wooden nightstands. On one side is a glass of water and a digital clock. On the other is a pair of glasses Wooyoung recognizes as Sans spares. Seonghwa’s luggage is neatly tucked to the side of the room while San’s overflows on a chaise by the window.
And San? San is nothing but a small ball curled up by the edge of the bed that’s closest to the door, the blanket pulled up so high the top of his head is just barely visible. He looks so small like that. So unbelievably cute.
Wooyoung can’t fight his smile. He pushes the door closed. The light from the hallway cuts off and the room is plunged back into darkness. There’s a slight crack in the blinds that lets in a little bit of moonlight, and it’s enough that Wooyoung is able to navigate to the other side of the bed.
The blankets are still pulled back, so he slides in. The sheets are warm from Seonghwa’s body heat. Wooyoung settles in, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He lies facing San.
He thinks he might wake up, that he might recognize it isn’t Seonghwa that came back to bed but Wooyoung himself. That, subconsciously, he’ll just know. And he’ll roll over and smile that soft smile (the one where his dimples show and his eyes squint so much you’d think he’d closed them), and he’d pull Wooyoung into his arms and press a kiss to his cheek. They’d fall asleep like that and wake up having not moved an inch because it was enough just to have been there with each other.
But San is a deep sleeper. He probably didn’t even wake up when Mingi came in asking for Seonghwa, so he couldn’t expect him to have woken up when Wooyoung came back instead, silent as a mouse.
He isn’t disappointed. He’s really not.
He just… he only moves a bit closer, just enough to bridge the large gap that exists between them. It’s not a lot. It’s just enough for Wooyoung to reach out if he wanted to. And he wants to. His hand creeps across the space. His fingers meet the fabric of San’s sweatshirt. He applies only the tiniest amount of pressure.
Nothing. Not even a sound.
San is dead to the world. It almost makes him laugh.
He bites his lip. Then he lets his hand drop. It lands with a soft thud against the mattress. He keeps it there even as his eyes start to droop shut. And it stays there even after he falls asleep.
ii.
The first time Wooyoung wakes throughout the night is when San wakes up. It happens for a split second when the bed shifts under his weight as he stands. Wooyoung doesn’t truly register that he was awake, he merely felt the movement, and after it settled, he fell back to sleep.
He wakes up the second time when San returns only minutes after he left.
His back is turned, but he hears the door open, the soft padding of San’s bare feet as he crosses the floor. He feels the shift of the mattress as San sits on the edge. He stalls there for a moment, perhaps checking the time on his phone, before he gets back under the blankets. He doesn’t get comfortable for a while. Wooyoung hears him shifting, tossing and turning from side to side, lying on his back before deciding to flip onto his stomach. Finally, he flips back onto his back.
Wooyoung hears him sigh. He messes with the blankets a bit, and the movement pulls Wooyoung’s corner down over his head. The cold air hits the back of his neck, and he shivers, lets out a whine that sounds lame even to his own ears.
But it makes San freeze. Wooyoung tries to pull the blanket back up, refusing to open his eyes in the process. His pulls are met with resistance. Then the bed shakes. The mattress dips behind him. A wall of heat presses in.
A hand pulls incessantly at his shoulder until he lets himself be rolled onto his back. And then San’s just there. His chest presses against Wooyoung's shoulder, his hand trails up his arm to his neck, then to his cheek, to his forehead, pushing his hair back out of his face. Then it’s back down again, his thumb passing back and forth across his cheekbone.
It’s gentle. It’s soft. It’s San.
Wooyoung cracks one eye open. He’s trying to be inconspicuous. Really, he is. But San is right there. His face is closer than Wooyoung is expecting, and his dimples are showing. The sight sends a jolt of pure affection stabbing into Wooyoung’s chest like a knife. He can’t handle this. Not when San is looking at him like that—like he can’t believe he’s actually there.
Wooyoung grunts. He swings his arm up and turns into San at the same time. He practically winds himself around him, arm around his neck, legs tangling together. San’s front presses against his. He can’t tell whose heartbeat he feels pounding against his chest—his or San’s—but its thumps are strong and rhythmic. He closes his eyes and revels in it.
San inhales. His head falls into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, nose pressed into the hollow of his throat. His breath ghosts against his skin where the stretched neckline of his shirt exposes his collarbone. Goosebumps form almost instantaneously. Wooyoung can only be happy it’s too dark for San to see it.
San’s arms come up around his waist, and he pulls him in tight. What little space was between them moments ago disappears in an instant. Wooyoung readjusts his hold. His palm finds the back of San’s head, his fingers thread through his hair with an easy glide. With his other hand, he rakes his nails up and down the length of San’s back. San exhales hard, the breath stuttering out of him like he’d been holding it in.
Wooyoung's face rests against the top of San’s head. He turns his head a fraction to the right. His lips rest against San’s temple. He doesn’t purse them. He just rests there. An almost kiss. The potential is there, but he lets it remain.
San whispers something that Wooyoung can’t hear, but he feels the words against his throat. He feels the timbre of his voice vibrate through his whole body. It sends a shiver down his spine. San must feel the shake as it courses through his back, because he smooths his palm up and down Wooyoung’s back.
The motion bunches Wooyoung’s shirt further and further up, exposing more and more skin the more San continues. Then he feels it. San’s pinkie brushes skin. Wooyoung jolts, careening further into San’s arms.
“San-ah,” he scolds, lips brushing San’s temple, “go to sleep.”
San hums. But Wooyoung can still feel him. His pinkie trails the length of his spine San can reach without moving his hand.
Wooyoung tightens his hand in his hair. San has grown too bold for his own good. He huffs a breathy laugh. San’s hair brushes against his cheek.
And then San’s hand is sliding underneath Wooyoung’s shirt. (Oh, and it’s so much worse. It’s so much worse than he ever could have imagined.) It goes all the way up. San’s hand pressed flush to his skin, following the dip in his lower back all the way up his spine, between his shoulder blades. It’s at the base of his skull that San stops. He grips the back of his neck. Once. Then again a second time. Testing.
The tips of his fingers press down, meeting tensed muscle that doesn’t give under the pressure. Wooyoung gasps. His fingers grip San’s hair tighter. The other man grunts. It’s too tight. Wooyoung releases him slightly, but San’s fingers don’t relent. They press deeper.
This has to stop, Wooyoung thinks. His other hand grips the back of San’s hoodie.
“Sannie.” It sounds too breathy. Wooyoung can’t help it.
When San speaks this time, Wooyoung can actually make out what he says.
“You should’ve been here earlier.”
Wooyoung can hear the pout in his voice. He’s going to make fun of him for it, but those fingers move down an inch and push into another knot and he loses whatever thought he’d just had. This one is worse. It hurts. He keens, and tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes.
He chokes out, “Blame Mingi.” San presses down again. The sound he makes this time is closer to a moan. He forces out the next words before the embarrassment can hit him. “He could have asked to switch before we went to sleep.”
San’s hand slides lower. His fingers explore the expanse of his back, from one shoulder blade to the other, searching.
Wooyoung buries his nose in his hair. When he takes in the smell of him, his scent carries traces of Wooyoung’s own shampoo. His brows furrow. He opens his mouth, but San beats him to it.
“Where did Seonghwa go?”
Wooyoung won’t ask. “To be with Hongjoong.”
San huffs. “Good.”
Wooyoung laughs.
San tilts his chin up slightly, his nose dragging along the column of Wooyoung's throat. He breathes in. He tries to be inconspicuous about it, Wooyoung is sure of it, but he can feel the rush of air against his skin and the slight brush of San’s lips at the base of his throat. He swallows the spit that gathers in his mouth.
San freezes.
“San-ah?” Wooyoung’s voice isn’t any louder than a whisper.
San shifts backward, his hand pulling free from Wooyoung’s shirt. (Wooyoung misses the warmth of it immediately). His hand moves around to the front and grips the fabric tight. He lifts it to his face and takes another deep breath.
Wooyoung tightens his grip on San’s hair and tugs. “Stop sniffing me.”
San lifts his head. He’s already pouting, his bottom lip puffed out and pink. His brows are furrowed, and the moonlight shining in through the gap in the curtain catches in his eyes. Wooyoung can still see their dark brown in the dark. His mouth quirks up at the corner, but before it can form into a full smile, San releases his shirt. “Did you cuddle with Yunho?”
Wooyoung frowns. “What?”
San sniffs. “Did you?”
“A little bit,” Wooyoung answers. He adjusts his grip on San’s back, attempting to pull him back to him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he releases his hold on San’s hair and smooths his thumb over the exposed skin behind his ear. If it were possible, San’s pout deepens. His bottom lip sticks out further. “But only after Mingi came in. It was less than five minutes.”
San moves again, onto his back. Wooyoung loses his hold on his back, so he places his hand on San’s chest. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, but keeps rubbing the back of San’s head with his other hand. It’s an awkward angle—he kind of has to lift up, propping himself on his elbow to remain upright. San’s other arm is pinned beneath Wooyoung’s weight, but he doesn’t have any plans on moving just to allow San to pull away. Not when he has that familiar look in his eye. That look that screams jealousy.
“San-ah…”
San blinks up at the ceiling. “Can you take it off?” he asks.
Wooyoung balks. “Take what off?”
“Your shirt,” San says. He looks down at the offending article of clothing like it’s had the audacity to insult his entire bloodline. “It smells like Yunho.”
“It is Yunho’s.” Wooyoung scoffs. It was their last night in this particular city, and he’d run out of clean shirts. The one he’d changed into after their performance smelled of dried sweat and the bottle of micellar water that spilled in his bag. Yunho had a spare. Sue him!
San’s expression morphs from a pout to an even more prominent frown in a matter of seconds. It almost makes him laugh. San’s eyes dart down to the stretched collar of the shirt, to the length of it as it disappears under the covers down Wooyoung’s torso.
“Young-ah…” San whines, his voice pitching up at the end.
Wooyoung smiles despite himself. He scoots closer to San, winding his arm behind his neck. He’s practically on top of him now. San, despite himself, wraps his arm around Wooyoung's waist. He bypasses touching Yunho’s shirt entirely, though. He slides his hand back under, his palm coming to rest on Wooyoung’s waist.
“I don’t have anything to change into,” Wooyoung says. He reaches up and pokes San’s cheek with his index finger. “And I won’t go back to my room to find something. All my clothes are dirty.”
San thinks for a long time. His gaze still doesn’t leave the shirt. Then—
“You can have one of mine.”
Wooyoung tries, “It’s really not—”
“No, take one of mine,” San says. “Actually—” He props himself up against the headrest, and he pulls Wooyoung with him. San urges him to move back once they’re up. He does, and in a swift motion, San reaches down and pulls his hoodie and the t-shirt he wore underneath off in one go.
Wooyoung’s jaw drops. There’s no way, he thinks.
But San untangles the two articles and pushes his shirt into Wooyoung’s hands. In the next second, he pulls his hoodie back on and wiggles back down the mattress until he’s under the covers, the blanket pulled up to his chest. It bunches around Wooyoung’s waist.
“You can’t be serious,” he says.
San looks up at him, his eyes bright. His pout is gone and the look that replaces it is more smug. He’s trying not to smile. Wooyoung can see it in the way the corner of his mouth is taut. Something warm settles in the pit of his stomach. San reaches over and pinches the hem of Yunho’s shirt between his fingers. He pulls it up just enough to expose the waistband of his sweats. San gaze flits from Wooyoung’s face, down to the shirt he now holds in his hands, and back up again.
Wooyoung sighs. He bats San’s hand away—which San allows with a smile growing on his face—and grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in quick movements. He tosses Yunho’s shirt to the side. It lands somewhere at the end of the bed. He puts on San’s shirt. It’s one of his older ones, the fabric threadbare and the sleeves and neckline stretched out from consistent wear and tear. It’s large on his frame just as Yunho’s had been, but it must have been a perfect fit on San.
And it’s warm.
Wooyoung runs his fingers through his hair, flattening the unruly strands that stood on end. San lifts the blankets, and Wooyoung slides back in. He falls into San’s side with a huff. His chin is level with San’s chest, and he rests it there as San returns his arm to his waist.
“Are you happy, now?” he asks. He grabs San’s face in hand, fingers digging into both cheeks.
“Yes,” San says, his words slurred through the pucker of his lips. Wooyoung can feel his dimples.
Wooyoung doesn’t know what compelled him to do it. Maybe because of the proximity. Maybe because it’s been brewing under his skin for years. Maybe because San was jealous, and Wooyoung never really knows what to do with that when he’s on the receiving end.
He kisses him.
It’s quick. A gentle brush that lands directly on San’s mouth. It lasts a second—maybe two—before he pulls back. Eyes wide. His heart in his throat.
And, just like that, he’s ruined it.
They’ve always had these lines they never crossed. They never talk about how strange the nature of their relationship is in comparison to the rest of their members or to their respective friends. They never address the countless rumors surrounding the way they act with each other—far too familiar with each other's bodies and far too comfortable displaying their affections in a decidedly less than platonic manner.
They never talk about how San can’t hide his jealousy when it comes to Wooyoung. And they never talked about how Wooyoung is too clingy when it comes to San.
They certainly never talk about the amount of times a stray kiss on the check landed too close to the other's mouth.
But now… there is no pretending in this situation. There’s no ignoring that Wooyoung has just crossed that line between not quite lovers or just friends. A line they’ve been toeing since just after their debut years ago. In that, they’re no better than Hongjoong and Seonghwa. But they’ve never kissed. Not like this. Not even when there were times San would look at him like he held his whole world in the palm of his hand. Not even when Wooyoung would press their faces close, practically begging San to make the first move. To close the distance. Cross that divide.
But it never happened. They just went about their lives, pressing close and pulling away within the same minute, leaving a constant pit in Wooyoung’s stomach and bile crawling up his throat when it didn’t last long enough.
Wooyoung lets him go, his hand falling away in the same second he springs upright. He covers his mouth with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “Sannie, I’m sorry.”
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
San hasn’t moved. Even though Wooyoung let him go, his lips are still pursed. He hadn’t stopped his arm from falling from Wooyoung’s waist when he sat up, and he doesn’t stop him now as he scrambles backwards. His eyes aren’t quite closed, but he isn’t looking at him either. He looks… Oh.
Another apology dies on his tongue.
He’s smiling.
Wooyoung freezes with one leg off the side of the bed, his foot hovers over the floor. He was ready to run. He would’ve shoved himself between Mingi and Yunho to escape, he doesn’t care. He’d suffer through Mingi shoving his elbow into his ribs if only San wouldn’t look at him any differently.
But… he’s smiling.
And Wooyoung… Wooyoung could cry. Because why is he smiling?
Then he’s looking at him and that smile wobbles. Because that’s really all it takes is one look at Wooyoung’s face and it’s like San is reading every thought he’s ever had. And he must not like what he sees because his smile really does drop then.
“Wooyoungie?” His voice is softer than Wooyoung has ever heard it.
He crumples.
He drops off the side of the bed, knees colliding with the hardwood without a care for the bruises it is likely to cause. He practically folds in half, forehead pressed to the ground. The cold wood soothes the flush blooming over his face, but it does nothing to stop the tears that cloud his vision. “I’m sorry,” he forces out. He can’t know for sure if San is able to hear him, but he says it again. And again.
His third attempt is cut off. Hands slide under his armpits, and then San is lifting his body off the floor and into his lap. He lands heavy, entirely too surprised to prepare for his landing on top of San’s thighs. He doesn’t have time to recover either. San slides his hands from his sides and frames his face in both hands. It’s gentle but firm.
It’s too much.
Wooyoung sucks in a shaky breath. San leans in. He catches him on the exhale.
Their second kiss is less clumsy, more certain. It’s not on a whim. San presses his mouth to Wooyoung’s like it’s the most he’s ever been certain of doing something in his entire life. He catches Wooyoung’s bottom lip between his.
His lips are slightly chapped. Wooyoung didn’t realize that the first time. It happened too fast.
Wooyoung pulls back. His eyes snap open. San chases after him. Wooyoung turns his head to the side. San’s lips land on his cheek. He doesn’t seem phased. He presses another kiss to Wooyoung’s cheekbone. He adjusts his hold on Wooyoung’s face and presses another one to his jaw. Then another to the corner of his mouth.
He stops there and leans back. His thumb grazes Wooyoung’s bottom lip. Wooyoung shivers. He grabs a hold of the front of San’s hoodie. The fabric twists in his grip.
San’s eyes meet his own. “I’ve wanted you to do that for ages,” he confesses. They’re so close, Wooyoung feels the words vibrate in his chest. The warmth it brings spreads throughout his abdomen.
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whispers.
San’s brows furrow. “Why?”
Wooyoung sways forward. His nose bumps against the side of San’s. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.
San shrugs. “That’s fine.” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. Wooyoung watches it happen. He can’t tear his eyes away. “I was willing to wait.”
That does the trick.
Wooyoung meets San’s gaze again.
San continues, “You seemed so embarrassed after you told me how you felt.” Pause. He did what? “You turned away the first time I tried to kiss you. And I thought—I thought I was rushing you. That you wanted to take things slow… But I really… Wooyoungie, I really want to kiss you.” Sam’s breath fans across his face. He’s leaned in further without meaning to. Their lips are inches from touching. “I’ve always wanted to kiss you.”
“San-ah…” Wooyoung sighs. He feels a painful squeeze in his chest. He reaches up and takes San’s hands in his, pulling them away from his face. He rests his forehead against San’s. “What are you talking about?”
San is blurry. Being so close together, Wooyoung can’t focus his eyes. But he can see the moment San’s face drops.
“What—” San stops himself. He tries to smile—to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. He swallows loudly. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t—” Wooyoung leans back. He needs to see San’s face or he might cry. Hell, he might cry anyway with the way San’s eyebrows pinch together. His eyes are too bright for the look of hurt on his face. “I didn’t confess to you.”
San is already shaking his head. “Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t,” Wooyoung says. He would remember if he did. That’s not something he would forget in a million years.
San shrugs his hold off. His hands grab Wooyoung’s face. His eyes grow wide. There’s an urgency there.
“You did,” San insists. “In March—” That was three months ago. What did he say three months ago? “—when you and Yeosang got drunk at your place. You called me! You told me to come get you, because Yeosang fell asleep in your bed and you couldn’t get comfortable. We went back to mine—”
“And we drank some more,” Wooyoung finishes for him. “Sannie, you were hardly lucid by the end of the night. You couldn’t keep your eyes open.”
San barrels on. “I remember it! You were lying right next to me. My eyes were closed, but I was awake. I thought you knew I was awake.” The panic is growing in his tone. “You said it. You said you loved me.”
Fuck.
He did. He had. He just didn’t think San heard him. He thought he was too drunk. That he’d passed out from the alcohol.
“I said it back.” San’s voice cracks. The sound is like a jab to Wooyoung’s gut. “I thought—” Tears are welling in his eyes. His voice wobbles when he says, “I thought you heard me say it back.”
Wooyoung hadn’t heard a thing. How had he not heard?
They’d been lying side by side on San’s bed. San had rolled over onto his stomach, one arm thrown across Wooyoung’s stomach. His eyes were closed and his breathing had evened out, so Wooyoung had thought… He thought he was asleep! And he thought he was drunk. Too drunk to remember if he said the words aloud. The very words that had been resting on the tip of his tongue.
So, he’d said it. He spoke it into the quiet of the night. The softest, “I love you,” he’s ever managed. He had reached up and stroked the side of San’s head, tugging gently at his earlobe when his hand trailed down to his jaw. And he’d said it again. “I love you so much, Sannie.”
And if San had responded, he hadn’t heard it.
Wooyoung can’t stand it. He reaches out and smoothes San’s hair back from his forehead. He leans up and presses a gentle kiss to the skin there. San’s face is warm under his lips. There, he whispers, “I’m sorry.” He swallows. His throat clicks painfully. “I didn’t hear you.”
A breath leaves San in a rush, like it was ripped from his lungs. “No,” he bites out. A tear escapes his waterline. Wooyoung catches it on his thumb. “No! We— we’re together. We’ve been together.” San pulls Wooyoung face down and meets him on eye level. The devastation that greets him on San’s face makes it worse. Seeing it makes it painful beyond words. “I love you.”
Wooyoung can’t control it when his face crumples. The sob that rips from his throat is guttural and ugly.
How hadn’t he seen it? How hadn’t San said something? Did he go these past three months thinking Wooyoung was a horrible boyfriend? They didn’t once celebrate anniversaries. They’d never kissed beyond a quick peck to the cheek. And he… San didn’t say anything. Not even when they were alone. Did he think Wooyoung didn’t want to put a name to their relationship? That he didn’t want to tell anyone?
Because he would have shouted it from the rooftops. He would have told everyone, consequences be damned.
Oh, Sannie…
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Wooyoung cries. He wants to wind his arms around San’s neck and hold him tight, but he can’t look away from his face.
Another tear tracks down San’s cheek. Wooyoung doesn’t catch it in time. It trails down his cheek and disappears at the corner of his mouth. San licks the salt from his lips.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” he says. His voice is the quietest Wooyoung’s ever heard it. “I thought you weren’t ready.” He sucks in a deep breath and it hitches in his chest. “You were so brave. I wanted to be brave for you, too.”
You did this to him.
All Wooyoung can do is cry.
“Was I wrong?” San asks. “Did I read all of this wrong?”
“No.” The word leaves him before he can even comprehend what San is saying. He just needs to say it. San is spiraling, and Wooyoung needs to stop it. “You didn’t read it wrong.” Wooyoung shuffles closer, his knees planted even closer to San’s thighs on the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you heard me, but I do. Oh, Sannie, I love you so much.”
And, because he can’t help it, Wooyoung kisses him again. A quick peck followed by another.
San makes a sound that sounds distinctly like a whine. But he kisses back. Reluctantly at first, like he’s expecting Wooyoung to change his mind.
“I love you.” Another kiss. This time longer.
“I love you.”
Another.
“I love you.”
And another.
He pulls back when San sniffs, swiping a hand under his nose. A small trail of snot smears across his upper lip. Wooyoung should think it’s gross, but… He slides his hand beneath his shirt and pinches the fabric at the hem. He raises it to San’s face and wipes his face. Wooyoung doesn’t care. It’s San’s shirt, anyway.
San pouts almost immediately.
“Wooyoungie,” he groans.
Wooyoung really does wrap his arms around San’s shoulders this time. He pushes into San’s space like he has a right to. His tears dry on his cheeks. “I love you,” he says, tilting his head to the side. San watches him closely. His eyes flit over Wooyoung’s face like he’s looking for some little detail that will reveal if this is truly happening or not. His arms are trapped between them. He squirms to pull them free.
“I thought we were dating,” San whispers. He wraps his arms around Wooyoung’s waist. “I thought you were already mine.”
Wooyoung could scream.
He wasn’t brave. San was wrong about that. But he will be. He will for San.
“I am yours,” he breathes out. “I’ve always been yours.”
“But you weren’t. Not really.”
“San-ah,” He says, voice stern. San’s shoulders stiffen. “Do you want to be with me?”
San tugs him forward until they’re chest to chest. One of his hands travels up Wooyoung’s back and wraps around the back of his neck, his fingers threading through the longer strands at the base. Their foreheads press together. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life,” he whispers into the gap between their faces.
Wooyoung closes it. His lips press eagerly to San’s, their mouths aligning. It’s perfect. San’s hand is insistent on the back of Wooyoung’s head. He holds him there until they have to part. Even then, Wooyoung can only suck in a breath before San is pulling him back in. Wooyoung can’t stop the giggle that escapes him. It’s poorly timed and San ends up kissing his teeth more than his mouth, but it only makes him want to laugh harder.
San whines. Wooyoung presses his mouth to his cheek. He leaves a sloppy kiss behind. San turns his head and follows him, claiming his mouth with a bite to his bottom lip.
Wooyoung gasps. San swallows the sound, parting Wooyoung’s lips under his. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip in the same spot he bit.
Wooyoung thinks his brain short circuits. He goes pliant in San’s arms. The movement pulls their lips apart, and Wooyoung buries his head in San’s shoulder, his forehead pressing to the warm skin of San’s throat. San presses another kiss to the side of his head. It lands just behind Wooyoung’s ear. San flexes his grip on his neck. Wooyoung loses whatever strength he had that was keeping him upright. He falls completely into San. He keeps him tucked there, protected in the circle of his arms.
He’s overwhelmed, but he opens his mouth anyway. “How terrible of a boyfriend have I been these past couple months?”
San’s laugh is like music to his ear. “You weren’t terrible,” he says.
Wooyoung scoffs. His tone is flat. “You thought I didn’t want to tell people about us. I never let you kiss me!”
“Well…” San pauses. “It made sense at the time. And I didn’t want to pressure you.” San stops again. Wooyoung feels the hand on the back of his neck release slightly.
He sits up. San has an almost sheepish look on his face.
“What?”
“I did…” San won’t look him in the eye. Wooyoung grabs his chin and makes him. “I did tell Yeosang.” Wooyoung’s eyes widen. “And Yunho.” San’s eyes dart to the side. “And I think Seonghwa knows.”
Wooyoung lets go of his face and slaps his chest. “You told them, but you couldn’t even bring it up to me?”
“Young-ah—.”
Wooyoung squares his shoulders. “I’ll be a better boyfriend,” he says. “If you’ll have me, I’ll be the best boyfriend you’ll ever have. Everyone will know. The members, Atiny—”
“They can’t—”
“No, they’ll know. We won’t have to say it out loud, but they’ll know.” Wooyoung rubs his hand up and down San’s chest. Quieter, just for them, he says, “They’ll know, and you’ll know, exactly how much I love you. Because I wouldn’t hide that. Not now that you know.”
San sighs. It sounds like relief.
“I’ll scream it from the rooftops. I can project quite well. People will hear me.”
“Wooyoung-ah,” San says. He’s scolding him, but Wooyoung doesn’t take it seriously.
He swings off San’s lap and launches himself back under the blankets. San lets him go, but he watches his every move from his spot on the edge of the bed. Wooyoung purposely settles in on San’s side of the bed. The sheets are still surprisingly warm. He throws his arms open.
San follows, crawling slowly. He plops himself right on top of Wooyoung. He doesn’t even bother with getting under the blankets. He just lays himself on Wooyoung’s front, his head resting in the middle of his chest. It’s the perfect position for Wooyoung to tilt his head down and kiss the top of his head. So he does it.
San practically melts into him when Wooyoung wraps his arms around his shoulders.
“You’re mine,” Wooyoung says. “Always.”
“Always,” San repeats back. He says it so softly, Wooyoung almost doesn’t hear it.
He peers at the digital clock sitting on the bedside table. The big, blinking numbers read: 3:10 A.M. They have to be awake by six. They’ll only get three hours of sleep. Less if Hongjoong wakes Seonhwa up earlier and he makes his way back to San’s room to pack up.
Wooyoung squeezes San tight.
“Sleep,” he says. “We can talk more in the morning.”
San grunts.
Wooyoung slides his fingers through his hair.
He closes his eyes. San’s weight on top of him is a comfort.
This is perfect, he thinks.
He’s three months behind on affection with the love of his life, but it’s perfect.
⸺⸺⸺⸺
“I know who you are
You’ll be fine
I know who you are
‘Cause you’re mine”
At The Beach, In Every Life, Gigi Perez