Chapter Text
Wonwoo stands on the pitch as the decision is made from the VAR room, towering over the referee menacingly, awfully intimidating without even meaning to as he waits for the announcement. Wonwoo rarely has to make an effort to look imposing, really. His matted hair sticks to his sweaty forehead in wisps, chest heaving as he waits patiently, sharp eyes darting between the referee and the direction he seems to be looking in.
The referee nods to himself, hearing the input over his earpiece, and vocalises the decision. A yellow is neatly pulled out from his pocket and held in front of Wonwoo’s face, his arm oddly stiff as he finalizes his verdict. His back looks tense, like he’s bracing for a complaint from the broader man, but it never comes.
The referee should know it never does; it’s rarely a mistake worth pointing out, whenever Wonwoo ends up with a yellow.
Still, he’s immediately crowded by Chan’s and Wonwoo’s teammates, yellow still in hand, all pleading Wonwoo’s case and complaining about the obvious fouls made by the opposing team that the referee conveniently didn’t call. Chan cringes inwardly from the bench, and slumps into it, trying to make himself smaller in an attempt to protect himself from the surge of embarrassment. They can argue all they want, there is no defending Wonwoo’s tackle.
He didn’t even try to go for the ball— immediately deciding to cut the attack short as their team’s defense didn’t have enough time to form a proper line. It’s a good call, one that can only be made by someone with Wonwoo’s experience and quick thinking, but still, more often than not, Chan can’t help but doubt his incredibly brutish methods.
Chan’s eyes drift back to Wonwoo— watching him blink once, twice, his gaze not dulling— and widen slightly as he moves away from the chaos, returning to his position calmly like his feet could find the line even with his eyes closed. He plants his feet onto the grass, spine curling as he lowers his torso towards the ground, prepared for the game to resume any second.
Wonwoo’s razor sharp eyes narrow, his breathing settling, focus unwavering, kit sticking to his sweaty, glistening body like a second layer of skin. He’s the picture of determination, unswayed by the verdict he received from the referee in the form of a crisp, irrefutable yellow.
Chan finds himself sighing woefully at the sight. He slumps further back into his padded seat on the bench and nudges the assistant coach, defeated.
“You should tell Minghao to warm up,” Chan mutters out, not looking away from Wonwoo, wincing at the downright brutish way the defender is stretching his hip flexors, “He’s definitely getting sent off with a red today.”
Jeonghan grunts next to him, immune to Chan’s nudging, but not to his insight, as he nods. “Yeah,” he says, worried eyes drifting to an all-too-still coach, “I probably should.”
He calls out to Jihoon tentatively, who is clad in an outfit far too casual for the occasion— you’d think some effort would be made for the World Cup, but apparently, no— and informs him of Chan’s suggestion.
Jihoon looks back and shakes his head in refusal, eyes landing on Chan. “You warm up, Lee,” he orders, tone leaving no space for rebuttal, “I’m taking Hansol out, his legs are beat.”
Chan’s eyes widen, even as his body moves. “But—” he tries, getting up from the bench and taking his substitute player vest off, “He’s— Look at him!” Chan petulantly points to a worryingly apex predator-looking Wonwoo, “He’s going to end up with another yellow!” He stops in front of Jihoon, arms spread in alarm. “He won’t be able to play!”
Jihoon shrugs. “Wouldn’t be his first time.”
Chan balks at that, the words getting stuck in his throat. Luckily, Jihoon takes over, sighing as he decides to elaborate. “With you in midfield they won’t be able to press us so easily. Ball possession will go up by at least fifteen percent,” he says, like it’s obvious, “Wonwoo might be a live wire but he trusts you more than anybody else out there,”
Chan stares at him, still unconvinced, so Jihoon rolls his eyes and finally turns to look at him directly. “He’s a dog, Chan,” he states, like it’s obvious, “And you’re the only person in the world who can put a leash on him. Play how you’d usually play and he’ll be fine,”
Chan thinks he’s done, and almost feels slightly encouraged as he lets his gaze rake across the pitch, but then Jihoon ruins it by unhelpfully tacking on, “Probably.”
Chan lets a humorless laugh escape him. “Probably?”
Jihoon shrugs. “I’m not a prophet,” he says, turning back to look at the game as it starts back up, “Maybe you get subbed in and he bumps into Seungcheol at the goal post ‘cause he can’t keep his eyes off you.”
“That— That wouldn’t happen.”
Junhui cuts in uselessly, from where he’s been running his warm-up laps with one of the coaching assistants, “Your ass does look great in those shorts. I can see it happening.”
Chan rolls his eyes, ignoring the flush traveling down his neck slowly at the implication. It’s just from the— the sun. Nothing more. He decides to wordlessly join Junhui in his warm up before Jihoon— or God forbid, Jeonghan— points the redness out, directing his eyes towards the pitch as the ball has been put back into the game.
It’s a marvel, truly, watching Wonwoo move. There’s not much that beats having a trustworthy defense with a center back as reliable as Wonwoo. Still, the discourse circulating around him is divided, some praising his impeccable sense for defending and some scrutinizing him heavily for his barbarian plays.
Chan, ever the diplomat, finds himself agreeing with both.
It’s hard not to stare in awe as you watch Wonwoo defend with everything he’s got, like some sort of wild animal, but it’s equally as hard not to wince as he sends a player off the pitch on a stretcher, his captain’s armband feeling more like a threat than a formality. It’s actually quite shocking, when someone he’s been marking doesn’t need medical attention by the fifteenth minute.
Chan still thinks Wonwoo is perfect. The best. It’s kind of hard for him not to be biased, though, considering that, as a midfielder, Chan feels very passionately about his teammates. Some would even say he’s a little possessive, which he can’t say he disagrees with.
It’s a normal thing, he supposes, to know his players, his friends, by their breathing patterns. When Seungkwan’s left leg stutters on a dribble, it means he’s out of fuel. If Mingyu falls on his right side when he’s defending a goal, Chan makes a mental note, even from the bench, to let the physio know to check his ribs after the final whistle is blown.
This feeling, naturally, extends to Wonwoo. Except there’s not much Chan can do about him. If he’s out of fuel, he doesn’t make it known. If he’s got bruised ribs, he simply shrugs the discomfort off. So, Chan worries more than he should, feels his pain ten times more than he would his own.
It’s not the yellows or reds that throw Chan off kilter, it’s the rabid recklessness he treats his body with as he plays. Wonwoo is big and he doesn’t budge when players try to roughhouse during free kicks or corners, his entire training regime centered around being as sturdy as a rock; Chan isn’t worried about somebody trying to assault him, even though he probably should. The truth is, on the off chance that he actually did provoke someone into punching him or trying to harm him seriously, Wonwoo would probably just shrug it off.
What he’s worried about, is the way Wonwoo’s shoulder hits the ground when he tackles to get the ball, how uncomfortably his back bends when he kicks a fast one away from the goal. Most say Chan’s worry is unfounded, that Wonwoo could get run over by a bulldozer and leave a dent in it, but it still scares him. The sheer possibility of it terrifies him.
He can’t imagine looking at the pitch, or the bench, and not seeing Wonwoo’s face. Doesn’t want to picture him hurt, and immobile, on strict medical leave. It hurts his soul just to think about it.
There’s more to them than just the trust they share on pitch, as midfielder and defender, as playmaker and captain. What Wonwoo is to Chan off the pitch is just as, if not more important than that. Bonded by the years they’ve played together and the mutual trust they’ve grown, Wonwoo has nestled his way into Chan’s heart in a way that feels permanent.
It’s like shrapnel, lodged in between his organs, pulsing whenever Wonwoo is near. He can’t put a name to it, doesn’t want to, afraid to go beyond friendship even though they’re both aware that the bond they share can’t be likened to it. It runs too deep, a relationship too convoluted for them to detangle and address.
Thankfully— all notes of sarcasm fully intended— Jeonghan was there to help. “An unlikely friendship” he called it, when asked about the nature of their relationship.
It’s a term the media team adopted once their interactions started blowing up across social media more often, thousands and thousands of videos of Chan hugging Wonwoo with too much force, of Wonwoo giving him loving pecks that feel right when he’s at the receiving end of them, but horribly puzzling when he watches them back on his phone, late at night.
The confusion rears its ugly head once in a while, the need to know what it is that they’re doing. Chan knows it’s love, pure and simple, harmonious in the way it manifests and exists. There’s no doubt about it, Wonwoo and Chan just are.
But sometimes, this depth, this emotional clarity, abandons Chan, and leaves him with a set of questions he doesn’t have any answers to. If they love each other, why doesn’t anything— why doesn’t anything happen? It’s an abhorrent thing, when Chan broods over such matters. He feels almost lowly, when he finds himself wondering things like, Why can’t they talk about it? or Why can’t Wonwoo just kiss him already?
Chan is usually mentally sound enough not to stray down that path of thought, perfectly content to play with his best friend— unlikely best friend, his mind bitterly supplies— on field and off it in equal measure. So, in general, Chan is fine.
He really is.
A little confused and tenderhearted at any and all mentions of Wonwoo, sensitive, like the puffed flesh around a scar that refuses to heal, but overall, fine. He has to be, especially in moments like these, when his warm up sessions pass in musings about Wonwoo and he’s suddenly getting greeted by the fans with a roar of applause like they can’t contain their excitement as the standby referee holds the board showing his number.
Chants of his name fill the stadium after he claps a sweaty Hansol on the back, and jogs towards his spot in the field, soaking in the praise and the love from the stands as he prepares for the game to resume. Immediately, like he can’t help it, Chan makes eye contact with Wonwoo across the pitch, who seems to find his gaze easily, and holds a silly thumbs up.
Wonwoo’s stiff posture seems to shift into something slightly more relaxed at the gesture, Chan can tell, even from a far, impossibly tuned to his body language. He’s still sharp, but the small give in his shoulders coaxes a grin to form on Chan’s face.
Now they’re in the clear for no reds, he thinks to himself, calming down. Maybe all it took really was just getting Chan out there. What a startlingly exhilirating thought. Jihoon is a damn good coach.
He shakes his limbs to rid himself of any jitters, hopping on both legs before settling down with a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Chan roots himself in place, feels the grass beneath his feet as he drags his studs across it, digging himself into the ground like it’s his home. It might as well be, with how much time he spends on the pitch.
It’s nil to nil, neither side having appropriate chances to score, the ball possession evenly distributed. The opposing team's biggest weapons are their wingers, absolutely lethal when they get the ball, in both speed and strong finishing capability. All that Chan has to do is make sure that, right from the start, the duo doesn’t get the chance to run or shoot.
That’s easy enough, Chan thinks. He’ll let Wonwoo worry about the rest. The referee blows the whistle, his eyes are on the ball, and from there, the game is his to take.
2-0. It was easy enough.
All they needed was Chan to keep the ball in play, render their midfield useless with his passes, and let Junhui do the rest when he got subbed in. Two assists for Soonyoung from the right wing, two finishers for Junhui. He couldn’t be prouder, really, as the team celebrated their victory on the pitch, finishing by the ninety fifth minute. He couldn’t have wished for a cleaner win.
He falls to the ground once the whistle is blown, relief flooding his veins, the realization that the group phase hell is finally over taking root in his mind. Chan immediately recalls the last few games as he catches his breath, racking up statistics in his head and smiling to himself when he realizes they’ve conceded only one goal up until now. What a team they make, he thinks, delirious from the exhaustion. While in this form, they could make it to the finals, hell, maybe even win the whole thing.
Sweat drips down his forehead freely, as he lets his back hit the grass, giggling breathlessly on his own at the thought of winning the World Cup. He can’t get up, really, or do anything but lay there and try to blink away the sweat stinging his eyes.
He’s alone, until he’s not, and there’s Wonwoo standing above him, flushed and beautiful, peering down at Chan like they’ve won it all already. “Something funny?” he asks, teasing, as he sits down next to him, dusting some remnants of grass off of Chan’s shorts uselessly. He played messy, today.
Chan smiles. “We’re going to be champions, Wonwoo.”
Wonwoo’s grin almost mirrors Chan’s own. “Oh?”
He nods, bright eyes angled towards the sky as he lets his head loll back until it’s right against the ground. “Champions of the world.”
Wonwoo hums, pulling his shirt up to reveal his muscled, tattoo riddled stomach, wiping the sweat off his face. Chan follows the movement with his eyes, suddenly feeling giddy for a different reason. “Not if we lose our star midfielder to heat induced delirium.”
“Delirium?” he says, absentminded, swallowing hard. His mouth feels dry as he recovers from the visual. “I’m— I’m not delirious.”
Wonwoo closes in, a small smile on his face, “You focus on that but not on star midfielder?” His gaze roams across Chan’s features, attention grabbed violently by the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. He swallows again, and Wonwoo follows the movement. “How humble,” he mumbles out, sounding distracted.
Chan’s mind is floating again, in a dangerous direction. Towards the— the wretched questions, no less. He can feel that same type of childish petulance expand in his chest like a balloon, wanting to know all the why’s and the how’s and the when’s, oh God, the when’s.
He wants to stomp his feet and demand to know when this started and when it developed, when these little moments became something more and when, exactly, did Chan become so unequivocally obsessed with the defender that he can’t remember where he ends and where Wonwoo begins.
Thankfully, he doesn’t get to drown in his own thoughts, because soon enough he’s got a lapful of elated Junhui, his skin warm and sticky where they’re touching, small pecks pressed along his face spelling out gratitude for the passes that subsequently lead to him scoring twice. It’s cute and Chan indulges in this slightly uncharacteristic moment of physical affection, feeling like a kitten getting groomed.
The rest of their teammates pack in, all ungraciously piling on top of Chan, screaming their praise and affection until all he can do is sit there and soak it in. They all but carry him to the locker room, where the buzz of the win slowly dies down, their exhilaration melting into palpable exhaustion. There’s still lingering electricity in the air, but he doesn’t miss how Mingyu clutches his side, nor how Seungkwan shifts his weight onto one leg.
He pats them both on the back as they pass him to get checked by the physios, feeling as off kilter as he always does, watching his teammates in pain. He frowns a bit as he slings one of his bags over his shoulder, and makes his way over to where Wonwoo is engrossed in a conversation with Seungcheol, planting his face against his broad back until his vision turns black.
Their conversation lulls into silence for a second, before it resumes, Chan’s face still against his back. He’s glad they don’t acknowledge him, he’s not sure he wants to speak yet, finding himself able to barely muster enough strength to take a whiff of Wonwoo, his lingering cologne, the musky, cinnamon scent of him as he tries to calm his nerves.
“Jungchan?” Wonwoo asks, after a bit, careful. Seungcheol must have left without him noticing. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t move to turn around, which Chan appreciates.
Chan grumbles, nuzzling against his back. “Mingyu and Seungkwan are hurt,” he says, words muffled.
A beat of silence passes. “Yes,” Wonwoo replies, “Mingyu’s ribs bruised badly.” He chuckles, more to himself than outloud, the vibration reaching Chan as Wonwoo’s shoulders shake with it, “Seokmin might pass out when he sees the state of him.”
Chan frowns and lifts his head off his back, staring a hole through the back of Wonwoo’s head. “I don’t think that’s funny,” he says, serious. “He could— he could be seriously hurt, this time.” It’s always a lingering fear, something small shifting into a career altering injury over time. Whether it happens to him, or his teammates, Chan doesn’t know which would be more painful to endure.
Wonwoo turns around at that, and wraps his hands around Chan’s middle, biceps flexing. Chan feels the way his fingers clasp on the small of his back, suppressing a small shudder at the sensation. It’s normal for them to be close like this, but recently, it’s been getting harder and harder for Chan to find it mundane.
“Hm?” Wonwoo asks, smirking teasingly, “You’re worried about Mingyu?”
Chan mutters out a stiff yes, obviously, and shifts in his hold. Wonwoo is clearly, endlessly entertained by his squirming, as he tightens his hold around him, leaning his head down to knock their foreheads together. “Not worried about me?”
“I’m always worried about you.” The words leave Chan’s mouth without any hesitation. It’s tender, it always is. Chan doesn’t know how to hold it in, the love spilling from his heart. He simply never learned how; his grandmother never taught him.
The smile that takes over Wonwoo’s face is soft, small, like a bud of cotton. He closes his eyes like he needs a second to himself, and Chan is grateful for it, because he thinks he’s going to faint if this keeps on going any longer.
When Wonwoo opens them back up, he adjusts a stray piece of Chan’s hair before speaking. “I’m sorry for laughing,” he apologizes softly, repositioning them so Chan’s head is tucked beneath his chin. Chan’s arms, previously trapped between their bodies, fly to wrap around his waist. “Mingyu will be fine— Seungkwan, as well. If you’d like, we can go check on them at the hotel later?”
Wonwoo is always so, so devastatingly sweet. There’s cotton candy in Chan’s ears and honey in his mouth, every breath he takes tasting like sugar, burnt and melted, caramelizing his senses. He treats him like something small, and cute, and it drives Chan up the wall.
It’s so terribly lovely, his suggestion, that Chan can’t help but feel bad when he shakes his head no. “Want to hang out with you,” he says, simple. “I’ll check on them in the morning. Bring breakfast up, or something.”
Mingyu and Seungkwan are rooming together, so it should be a fairly easy task. They probably wouldn’t appreciate Chan doting on them like a worried mother, with how overbearing he can be sometimes. The thought fizzles out into nothing as he finds himself yawning into Wonwoo’s neck, truly and fully exhausted as he nuzzles into it with a grumble.
“Whatever Jungchan wants,” Wonwoo says with a hum, and that’s that. The shrapnel pulses in Chan’s chest as he gets pulled into the embrace further, but he finds he’s never felt more at peace.
The tranquility doesn’t last long, because through the silence of, what Chan was sure was an empty locker room, resounds Soonyoung’s exhilarated voice. “Let go of him, Jeon! He’s mine now!”
Chan is suddenly ripped away from Wonwoo, which could, of course, only happen if Wonwoo allowed it to, and brought into Soonyoung’s tight, loving embrace. How he has the energy for this, Chan doesn’t know. He played the full ninety minutes, along with the five minutes of extra time, yet he’s practically bouncing off the walls.
“My beautiful midfielder angel,” he says reverently, pressing a peck to Chan’s forehead, and then one to his nose, the kisses all too wet, “I’ve been dreaming of assists like that. The ball just— it just landed at my feet!”
“Good job, Soonyoungie,” Chan says, truly proud, smiling so hard it hurts even with his cheeks uncomfortably saliva-covered. “You were dribbling past those defenders like it was nothing. It was beautiful watching you handle the ball.”
Soonyoung beams at that, his grin splitting his flushed cheeks, as he presses another dozen kisses across his face. They’re both breathless from giggling when he adds, with a shake of his head, “It’s incredible how after a play like that your most impressive feat is still getting Wonwoo to avoid another yellow.”
Chan rolls his eyes with a scoff, but it carries no heat. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, gaze flickering to Wonwoo who took to packing his bag, “I kept the ball in play like I usually do, and he just happened to remember it’s football, not a UFC match.”
Soonyoung hums, and then chuckles, gaze following Chan’s and landing on the center back. “He kind of looks like he could fight in one, doesn’t he?” he asks, smirking as he looks him up and down. “With the tattoos, and all of that.”
Chan shifts in his hold. “Um— yeah.” He’s not sure why he feels so weird. Sure, Chan doesn’t like it when other people look at Wonwoo, but this is Sooyoung. He needs to get this act together before the quarter finals, lest he does something stupid like confess his fee—
“Chan.” Soonyoung suddenly calls out, serious, after analyzing his expression for a prolonged period of time, interrupting his train of thought.
Chan blinks back. “Soonyoung.” he mirrors, slightly confused by the sudden shift in tone.
“I don’t know how to say this— Shit,” he starts, his expression looking a lot more serious than before, voice hushed. Chan tilts his head and nods, urging him to continue as they detangle from their embrace. “Um,” Soonyoung continues, leaning in closer,
“A friend of mine asked for Wonwoo’s number last night.”
Oh. That— that’s not what he expected. Chan’s mouth opens slightly, as he processes this information.
It’s not a surprise, people vie for Wonwoo’s attention all the time. Men and women alike. Chan is used to that. Whether at parties or as they walk across town, all people do is look at him and plan how to get into his pants. Usually, Chan just rolls his eyes and keeps moving.
But this— it’s from someone Soonyoung knows, someone Soonyoung probably approves of, which gives the whole situation entirely new meaning. It could happen, it could work. They could probably fall in love and get married and— God, she’s probably beautiful too. Funny, as well, if she’s Soonyoung’s friend.
He squeezes his eyes shut, a throbbing pain rattling his brain. He’s been mercifully spared, throughout their friendship, from knowing anything about Wonwoo’s… romantic endeavors. Not that he’d ever want to be privy to them, in the first place. He’d always, very conveniently, find out only after it was done and dusted, nothing about Wonwoo’s behavior ever pointing to a significant other.
Or others, in most cases.
He wasn’t the best, most loyal guy around— he’s a football player, for fuck’s sake, being at least a little douchey is practically in the contract— but Chan never tried claiming he was. Doesn’t even want him to be the best, and maybe, secretly, in the dark, depraved depths of his mind, likes that Wonwoo isn’t.
Still, it felt wrong, having so much of him, but not all of him. But it also felt so, so right to have this monopoly over him, to be Wonwoo’s priority and then find out he was fucking some poor girl through a mattress all while being Chan’s. He’s always worried that one day the mark he has left on him will disappear. That someone will turn those sharp eyes, that beautiful face towards them, away from Chan’s own, and that he would lose Wonwoo forever.
“I told her I’d ask him, because I think he’s seeing somebody else,” Sooyoung elaborates, eyes flickering across Chan’s features like that somebody isn’t just somebody, but— but—
“Lee Chan.” Soonyoung calls out, again, stern, cutting through his thoughts like he can feel him spiral.
“Soonyoung,” Chan repeats, a lot more breathless than before.
“All you have to do is say yes or no,” he says, startling him.
Chan’s eyes widen at the implication, the sour feeling in his chest expanding until it reaches his throat and sits there uncomfortably, toxic bile burning his esophagus. Soonyoung only stares ahead, waiting for the verdict. For Chan’s verdict.
“I can’t—” He can’t do that to him. Chan can’t be the reason why Wonwoo loses out on potential happiness. “Don’t ask me. Please.”
“I’m not leaving until I get a yes or a no.”
Chan whines, weak. It’s pathetic, when he drops his head against Soonyoung’s chest like he’s been wounded. The word leaves him before he can pull it back, before he can even think it over, the shame already beginning to eat him alive.
“No.”
Soonyoung strokes the back of his head, scratching at the short hairs on his nape, before pressing a kiss against his temple. “Good boy,” he says cutely, drawing another miserable whine from Chan’s throat. They separate, Chan’s glossy, wet eyes falling into view, making Soonyoung coo.
“This is for your own good, Channie,” he says, ruffling his hair one last time. Chan hardly thinks that’s true. “I’ll let her know he’s taken, yeah?”
Taken. The word makes Chan’s ears ring unpleasantly. All he can do is nod, not trusting himself to say anything back as Soonyoung leaves. He can tell how solemn he looks by the way Seungcheol approaches him a few seconds later, cautious and gentle, like he’s scared of startling him.
“Hey, starboy,” Seungcheol calls out tentatively, giving Chan a quick hug, “You did so good out there. As always,” he says, keeping one hand on his shoulder even as they part, “The way you move with the ball is magic.”
Chan manages a small smile, always grateful to hear Seungcheol’s praise. It felt special when it came from him, with the years of experience playing for the national team that he has. He’s about to utter out a pathetic thank you, voice lacking confidence in a way that’s entirely unbefitting of a player of his calibre, before Seungcheol brings his face closer and asks—
“Soonyoung tell you?”
Chan’s smile drops, and he can almost hear the glass of it shatter. “Yeah.”
Immediately, Seungcheol realizes his mistake. Chan almost feels bad, but the misery eating him alive stops him. “Ah— shit, sorry,” he says, shaking his head as he tries to gather his words, “I didn’t— I told him to be cool about it.” He explains, exasperated, doe eyes woeful, “He made such a huge deal out of the whole thing, as if Wonwoo would say yes while we’re about to play quarter finals.”
He didn’t get a chance to, Chan finds himself wanting to say. “It’s fine,” he mumbles out instead, lips shifting into something he hopes is a smile, “It’s really no big deal.”
It does come to Chan, now that Seungcheol fumbles away from him awkwardly, that way too many of their teammates are aware of something going on between Wonwoo and him. Chan loved to think that the two of them lived in a bubble of their own making; it’s now, that he realizes, that bubbles, as homely as they are, are also entirely see through.
He sighs, as he trudges to his locker, the fatigue eating at his strength rapidly. He gets on his tippy toes to reach for his other bag before a hand stops him, holding him in place by his waist and bringing it down for him without much hassle. Chan blinks, and catches a glimpse of Wonwoo slinging it over his own shoulder.
He turns around and catches his sharp eyes, body slumping further into Wonwoo’s hold. Chan is unable to resist the coddling, as he lets Wonwoo lead them to the team bus with a hand on the small of his back.
The second he drags his body to his seat and sits down, it’s lights out for Chan. His body practically shuts off, head lolling against Wonwoo’s shoulder as he faintly thinks about the troubling evening he’s had amidst the buzz of a win.
Apparently, even after playing until he lost feeling in his legs, a traumatic emotional experience and fifteen minutes of napping that only left him wanting more, sleep is, miraculously, off the table. The moment Chan’s body hit his bed after he practically sleepwalked to his room, it felt like all the lights in his head turned back on.
He tossed and turned until he realized it’s realistically only ten o’ clock, and that he did tell Wonwoo he wanted to hang out earlier. He stood up, then, grabbing his phone and leaving his room without thinking about it twice.
He knocks once, and the door opens not even a few seconds after, revealing a shirtless, sleepy looking Wonwoo blearily staring at him through his thick-rimmed glasses. “Hi,” Chan says, tipping his chin up to look at him. “Can I come in?” Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow, confused, but he wordlessly moves to let Chan in.
As he walks into the narrow doorway, he brushes against Wonwoo’s bare, tattooed torso accidentally, and almost misses the way Wonwoo shivers at the contact. Chan makes his way through the room and dumps himself onto his rustled bed unceremoniously, cursing himself for noticing it in the first place.
Wonwoo joins him in the room after spending a second too long closing the door, and leans against the wall, muscled arms crossed as he watches Chan settle. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Chan grumbles out as he nuzzles into a pillow, smacking his lips, suddenly feeling sleepier than ever. “Told you I’d come hang out,” he explains, and hopes Wonwoo takes it for what it is.
Wonwoo only watches him silently, and Chan sighs, knowing he’s waiting for an answer. A real one. He never pushes for it, only stills, endlessly patient as he waits for Chan to crack.
Chan opens his eyes properly, and turns around to lie on his back. His eyes feel clearer when he looks at Wonwoo, unmoving as their gazes find each other. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Wonwoo runs a hand along his bicep, probably scratching an itch, and nods, urging him to continue. His rarely worn glasses hang loosely on his face, hair messy as it sticks out adorably. The tattoo ink spills across him in waves, some lines sharp and some lines dull, some professionally done and some very obviously not. Chan likes them all the same. Wonwoo is a sight to behold, always, and almost makes Chan forget he’s supposed to be talking.
“I—” he starts, before licking his dry lips. He feels parched. The words get punched out of him, stinging like acid on his tongue, impatient as he beckons, “Can you just come here?”
Wonwoo smiles, and comes easily. He plops himself onto the king sized bed, ditching his glasses on the bedside table, and turning off the small, kind of useless, reading light hanging from above the headboard. He settles next to Chan, leaning on his elbow to watch him. Chan relaxes into the familiar feeling of being watched like he’s under a microscope, the position somewhat of a post match ritual between them.
Whether it’s a good one, or a bad one, Chan always finds comfort in just— talking. Analyzing. What went well, what didn’t; how Chan can polish it, make it better. Make himself better, a better midfielder, a better playmaker. He can train all he wants, but truthfully, most of football is psychological, mentality based. If anyone has that part of it mastered, it’s Wonwoo. He’s practically impenetrable on the pitch, clear headed no matter how intense the game.
So, Wonwoo watches. Looks at Chan’s expressions, finds weak points Chan never even knew about, makes offhanded, constructive criticisms about his playing that knock his world off its axis. It lasts until Chan feels whole again, until Wonwoo’s gaze tires and dulls with sleep.
The problem is, even as Wonwoo waits for him to talk about, obviously, the match, all Chan can think about is Soonyoung and the girl. He tries, anyway, as he swallows the bile back down.
“Today—” he starts clumsily, starting before he could truly think of anything smart to say, “— was good.” He cringes inwardly at his own awkwardness.
Wonwoo doesn’t catch onto it— or more accurately, chooses to let it go, probably thinking exhaustion is eating away at Chan’s vocabulary— as he nods.
“Yeah,” he agrees, fatigue-addled expression shifting into something a little regretful. “I wish I didn’t have to go for that tackle, though. Not getting another yellow is going to be such a pain,” he says, mouth in an uncharacteristic scowl. “It’s not like future referees are going to go easy on me, either.”
He grumbles in response, muttering low under his breath, loud enough for Wonwoo to hear. “Can you blame them? If I was a referee, I’d just send you off the second you walked onto the pitch.”
Chan’s own joke wakes up something in him, as he continues, not letting Wonwoo make any rebuttal other than a dramatic, affronted gasp. “I was so scared you’d get a red for that,” he says, groaning as he remembers the foul. “You’re so lucky the guy was built. If it was someone ten kilograms lighter, they would’ve flown off the pitch from the force of your tackle.”
He stiffens for a second, but it’s gone so fast Chan feels like he must’ve imagined it. “Someone like… you?” Wonwoo offers after a bit, teasing as he ignores practically all of Chan’s reprimands in favor of getting a rise out of him.
If he was a stronger man he’d push and tell Wonwoo to keep to himself in the next matches and avoid ruining their World Cup campaign by getting a red, but Chan is oh so weak, so he only grumbles in response to the obvious bait and bites.
“As if you could keep up with me while the ball is in my possession,” he says, peeved. “You wouldn’t even be able to see it.”
“I don’t need to,” Wonwoo says, shrugging. “I could just foul you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I could.”
“You could,” Chan says, agreeing like it’s obvious. “But you wouldn’t. There’s a difference.” He tips his chin up a little as he says it, gaze locked onto Wonwoo’s own.
Wonwoo scans over his face, pensive in a way that is unfitting for the lightness Chan thought their conversation carried. He’s about to ask what’s wrong, before Wonwoo cuts him off.
“Why are you here, Chan?” he asks, the words soft as they leave him. “I thought I could indulge you for a bit, but it’s obvious you’re not here to talk about the match.”
It’s dangerous, when Wonwoo asks him things, because there’s not much Chan can do but answer.
He can’t help the words escaping his mouth, can’t help but want to give Wonwoo everything, even when it’s a truth that might ruin everything he’s been trying to build. He sees the premonition in flashes; their flimsy, yet— against all odds— tall tower of cards collapsing after years of trying to hold it together with desperate, fumbling hands.
“A girl asked Soonyoung for your number.” He doesn’t stutter, nor hesitate as he says it.
Wonwoo’s gaze is unwavering as it flits across Chan’s face. “Okay,” he responds, like he still doesn’t understand, but is trying to, in earnest. “And?”
“He—” Chan tries, his breath getting lodged in his throat. “He asked for my permission,” he manages, his chest heaving. When Wonwoo doesn’t reply, only looks like he’s waiting for Chan to finish, he puts the barrel of the gun to his own temple and shoots, his voice barely a whisper as the words stumble out of his mouth.
“I said no.”
All Chan can taste is lead.
Something in Wonwoo’s jaw tenses at the admission, teeth clenching, almost imperceptibly, like he wants to bite something— someone. Chan could recognize that look in his sleep, in the pitch black dark, on field and off it, can tell how Wonwoo’s jaw tightens when he wants him in ways he probably shouldn’t. Chan knows it's him, knows it's the hard muscle of his neck Wonwoo wants, doesn’t even need to think about it twice. Whether in cruel admonishment or unbridled want, Chan would shift his head to the side and give it to him all the same.
He doesn’t, though, because baring his neck would be confessing. Admitting that he knows Wonwoo’s tells like no friend ever should, admitting that he wants those teeth in his neck even if they draw blood. So, Chan stays still.
The look on Wonwoo’s face settles into something restrained as he grunts, slapping his palms over his face like he’s in pain. It startles Chan a bit, how wounded Wonwoo sounds, exasperation and desperation bleeding into one. He mumbles something Chan is going to spend hours convincing himself he’s misheard, along the lines of— you’re driving me insane— into his splayed out palms, before dropping them back down with a sigh.
Wonwoo looks at Chan again after a beat, and his eyes are crystal clear again. Chan waits for the punishment, the final verdict, breathing uneven. He deserves it, so he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even attempt to explain himself. He wronged Wonwoo, meddled in something he has no right to, so it’s only fair if he’s reprimanded for it, slapped on the wrist and sent to lick his own wounds. His grandmother taught him forgiveness; but she also taught him repentance.
He braces himself as he sees Wonwoo open his mouth, and then subsequently close it, only to—
Wonwoo smiles. “It’s okay,” he says, face lax. “Let’s sleep, yeah?”
Chan might kill himself tonight. He’s looking at Wonwoo like he’s a mad man. The smile he’s sporting is probably meant to be comforting, but ultimately does nothing except drive Chan up the fucking wall. He waits for Wonwoo to say something else, before exploding when he realizes, in utter disbelief, that that’s it.
He sputters, eyes wild, flailing his arms around before dropping them uselessly, limbs falling against the bed with a lame thud. “What about that is okay?” he asks, voice louder than before, his back still flat against the bed. He can feel the sting as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. “How is— Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Wonwoo looks confused by Chan’s outburst, huffing out a humorless laugh. “I don’t care about some girl, Jungchan.”
Chan knows he doesn’t. What he truly means is, how is he not mad at Chan’s cowardice? How is he not angry at Chan for daring to shoot down a romantic endeavor in his stead, without planning to do anything about whatever is happening between them, himself? It’s selfish, not to mention cruel.
Chan’s grandmother never taught him cruelty, he learned it when they first met; Wonwoo with a captain’s band on his arm, Chan staring at it from the technical area and turning away with a scoff. Some captain you are, getting sent off with a red in the twentieth minute.
Looking back, Chan doesn’t think he ever had a chance. When Wonwoo looked back at him, laughed, and responded— Get off the bench first and then pass judgement on a starter— probably not even knowing Chan’s name yet, he knew he started playing a game he’d most certainly lose.
“You— You should care!” Chan says, sitting up so he can slap Wonwoo’s shoulder in reprimand. He doesn’t budge, because of course he doesn’t, which only annoys Chan further as he continues his tirade. “She could be the one for you! And I ruined it for you, and for her! All because I’m— because I—”
“Because you’re what?”
Chan’s mouth closes, a small frown etched into his features. He can’t. He knows what Wonwoo wants to hear. Chan is in love and he can’t.
He looks into Wonwoo’s eyes and feels everything, drinks up every emotion pouring from them like it’s honeydew. The frustration, the exasperation, the affection. Hope. Never sadness, never anger. Wonwoo never made Chan feel any of it, even when it weighed heavy on his shoulders.
It prods at Chan’s bruised heart, now, as he makes a desperate move to grab onto Wonwoo’s shoulders, the latter getting the wordless plea and laying on his back so that Chan can make a home on his bare chest. He whines all the while, like a sad, abandoned animal, digging his face into Wonwoo’s neck, nose resting against his jugular.
Chan can feel how fast Wonwoo’s heart is pounding, and it forces out another pathetic noise out of him. The sheer amount of want he’s feeling threatens to swallow him whole, the shrapnel in his chest cutting him apart with every rapid pulse of his insides.
“I can’t,” he says outloud, this time, the words warbled. “I can’t say it. I’m so useless.”
The nonsense he’s spewing barely classifies as an answer, but there’s nothing Chan can do against the physical need to be honest, open with Wonwoo. If not with his words, then with his actions. Chan knows he’ll understand, in any case. He always does.
Wonwoo chuckles a bit, but Chan can tell it’s sad. Forced, as he huffs a laugh through his nose. He wants to tell Wonwoo he’ll get there one day, that he’ll be honest and brave for the both of them, that Wonwoo doesn’t have to carry every burden.
Chan has to be the one to say it. It’s a rule they both wordlessly oblige with.
“Maybe a little,” Wonwoo teases. When Chan replies with another wounded sound, Wonwoo chuckles, the sound real and tangible, not fake or coughed out with Herculean effort. “Like I said, Channie, let’s just go to sleep.”
Chan nods into his neck, and tries to focus on his breathing. Wonwoo rubs soothing circles on his back that Chan doesn’t deserve, big hands untangling knots they can reach in an attempt to help him fall asleep.
After a bit, Wonwoo’s hands stop and one arm wraps around his waist, a long held sigh escaping his chest as he thinks he’s lulled Chan to sleep.
He’s wrong. Chan stays wide awake for what feels like another hour, but is probably only a few minutes. His muscles are lax, but the knots in his brain can’t be untangled like the ones in his back. Against better judgement, half hoping Wonwoo has fallen asleep, half praying he’s just as awake as Chan, he asks, voice low.
“Do you want her number?” Wonwoo shifts under him slightly— awake, Chan’s brain supplies.
“I don’t want her number.”
Chan hums, and picks apart the answer in his head. A few seconds pass, before Chan questions again, softly. “What if she’s like, really pretty?”
“Good for her.”
“Or— maybe she’s super smart. And funny.”
Wonwoo hums, chest rumbling. “Sounds lovely.”
Chan raises his head, and leans onto his chin, watching Wonwoo’s face pensively. His eyes are closed, expression serene. “Why not, then?” he asks, morbidly curious.
“Don’t you at least want to know her name? Instagram handle?” he pushes, tracing a line of old ink on Wonwoo’s left peck, a habit that seems hard to quit. He pauses for a second, and narrows his eyes, a prodding lilt in his voice. “...Cup size?”
“Nah,” Wonwoo says, shifting his hold around Chan, “Soonyoung knows I’m an ass guy.”
Chan pouts, and prays to God Wonwoo doesn’t catch how he almost turned around just now to check out his own ass. “Does he pimp you out to his friends often?” he asks, disgruntled. “Seems to me like he’s got your taste all figured out.”
Wonwoo snorts in reply, obviously endlessly entertained by Chan’s little temper tantrum, as he finally looks him in the eyes, looking more awake by the second. “Think about it for a second, Channie. Turn that brain on for me, yeah?” he says, using the hand that’s not on Chan’s back to tap a finger against his forehead lightly. “Has Sooyoung ever asked you for permission before?”
Chan flushes at the forward way Wonwoo addresses the situation. It’s really a good thing that Wonwoo holds himself back for Chan’s sake. “... No.”
“Then, no.”
Chan hums, feigning indifference, as he lays his face flat against Wonwoo’s chest once more. He’s sure Wonwoo can feel the way his cheeks are burning, flush spreading to his chest like a wildfire.
“Who sets you up on… dates the most, then?” Chan’s cheeks flush immediately, as he curses at himself internally for his choice of words. He knows they’re far from regular dates, but he can’t bring himself to say hook-ups, or one night stands, or anything of the like. It feels stupid coming out of his mouth.
Wonwoo chuckles, and brings a hand to Chan’s hair to stroke it lightly, like he can’t help it. “Dates,” he repeats, body shaking with poorly repressed laughter, “You’re so cute.”
Chan grumbles, but leans into Wonwoo’s touch all the same. “Answer the question.”
Wonwoo looks like he’s really thinking about it. “Seungcheol, maybe?” he says, but he doesn’t sound too sure.
I’ll have to kill him, then, Chan thinks, in the depraved part of his mind. The logical side just takes to noting how it makes quite a lot of sense; Seungcheol and Wonwoo are the closest in the team, so it’s obvious that they’d know each other’s type the best.
“You can’t kill him,” Wonwoo suddenly says, snapping Chan out of his thoughts. “I need him on defense.”
Chan stills in his hold. “Did I say that outloud?”
“No,” Wonwoo says through a yawn, hand still in his hair. “I could hear you thinking it.”
Chan ignores this, doesn’t think he can process the fact that their codependency has reached emotional telepathy territory. “Sleepy?” he murmurs out, instead, tentatively, as he lays his palm flat against Wonwoo’s chest.
“A little,” he replies, words slurring together. “I can stay up though, if you want me to.”
“No,” Chan replies, immediately, cuddling up to Wonwoo even further, hoping he can somehow fuse their bodies together. It’d solve a lot of his problems, really. “Sleep.”
He has to check twice and make sure Wonwoo isn’t faking it, when he falls asleep almost immediately after humming offhandedly in response. It’s hard for him not to succumb to sleep too, especially after a charged conversation like that, fatigue clawing at his eyelids until they slip shut.
Chan falls asleep, overwhelmed by the feeling of being so thoroughly— something. He doesn’t want to put a name to it, but knows it starts with an L and ends with OVED. He’ll turn a blind eye to it, though, for his own sake.