Chapter Text
There are a lot of things San loves about the rink. The icy and plastic-y scents intertwining into a divinely comforting smell, the dragging staccato sound of multiple blades on the ice at once, the delicious paradox of sweating, hot bodies in such a freezing cold environment — the list goes on in a way that San wouldn’t be able to determine where it ends even if he tried: an infinite, beautiful list that has brought him solace for as long as he can remember. However, if he were to pick one detail about the rink he found upsetting, it would most definitely be having to share the ice with other skaters. Specifically them. Especially them.
The hockey players.
San grimaces and violently pulls at his laces, tightening them with vigour, an unusual strength fuelled by the mere thought of having to skate in the same vicinity as a bunch of obnoxiously loud heathens.
It's not as if sharing the ice was anything new; ever since San had signed up for the figure skating club upon his arrival at his university, its schedule has clashed with the hockey club’s on Wednesdays and Fridays. Months later, he still found himself irritated at the compromise. It wasn’t so much the size of the rink that bothered San — the building itself was pretty spacious, and had largely enough room for both teams — but more so the sole presence of the hockey players that made his nerves tingle in annoyance.
A boom of laughter suddenly resonates in the corridor outside the men’s locker rooms, pulling San out of his thoughts. An echo of slightly less obscene yet still entirely too loud guffawing ensues. Hearing the heavy footsteps getting closer and closer, San makes haste, slipping guards on his blades before grabbing his bag as well as the shoes he’d worn on his bus ride to the rink on campus. Walking towards his locker with a sufficient amount of speed, he carelessly shoves his belongings in, closes it with a slam, clicks the lock shut and shakes it a few times for good measure, verifying that it is indeed fastened safe.
Thanks to the years of training he had painfully but not joylessly undergone in his childhood and teens, the muscles of his legs allow San to stride to the door of the locker room in a matter of seconds. Seconds he should have apparently been more meticulous about calculating — or perhaps he shouldn’t have been staring at his skates, double checking his lacing skills - because in a flash, his nose is colliding with something very, very hard.
“Ow !”
If the only consequence he had to deal with was a sore nose, San would be over the moon. Instead, he has to face — or more so look up at — Yunho, a tall and broad, annoying hockey player. He’s smirking down at him, in a way San dares to deem the most condescending thing he’s ever seen. Behind Yunho, on his left, Mingi, the other ridiculously tall player in the hockey team, is shamelessly snickering, while on his right, Jongho, the most buff skater San has ever seen, lets his eyes wander with upmost disinterest.
“Woah there, watch where you’re going, sweetheart.”
The pet name fills San with such rage, and the stupid face Mingi makes at his best friend’s boldness does nothing to soothe his increasing anger. Heat spreads across his cheeks in something he can’t quite decipher, probably more so fury than embarrassment, because San would be damned if he let himself be embarrassed in front of those morons.
“How about you watch where you’re going, you big ass —" San does a quick run over of witty insults he could use against the audacious, stupidly attractive, irritating brunette in front of him.
“Tube man!”
San shoves past the trio, cringing at the howls of laughter coming from big ass tube man number two and mentally smacking himself for having the worst comeback of all time, and when he was the one at fault too.
Trying to forget the encounter, San shoves his earphones in and starts warming up at the foot of the bleachers, doing some stretches here and there just for the sake of not pulling a muscle once he actually steps foot on the ice. He finishes up rather quickly and hastily walks towards the entrance, momentarily stopping to take off his guards and placing them on the little ledge of the plastic rink walls. San figures he has a few minutes of peace and quiet before the hockey players come out dressed in their gear, and is determined to make the most of it.
He has a grand total of two close friends in the club and as he places his left skate on the ice, he notices neither of them are present. It's just him and the heavenly frozen. He gives a push with his right skate, recalling Yeosang mentioning an incomplete group project he has due alarmingly soon and the text Seonghwa had sent him earlier, notifying him that he’d be late. San smoothly glides a few feet in thanks to his first push and sighs. To hell with stupidly kind Seonghwa and his stupidly cute boyfriend and their stupidly loving relationship. San doesn’t think Seonghwa would miss out on ice-time to pick him up from a fabric store in downtown bc he’s too gay to drive. Hongjoong privileges .
He skates a full circle, enjoying the emptiness around him and basking in the weightless feeling he gets from the smooth glide. He only manages to complete one round though, because soon enough, the hockey team comes stumbling in, talking and laughing loudly, pushing each other roughly.
San frowns as he glides to a stack of cones near one of the multiple exits of the rink, pulling it onto the ice before getting behind it. He pushes the cones towards the middle of the ice and trails a saccadic path from one wall to another, unstacking the bright orange objects one by one as to create a very distinct barrier between friend and foe, or, alternatively, his side (and his fellow skaters’ that have yet to come) and the hockey team’s.
As San sees the group of sturdy heretics, acting similarly to a bunch of bothersome frat boys, he is reminded of the critical necessity of the cone barrier.
The hockey skaters step on the ice one after another in a chaotic commotion and San looks up at the ceiling, regretfully bidding his heavenly moment of solitude goodbye. Gratefulness blooms as he spots a few of his fellow members of the figure skating club stretching similarly to how he had been a few minutes prior.
He lazily cruises to the entrance to greet them. As he approaches the plastic screen separating them, his eyes hazardly meet Yunho’s. The taller’s gaze is intense and unwavering, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. San scoffs and swiftly turns his head, in a haste to break the eye contact. What a joke.
“San !” one of the other figure skaters waves him over.
They engage in a lighthearted conversation about the Spring recital coming up, for which they’ve already started to brainstorm routine ideas. The group disperses in a matter of minutes, all taking up a small space to practice whatever spins, jumps or footwork they've been trying to succeed without flaw as of lately.
When San takes a quick water break, he notices a new notification on his phone.
nagging hyung #1
I don’t think i’m gonna make it at all
sorry…
😖 😖 😖
San’s not sure if he wants to ask his friend why. He concludes he’d rather not, for his own sake, and shoots a short text back.
San doesn’t see the rink getting gradually emptier, too focused on perfecting bodily movements, music loudly playing in his ears and forehead dampening at the expense of his efforts. Much to his surprise, he had managed to block out the rowdiness of the hockey players — so well that he hadn’t even noticed the calming stillness crawling its way into the rink, now engulfing him.
He picks up his phone. The bright digital numbers stare back at him, inviting his hunger to wake from the slumber he had unconsciously willed it to in the midst of attempting to double the amount of three-turns he could do in a row.
9:01 P.M.
He walks as fast as he can with his guards on his blades, eager to get changed so he can go home and wash off the sweat on his body and the ache in his muscles. And eat. Feast , even.
Nearing the locker room, he hears voices, sighing once he recognises them. San thought he would be the only idiot to stay until just four minutes before closing time and was quite frankly looking forward to the emptiness. But, quite obviously, he isn’t.
“Wait for me while I pass the zamboni,” Mingi’s deep voice vibrates in relative distance. “I’ll be mega quick.”
“I wanna go home though.”
San imagines a pout accompanying Yunho’s whining, for some god forbidden reason.
“Dude what the fuck! I waited for you last time,” Mingi responds equally as whiny and a tad bit more shouty. San rolls his eyes at the childishness of these six feet-something men.
“Fine,” the sound becomes clearer as San pushes the locker room door open, “but don’t forget I’m the one with the keys.” Yunho mischievously dangles what must be the keys to the main entrance.
San makes himself small and goes to grab his stuff. He bites his lower lip as he works on untying his laces, and then pokes out his tongue ever so slightly as he unwraps the heaps of bandages and tape around his blistered feet. The concentration only diminishes once the ointment is finally applied to his painfully sore ankles. He looks up, being surprised when met with silence for the second time in the evening. His eyes wander around the space, nearly popping out of their sockets as they land on a back. Specifically, Yunho’s broad, bare back, with evident muscles flexing underneath the smooth skin as he rummages through his locker. His shoulders are insanely large and incredibly toned, back tapering down as it reaches the waist, satisfactorily sloping inwards. San finds it difficult to tear his eyes away.
Something too familiar stirs in his stomach and — oh no. The desire to throw up makes itself known — there’s absolutely no way he’s feeling attraction towards the brawny, sturdy beanpole in front of him, just because he has the body of an olympian god. Or at least, the back of one. He hasn’t seen much other than a bit of leg muscle here and there.
Shit.
Now San’s actually, really in trouble because he’s starting to imagine all sorts of scandalous things, like if Yunho has abs just as sculpted as his back or what his chest looks like — which, going by how bad he hurt his nose against it, is probably just as herculean.
San has a hard time snapping out of it. In fact, he doesn’t stop staring until Yunho pulls a shirt over his head, tugging at its hem as he turns around. He meets San’s gaze, and the latter immediately ducks his head, suddenly feeling very warm in the cheeks and very much interested in the fuzzies on his socks. He finds them so incredibly fascinating he even picks at them a bit, all while mentally debating whether he should jump off a cliff or nail himself in a coffin and wait until he dies of dehydration or something.
Yunho, much to his surprise and relief, doesn’t make a snarky comment. San’s the first to leave, shoving his shoes on at the speed of light, impatient and desperate to get out of the suffocatingly awkward locker room.
He goes home and functions on autopilot until his head hits the pillow. He proceeds to mentally kick himself to sleep, outraged by his very teenage-like horniness and its audacity to make him live through a moment of attraction to a hockey player, of all people. Worse — to a hockey player’s back . Gross. When he said he played for the other team, this is definitely not what he meant. Besides, who even shamelessly prances around shirtless like some pretentious fucker?
San concludes he’s officially hit a new low and reasons by convincing himself he needs to go out and touch some grass a bit more often, maybe even socialise just a smidge.
♥
♥
♥
A week later and Yunho still can’t seem to forget the cute little downturned expression San had made when he bumped into his chest, how beet red his face had coloured when they were alone in the locker room, caught staring by Yunho.
The memories pop up again some time after waking up the next Thursday, while he’s sitting at the kitchen counter of his and Mingi’s shared apartment. He face-plants on the marble, dangerously close to his bowl of almost but not quite soggy cocopuffs, and muffles a scream. Yunho can’t see Mingi, but he hears him loudly shush from his spot on the couch. He responds with a louder groan, respectfully.
“ Dude ,” Mingi starts, and Yunho’s not quite sure how he feels about the conversation he knows is bound to come up.
He hears his best friend put down his own bowl of cereal on the little coffee table they’d bought off eBay. To be fair, most of their furniture was bought off the website, or from any other second hand places really. It was an easy and worthwhile solution, their rent denting their bank accounts as soon as they had finally moved out of the suffocating and privacy-lacking dorms at the start of the school year. It was worth it though — eating instant foods and having dingy furniture was nothing when they had a place to call their own, a shared space that comfortably felt like home.
Mingi finally emerges, standing tall above the stained back of the camel couch that had been hiding him from Yunho’s view, proudly sporting nothing but a pair of bright underwear and messy bed hair.
“You’re killing me here man,” Mingi attempts taming his unruly hair, “what’s the matter with you?”
“Mingi,” Yunho drags out the last syllable, whiny and voice still muffled. “You don’t understand,” he starts, finally lifting his head back up.
“He’s just so?” He throws his arms in the air, making wild and seemingly coded gestures. “You know?”
Mingi observes Yunho as he jerks his hands in indecipherable motions, pausing for an instant, as if he’s genuinely trying to comprehend his friend, before sending him a quizzical look.
“No?”
The sigh Yunho lets out is overly dramatic as he lets his cheek fall into his palm. Mingi arches an eyebrow, simultaneously signalling how ludicrous he’s finding the display of behaviour and that he’s impatiently awaiting an explanation. To be fair, at this point anything with legitimate words would seem more logical than whatever it was Yunho had been vainly trying to convey with his obnoxious, primitive-like body movements.
Yunho opens and closes his mouth a few times, not unlike a fish.
“He’s just so pretty Mingi,” Yunho finally starts, and Mingi is entirely too aware of his friend preceding a ramble.
“He’s so elegant when he skates. Sometimes his hair falls into his eyes after a spin or a jump and he’s just so pretty I feel like a stupid caveman looking at something I shouldn’t even be allowed to look at for free.” There’s a pause. “He’s over there, looking so effortlessly good, and I’m over here like 'oogo aga,’” he finishes, adding sound effects to fully paint the traumatic picture.
Mingi shoots him an incredulous glance.
“I don't know,” Yunho groans. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Wow,” Mingi finally breathes.
“Yeah.”
A moment of silence passes — only an instant, because Yunho is quick to cut off any potential follow up with more of his babbling: “Also he has a really nice ass. And waist. Like really, really nice. When he wears those little leggings - you know the black ones that have a stripe of color going up just one leg and the bottom goes over the skates? All the figure skaters have those but he just looks so good in them.”
Mingi can only shrug and throw him a helpless look.
“When he wears those and a short little shirt you can see just how tiny his waist is and you have a full view of his ass and oh my god Mingi, how have you never seen it? Like its so—”
“Yunho, buddy, I’m gonna cut you off, before you get ahead of yourself and start revealing some weird fantasies to me,” Mingi momentarily closes his eyes and shudders, as if his mind is already providing him endless possibilities he doesn’t willingly want to think about, “We’re bros, you know that, you know you can talk to me about anything. But please, there’s only so much I can take of you talking about Choi San’s ass, of all people,” he scrunches up his nose.
Yunho pouts at him a little, “I still don't know why you hate him so much.”
“Well, I still don’t know why he hates us so much,” Mingi throws his hands up in the air. Which, granted, paints quite a ridiculous picture, with Mingi uttering protests in the middle of their living space, decency assured solely by the grace of his flamingo-pink underwear.
“What did we even do? He’s always got that pretentious look on his face, walking around like he’s the best thing since—”
“Sliced bread?” Yunho offers.
“Yeah! Since sliced bread. Standing up so damned straight with his head held so high you would think he’s balancing a crown up there—”
“Dude, I think that's just how figure skaters hold themselves. You know, posture is like, very important for them. I think”.
“Yeah, okay, maybe,” Mingi concedes, “Maybe I'm exaggerating a tiny bit. But I’m not making up the rest. How are you so whipped for a dude who called you the tube man? Like, used that as a genuine insult?”
Yunho groans into his hands, “Don’t remind me.”
“Oh yes, little boy, I will remind you,” Yunho opens his mouth to protest and grumble at Mingi for insulting him like that when he’s the taller one, but his best friend puts an index up to his lips and hushes him rather sarcastically.
“He’s so rude to us, always pushing past us or scoffing. Does he seriously think he’s better than us because his sport is more noble and worthy or something?” Mingi mimics quotation marks around “noble” and “worthy”.
“But he’s so pretty,” Yunho responds, sounding like a broken record at this point.
Mingi doesn’t seem very impressed. He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at his friend. Yunho stares back stubbornly, unwilling to recognise some truth to Mingi’s words, who is, in his defence, only trying to help his disastrous friend not get stepped on by a pretty boy.
“Fine,” Yunho finally sighs.
Mingi’s eyes light up at the concession, beaming. No way, he won the argument !
“But.”
Damn it, all these efforts for nothing.
“I think that maybe,” Yunho drags out the last syllable, gauging for reactions. “Maybe he has his reasons. Or maybe he just has a resting bitch face or something. But we don’t actually know him personally, and he’s so, so pretty—”
“Yeah I got that part, thanks” Mingi rolls his eyes.
The tips of Yunho’s ears taint themselves a slight pink, feeling a bit embarrassed about rambling like some pre-teen idiot about his big fat crush.
“The point is,” he clears his throat, “I don’t think he’s that bad.”
“So you think,” Mingi narrows his eyes, “Like Ulysses’ sailors.”
“Now what the hell are you on about?”
“His sailors, lost at sea, too blinded by the beauty of the mermaids, too enchanted by their songs to see their true nature, took the wax out of their ears. Fatal mistake!” he shakes his head as if remembering being on the boat himself. "In the end: splash! They all died, Yunho. Ulysses was smart and survived. You should be more like him. Put the wax in your ears. Or eyes, in your case. Maybe. Maybe not, actually.”
“I’m not sure if taking that myths and legends class for extra credit was your brightest idea.”
“You’re just jealous. A jealous, helpless, disastrously gay little sailor!” Mingi yaps a laugh as he sees Yunho’s face painted with feigned shock, getting up from his chair with playful annoyance, a smile impatient to break through.
In the span of a few seconds, Yunho is lunging at Mingi, tackling him to the floor. Mingi's laughter is loud and unapologetic, and so contagious Yunho can’t help but to giggle along with him. The two roughhouse on the floor like children for a bit before Yunho calls time, far too ticklish to withstand Mingi’s unforgiving fingers as they wiggle and prod at his sides.
Later on, instead of finishing his economics paper, Yunho sits at the library, staring absentmindedly at the yellowing walls, deep in thought. He ponders Mingi’s earlier words. Why exactly is he head over heels for a guy who said he looks like the tube man? Maybe he’s just horny and San has a nice ass, small waist and a pretty face, he thinks before cursing at the redundancy of his thoughts. Proving Mingi’s point just makes him feel more idiotic, maybe he is just a stupid little gay sailor after all.
The only reason he’s painfully horny at the moment is because his crush has gotten so bad he can’t even casually fuck around anymore. And who is Jung Yunho if not the wizard of fucking around?
Yunho groans, apparently too loudly for the librarian’s taste. He angrily shushes him with a scowl.
Fighting the strong desire to flip off the old fart, his brain redirects him to his thoughts, and evilly lets him get lost in them.
Yunho had played for his hometown’s little league all through his teenage years. Though it was fun, it didn’t really get him anywhere, because no one really gives a damn about hockey matches in butt fuck middle of nowhere. A simple hobby, that's all it had been, and he was glad he could continue the sport in university.
In fact, he had signed up at the speed of light, ecstatic to find out his dorm mate at the time, flatmate as of now, was also enrolling. Everything had clicked into place in the easiest of ways. He and Mingi had naturally gravitated towards Jongho, a straight A’s student who had skipped a year and surprisingly loved the rink just as much as them.
Everyone on the team got along fairly well, and Yunho had spent the entirety of his freshman year playing against other schools, practising thrice a week and going to numerous social events, at which he shockingly found out how popular he progressively got.
He had always been neighbourly with the members of the figure skating club, having to split the ice with them twice a week. When sophomore year rolled around, he was surprised to find a new face amongst them because, to be fair, not that many people actually wanted to sign up for such a niche activity, and the troupe kept itself to a minimal number.
Even if Yunho hadn’t been as familiar as he was with everyone, he’s convinced he would’ve still noticed San. San just had a specific aura, carrying himself differently. As much as everyone felt at ease on the ice, San was on a whole other level. The second he stepped on the ice, he was overwhelmingly mesmerising and there was no way Yunho could appoint his attention to anything else. The rink seemed to be San’s first home, accepting him with open arms, possessing him wholly with all the gentleness of a mother.
Yunho remembers seeing San skate for the first time as clear as day. The other figure skaters had asked his team to wait five minutes before they started practice in order to assess San’s capacities, since he was new. Apparently, a few of them knew him already, or so Yunho had overheard a few things about him participating in high level competitions.
He remembers the atmosphere, thick with anticipation, the way he held his breath as a cascade of piano notes tumbled out of the speakers. San seemed to be enchanted by the melody, effortlessly gliding forwards and backwards, skates playfully dancing with the ice in a complicated step sequence Yunho barely managed to register. For a few minutes, their inglorious rink transformed into a fantasy world, San prancing in it like he had been affectionate with the space his whole life, spinning and jumping with mystical effortlessness. Yunho remembers just how bewitched he had been by San’s suave movements, body arching dexterously from his core all the way to the tips of his fingers.
Intertwining serenity and chaos devastated him as he watched San float around with fluidity and elegance. Spellbound, hypnotised until the last second, Yunho had found himself unable and unwilling to let his focus wander anywhere else. Ever since then, his eyes seemed to always drift towards San’s presence, magnetised. He had done a pretty good job of ignoring these optical tendencies, that is, until now. Now he feels so entranced its past the point of being comical. And to make things worse, of course he just fucking had to multiply his encounters with San. How was he supposed to repress his big, fat crush now? There’s no way he’s going to manage to get San out of his mind anytime soon.
Yunho is not good with having this many thoughts floating around in his head. He has a scarce amount of just three functioning brain cells, and none of them possess the capacity to process feelings — especially preteen-crush-type-feelings. He’s never even properly talked to San, for fuck’s sake! Just a few mumbling exchanges of words and he's already whipped like some obsessive weirdo.
He decides that perhaps stretching his hellishly long legs — in favour of avoiding cramps after sitting down for so long -—is a terrific idea.
Yunho walks in between the narrow rows of books, gazing at spines but not quite paying attention to the words written on them. His footsteps are relatively slow and nonchalant.
He doesn’t fully realise how far off his mind had wandered until something pointy collides with his sternum, bringing him back down to the control center of his body.
“Ow!”
“Ouch!” he hears himself exclaim at the same time as...
Fucking fantastic. Truly, whatever unknown force is out there controlling the universe has superb taste in humour.
“You,” San squints his eyes accusingly, but Yunho can’t find it in him to take him seriously when his head is slightly tilted upwards to make eye contact.
“Me,” Yunho replies dumbly, blinking, untrue to his usual flirty nature. An instant of silence passes.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he recollects himself. There you go, nice . He pats himself on the back, satisfied and grinning on the inside. Throwing a smirk at San, Yunho feels relieved, blessing the rapidity of his trio of neurones. The last thing he’d want would be to act dumb and come off as a total loser. San already doesn’t appreciate him very much, he’s trying to keep some damned dignity. Besides, they don't actually know each other, so now’s the perfect time to make a good impression, and put whatever past he’s, apparently much unlike San, seemingly unaware of, behind them.
“Maybe if we just stopped meeting,” San rolls his eyes.
So much for a good impression.
Before Yunho can manage to come up with something he deems witty and charming enough to say, San is letting out a very heavy and aggravated sigh and pushes past him, surely attempting to give him a hard enough shove — except Yunho’s shoulder budges just the smallest bit, and he melts a little on the inside.
He stands there for a bit, stunned. By the time he recovers from the rather anticlimactic and slightly aggressive encounter, he decides that he should at least get started on his economics paper.
♥
♥
♥
“I want a macchiato,” Wooyoung’s voice rings a tad bit too loudly through San's phone speaker, pulling a wince out of him.
“First of all, why are you yelling?”
“I'm literally so quiet—”
“Second of all, what happened to please and thank you?”
“Sannie, my dearest, we threw those retrograde modalities out the window when you graced my shoes with your vomit five months ago.”
San grimaces at the memory, clearly visualising Wooyoung’s devilish smile.
“And you wonder why I refuse to go out with you. That night is the exact reason why I don’t go to parties you invite me to anymore,” he pauses, goes through the five stages of grief, and after a moment says “though you make a fair point.”
“I know. Now hurry up, I want that macchiato before my English lit lecture, and I don’t wanna be late. We’re talking about Romanticism and I wanna be there when the cool girl with the pink hair tears down the industrial revolution.”
“Sounds… super fun.”
“Oh San, you just have to be there, that girl quotes Marx once and the dude who always wants to play devil’s advocate - you know what I’m talking about - he always absolutely loses his shit. It’s so entertaining, they’re so close to strangling each other every Tuesday.”
“Your idea of entertainment concerns me.”
“Thank you!”
“Wasn't a compliment. Anyways the line is moving, I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”
The two hang up after extending brief goodbyes. San brings his focus back to his surroundings, the smell of brewed coffee wafting overwhelmingly in the air, atmosphere thick with sounds of whirring and chattering. The counter, just a feet away, is of a warm, polished wood — a Mason jar of coins sits atop, in front of the cashier, accompanied by a small glass stand, intricate and baroque, with a platter just large enough to hold two pastries, on which are displayed the family-owned coffee shop’s business cards. Plenty of them are scattered in San’s small studio, in his wallet and some back pockets of his jeans.
The hole-in-the-wall boutique is small and cozy, it’s woody architecture matching the furniture, simple and neutral, though scarce. The lazy yellow tint of the lights contributes to the general warmth of the shop, comforting to San, like a fuzzy blanket enveloping him in a tight hug on a snowy winter day. 'Dejà-Brew', despite its corny name, has been a place of familiarity and peace for him over the course of the past few months, though, granted, at nine a.m. on a Tuesday, the minimal space is quickly packed and busy.
San orders Wooyoung’s macchiato and his own regular iced coffee, dropping his extra change in the Mason jar. The barista taking his order is a few years younger, and the boss’ nephew — at least he assumes so from what he’s gathered of the wandering conversations behind the counter. He’s very sweet and always offers San a kind smile, no matter what ridiculous state the debauched university student presents himself in. San has grown quite fond of him over the past few months of his regular frequentation. Unable to resist the young boy's sunshine expression, San gives in to his urging and ends up getting two of the one-of-a-kind muffins of the day, recipe supposedly unique and never to be repeated, anticipating Wooyoung’s infinite hunger and his ruthlessness, hopefully saving himself from getting robbed of half a muffin.
Having paid, San makes his way towards the exit, fumbling with his purchases as he squeezes through the small crowd. He struggles to tuck his paper bag of delicious smelling pastries under his arm while balancing the cold cups between his hands and chest when-
“Oh no my muffins !”
San collides with an unidentified, sturdy object and pitifully watches his baked goods fall to the floor ungracefully. He looks up from the crime scene to find the culprit staring down at him in shock.
Yunho.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you ! I just opened the door and suddenly you were there and-“
“Are you making fun of my height?” San glares, fuming.
“No, I— ” Yunho pauses to pick up the sad pair of muffins. “I think your height suits you. It’s cute,” he says with an easy smile, straightening up.
San snatches his precious snacks out of Yunho’s hands, stuttering the tiniest bit when getting a glimpse of the size of them. He recovers quickly, dismissing the thought in favour of asking himself in what world height is a factor of cuteness. Is his height cute? What does that even mean? His cheeks feel warm as his mind speeds through the questions, the visual of Yunho’s long, slender fingers proving itself to be even more distracting.
“Whatever. Just watch where you’re going. This is like the third time,” San says, annoyance seeping through his voice.
He frowns, not at all content with the paradox of his warm cheeks from Yunho’s... compliment? insult? — and his growing irritation at the mere sight of the perpetrator. It's all too contradictory and confusing to be appropriate for a Tuesday morning.
He pushes past the hockey player mumbling to himself.
“Tall people, always so arrogant and condescending.”
On his walk back to campus, San inspects the damage inflicted on the muffins and gratefully observes it is minimal to none. His steps are careful, having had enough collision for the day.
When he finally finds Wooyoung, already sitting at a picnic table, he feels relieved, cautiously putting down the two drinks and bakery bag before plopping down on the opposite side of his friend with a heavy sigh.
It's too early in the day to have already gone through so much, he thinks as he lets himself relax in the shy spring sun, just beginning to show itself after months of cold and perpetual gray. A slight breeze persists, carrying around some kind of overwear to combat its coolness remains mandatory - an oversized Bape hoodie in Wooyoung’s case and a fluffy cream cardigan in San’s — but the high luminosity, greening vegetation and barely budding flowers are tell-tale of the season of renaissance’s arrival.
San feels satisfied as he gives his coffee a few sips and proudly shows off to Wooyoung his sugary purchases. His friend thanks him gleefully before scarfing down his muffin at a terrifying speed. Thank god San had gotten two. Wooyoung is horrifying when it comes to all sorts of saccharine snacks, fearless of satiating his sweet tooth at the expense of others’ misery.
“Hey is that a stain on your shirt? You’re so messy San,” Wooyoung tuts.
San looks down, finding a colony of brown drops right where he had been nestling his drink, before he was bodied by some brainless giant.
“You have got to be kidding me !”
For the next several weeks, San feels like the universe is truly out to get him. He bumps into Yunho a handful more times, and doesn’t find it funny, not one bit. Firstly, for obvious reasons, the repetitiveness is annoying as hell. He already has to cross paths with Yunho at the rink twice a week, there was no need to see more of the ridiculously tall and stupidly flirty hockey player. Secondly, and for this, San felt ashamed, every time they shared yet another encounter, he would notice a new detail about Yunho’s physique that was undeniably hot . Objectively, no one could argue against the fact that Yunho is simply a very sexy man. For one, he’s tall. He also has, as San had accidentally witnessed, a super broad pair of shoulders and a muscular back. His hands are large and lithe, and can completely wrap around a bakery bag containing two muffins with outmost ease.
It’s terribly sinful — per San’s observations — the way his jet black hair sticks to his forehead with sweat after practice, too excited from winning a practice game against his teammates to watch out for San’s smaller figure stretching by the bleachers, heedlessly staring at him despite his convictions. It was also some time around then, when he had tripped over San’s leg and nearly crushed him dead, that San became aware of how contrasting his sweet eyes are compared to the rest of his body. They’re round, almost doe-y, twinkling like a puppy’s.
San hadn’t meant to regard Yunho’s ass in such a scrutinising way either. He had only been looking at his phone with too much concentration on his way from class to practice, and, before he knew it, had clashed with Yunho’s back. Taking a step backwards, he had stared at his plump cheeks for an instant before Yunho turned around and concealed them from his view, but the instant had already lasted too long. The image of his ass in those super fitting dress pants, round and perfectly carved, was already already imbedded in his memory. Who even wears dress pants to university?
The definition of his cupid bow is sharp and heart-shaped, contrasting with the soft edges of his stout bottom lip, San had noticed when he had been knocked into an unsuspecting Yunho’s chest during a tumultuous hallway frenzy. What even were the odds that he’d find himself caught by Yunho? That particular experience had been the last straw for San: being squished against Yunho’s warm body, encaged by strong arms — he wasn’t even trying to feel them, honestly, he just needed to grasp onto something for balance, and the biceps were just there — and forced to look up, just centimetres from his face, and lips, as he leaned down to ask San if he was okay. The worried words just made things worse, Yunho’s sweet, concerned expression doing nothing to soothe San.
♥
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“I don’t get it,” Yunho groans from behind his helmet. Currently second to last in line for exercises the coach had left them to whilst she went to get a cup of murky coffee from the rink’s only vending machine, old and barely functioning, Yunho was venting his heart out to Jongho. Mingi had proved himself to be the worst of help, and so Yunho had taken it upon himself to redirect his concerns towards one of his friends that would be of better counsel. Case in point : Jongho. Sweet, wise Jongho.
“What did you do to him?”
Rude, evil Jongho. Yunho considers throwing his whole friend group in the bin and meeting new people.
“I didn’t do anything ! I’ve barely even talked to him,” Yunho whines, leaving out the part where for some god forbidden reason, he keeps running into San in the clumsiest of ways, favouring his dignity over being radicalised by his friends.
Mingi turns around, two players in front of the pair and snorts. Yunho does a slightly threatening hand movement, imitating a throat slice. Someone may be sleeping on the couch tonight.
“Look, I don’t know what you did for him to… dislike you so much,”
“I haven’t even—"
“But,” Jongho cuts Yunho off, “I hang out with Seonghwa, and San is one of his best friends. And from what I’ve heard, he’s really sweet. Now, I’ve never properly talked to him, but we’ve crossed each other a few times and he seems really nice.”
Yunho gets a glimpse of Mingi’s smile faltering as he turns back around. Ha ! Yunho isn’t the only one with a ridiculous crush.
“Maybe you should apologise to him,” Jongho suggests.
“For what?”
“I don’t know man.”
Jongho’s shrug makes Yunho question why he even tried to ask for advice. He barely has time to sulk before he suddenly finds himself at the front of the line, next up. He turns his head for a moment and gets a glimpse of San on the bleachers, smiling brightly at who he’s pretty certain is the Seonghwa Jongho was just talking about. His eyes crease up into little crescent and his little teeth catch the glare of the ceiling LEDs. Yunho observes a dimple poking into his cheek and wonders how he never noticed it, then remembers San doesn’t really smile at him. San is beaming, and Yunho can’t seem to take his eyes off the glowing skin slightly bunched up beneath his eyes, staring in awe at the faint rose tint there — perhaps from the sting of the cold air, perhaps from giggling at whatever Seonghwa’s saying to him.
And Yunho thinks he’s the world’s number one hypocrite for judging Mingi’s jealousy when he would sell his soul to replace Seonghwa right this second, to see San flash a blinding smile at him.
“Dude, go !” Jongho tells Yunho loudly with no bite, but a light shove. Yunho snaps out of his thoughts.
“Oh shit, sorry,” he rushes out, quickly giving a push.
Embarrassed, he half-asses the exercise, too busy praying that no one saw him staring at San like the absolute fool he is, and cursing at himself for losing focus during practice.
“What was that earlier?”
So they did notice. Or at least Jongho did. Fresh out the shower, clad in sweatpants and with a towel around his neck, Jongho smiles innocently, but there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes. Yunho wishes he could disappear from the locker room and teleport somewhere far, far away. Mars seems tempting.
“Shut up,” he turns away and pretends to look for something in his locker to hide the blush he feels subtly but warmly blooming. His friends already have too much blackmail on him, he’s not going to dig his own grave for them too.
“Pretty sure he was making heart eyes at San. Do you remember how he called Yunho the tube man?”
Mingi .
As the two keep adding fuel to the fire, bullying the hell out of Yunho as if he’s not right there, Yunho decides he actually really does need to meet new people, and do so urgently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mingi search the tube man on google images, save a picture of one red inflatable noodle-man \ and set it as his new contact photo. They’ll definitely never let it go, and he’s going to be their victim until the day he dies.
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“Wait so you called him the tube man ? Like the inflatable noodle with the freak arms that wave in the wind? The red thing outside the gas station?”
San pitifully nods and hides his face in his arms as Wooyoung howls.
“It's not funny!”
It's no use, Wooyoung's clutching his stomach, doubling over in laughter. San can only watch miserably.
“Are you finished?”
“San, oh my god,” Wooyoung giggles between the words, wiping his eyes. “I’m actually crying. Look!”
“I know I’m dumb, no need to rub it in,” San grumbles, a sliver of annoyance in his voice.
He knows it wasn’t the best possible comeback. In fact, he knows it was the stupidest, most embarrassing insult that had ever come out of his mouth. He’s already aware of it, and certainly does not need his best friend reminding him of just how disastrous the encounter had been.
“Okay, let me get this right,” Wooyoung gets a hold of himself, straightening up despite a few lingering giggles. He puts on a serious expression and folds his hands one atop the other, engaging in terrifyingly intense eye-contact with San. “You hate the dude and get all pissy at him every time you run into him, but you want him to fuck your brains out.”
“Wooyoung!” San jumps from across the table to cover his friend’s big, unfiltered, babbling mouth.
The situation is bad enough, San doesn’t want more people hearing about this ridiculousness, let alone the entirety of the cafeteria. Which is why he’s confiding in Wooyoung, while Yeosang is probably just waking up, enjoying his class-free morning and Seonghwa still has thirty minutes left of a lecture before he can join them for lunch. The little gremlin is loud, but is surprisingly good at keeping secrets. Alarmingly good, even. Besides, San doesn’t actually want Yunho to fuck his brains out, he thinks.
“Woo, I don’t actually want him to fuck my brains out,” he hisses.
“Sure,” Wooyoung pops a grape into his mouth. “You just fantasise about his back muscles, and possible rock hard pecs and abs. And his hands. And arms. And also his lips.”
San’s not really sure what to say. It’s not like Wooyoung’s completely wrong, but hearing him repeat exactly what he had just been venting about somehow sounds too brazen, and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Maybe telling Wooyoung about his weird enticement to his archenemy was a step in the wrong direction. If he hasn’t even figured out these feelings himself, what's the point of trying to voice them to someone else?
Wooyoung must notice the dubitative look on San’s face, because his expression loses some of its mirth and gains in sympathy.
“Look, I’ll admit it's a bit weird. You bump into the guy you hate, embarrassingly insult him and then get horny over how hard his chest feels.”
San groans. He knows .
“Then you go all oogo aga when you see his naked back—”
“Please stop talking. I already lived through all of that once.”
But Wooyoung is merciless and has a big ass fucking mouth.
“Then you bump into him some more — by the way, the amount of times you both coincidentally run into each other is a bit spooky — and you’re conflicted because you’re turned on, but also, you hate him. It's weird. But kind of hot,” he wiggles his eyebrows.
“For the love of god, Wooyoung, please .”
“Boo. You’re no fun.”
San shoots him a pointed look, hopeful that Wooyoung will understand he opened up about the confusing sex-feelings for advice, not for torture.
“Maybe you just need a good hate-fucking session. Get it all out of your system, and then you’ll feel way better and you can go back to your boring, jockless life.”
“My life is not boring. It has just the right amount of excitement.”
Wooyoung raises a brow, silently bringing up San’s questionably introverted lifestyle.
“Besides,” San outright chooses to ignore his goblin friend’s implicitness, “who needs a jockful life?”
“San, my friend. It's not just about having a jockful life. Everybody needs a tall and muscular sexy jock in their life. Its basic principles.”
“According to who?”
“Me.”
“My point exactly.”
“Sanie, what's that supposed to mean,” Wooyoung whines, pouting at him over their lunch trays.
“I refuse to answer. Gather some brain cells and think about it.”
“You’re so mean to me.”
“That's just how I keep you in line.”
“Why would you even need to do that?”
“To stop you from suggesting things like hate-fucking sessions, ” San whispers the last part, unable to match Wooyoung’s shamelessness.
“It's a terrific idea!”
“I don’t think the aftermath is gonna be too terrific.”
“Sannie,” Wooyoung leans a temple into one palm, batting his lashes, “there’s no time to think of consequences when you’re young and horny.”
“This is why I stay in and don’t go out with you. You’re an enabler, Wooyoung. An enabler of very, very bad decisions.”
“You’re just stubborn and don’t want to acknowledge the several points I made.”
San’s starting to think he’s right. He mentally curses Wooyoung for being so convincing, or maybe just a prodigious brainwasher. He hates to admit it, but he does have a bit of boring life. Aside from hanging out with Seonghwa and his boyfriend at their apartment, going for coffee with Yeosang, and indulging Wooyoung in binge-watching Netflix shows, there hasn’t been much animation to San’s quotidianity since he stopped professionally competing. Skating had taken up so much of his life that when he got injured and had to hold back from activities, he had lost all meaning and sense of self-identity. The disorientation was so brutal he’d completely renounced skating for a long while. He’d spent months obsessively watching all the competitions he should’ve been preparing for, bitterly rewatching his practice videos from previous seasons, holed up at his parents’ place.
It was only when he decided he needed to pick himself back up and stop his very own pity party that he finally discovered what his life could be, despite the loss of the future he always thought was going to be his someday. With his enrolment in university, accepted as a sophomore on the account of taking summer classes, as well as a few extra ones during the year to make up for all the work and knowledge he’d missed during his mourning, came friends, though only a few. After being homeschooled for so long, always around his parents or personal coach, he was a bit frightened of finding himself in crowds and figuring out how to connect with others. However, he managed to find a group of people that helped him grow out of his shell, and he finally familiarised with the sheer joy and difficulties of friendships and university life. To be fair, Wooyoung had played a big part in this, skipping a bunch of habitual steps and going straight to pestering San like they had known each other their whole lives, dragging him outside and making him feel safe and included. He tends to push boundaries, but has never pushed San to discomfort, and San often ends up feeling overly grateful to him.
So, maybe Wooyoung is right.
“Look, I know you have your reasons for disliking hockey players.”
Wooyoung’s face softens when San visibly tenses, knowing he’s addressing a sensitive subject. San is relieved when he doesn’t push it, not really keen on discussing the topic over casual lunch in the cafeteria.
“And you know you can count on me if you ever feel like opening up more.”
San almost feels bad for still being so elliptic, even around the few friends he has and trusts. Wooyoung doesn’t seem bothered as he brings it up, or at least, doesn’t show it. Nevertheless, San makes a mental note to put in more effort in opening up. Like Seonghwa always reminds them, the stubborn little kids they are deep inside, real friendships share burdens and redistribute the weight so that everyone’s shoulders feel lighter.
“But the tube man doesn’t seem so evil. I mean, he hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”
San reluctantly shakes his head.
“So consider it. A one night stand isn’t so bad. You can have a good time in bed, let out your frustrations, enjoy his jacked muscles, and never talk to him again! Simple as that.”
“Simple? Woo, I see him at the rink every Wednesday and Friday. Mondays are the only days where the clubs’ schedules don’t overlap.”
“First of all, stop frowning,” Wooyoung reaches over to smooth the line creasing the middle of San’s forehead. “Be grateful we even attend a school that has a fucking ice rink. Secondly, you can just ignore him. Just stay with Seonghwa and Yeosang and don’t look his way.”
“You make avoiding a six-foot-something tall man sound so easy,” San groans.
Wooyoung shrugs.
“In, the end, it's still all up to you man.”
Before San can let more of his worries tumble out of his mouth, he spots Seonghwa walking over to their table from behind Wooyoung. He thinks that perhaps Seonghwa has some kind of psychic timing, unsure of what would ensue if he kept trying to put into words the chaotic situation of his overthinking mind.
“Ugh, I can’t believe I literally have the worst, most boring lecturer ever,” Seonghwa sighs loudly, ungracefully plopping down in the chair next to Wooyoung.
As he begins his weekly rant about a specific phonetics class, which is apparently torture to sit through, San and Wooyoung share a look. The latter sends the tiniest reassuring smile and San finds himself feeling lighter. He's glad Wooyoung will respect his wishes without questioning, and keep Yunho-talk just between the two of them. Truthfully, he doesn’t really want Seonghwa to know about his cataclysmic situation, because then Seonghwa will do his thing where he steps into the role of a doting but very worried mother, trying to resolve everyone’s problems, and then he’ll talk to Jongho from the hockey team, and then everyone and their goddamned grandma will know about San’s creepy obsession, and San would like to keep everything on the low. Letting Seonghwa in on Yunho-talk would result in the exact opposite.
It's ass o’clock in the morning and San lays wide awake. Perspectively, he should be sleeping, or at least trying to help himself do so with ASMR or something of the likes. Realistically, he can’t get Wooyoung’s little taunting voice out of his head, satanically repeating “hate-fucking session”. Also, San has a boner. It's not too bad, but very distracting, and he can’t help but feel ludicrous. Who the hell gets so worked up over their archenemy? And because he craves to avoid opening up Pandora’s box, he jacks off to the image of Yunho’s gigantic hands, picturing them on his dick instead of his own. He apologises guiltily to his no-hockey-player morals, wishing he could hibernate for a while and let everything blow over.