Archive of Our Own

He was going to leave him.

This was, like all fundamental laws that governed the universe, an irrefutable fact. 

xxx

Sang-woo regretted the admission as soon as it left his mouth.

“You can’t be serious!”

Gi-hun leaned conspiratorially close, so close that the sharp sting of soju on his breath scratched Sang-woo's cheek. 

“That's your secret?” Laughter swelled in his voice. It was a sound Sang-woo typically found vague amusement in, except, of course, for when it came at his own expense. “That's your deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret?”

Their table stretched like a chasm between them. Sang-woo tried to lean away, but the faded leather couch stuck to his back, hemmed him in like a closed stitch. Not for the first time in his life, Sang-woo hated the ugly smear of alcohol that bruised his tongue; it was a bitter-tasting reminder that he had far less control over himself than he liked to believe.

Sang-woo gritted his teeth. He squeezed the neck of his half-drained soju bottle. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Aw, hey, hold on a sec! I’m not laughing at you, promise. It’s no big deal!”

Frankly, Sang-woo thought it was a big deal. A big fucking deal, actually, if his classmates’ idle gossip was anything to go by. He had thought high school was bad, with its braggart teenage boys crowing on and on about their latest sexual conquests or which girl could be considered easiest; he’d done his best to tune them out back then, nose buried so deep in his books that their words had barely a chance to scrape his pride. 

University, however, was so much worse - if only because it was where talk finally stopped being just talk, and crossed that insurmountable bridge into fact.

“Holy shit.” A flash from the dim neon lights cast Gi-hun in a fuzzy-edged glow, half his face tinted peach with it. “You really are still one, aren’t you?”

Sang-woo was suddenly grateful for the soft dream-darkness of the bar. It was enough to hide his ripening skin; enough to almost convince himself that maybe there weren’t thousands of eyes boring into him, peeling him open like the flesh of a rotting fruit. 

Almost. 

Sang-woo glared down at his drink. His fingers squeezed, flexed, knuckles bleached white as if he were trying to strangle an apology from its glass neck. 

Gi-hun slung a low whistle. He kicked back, finally, the distance between them reestablished as he took a lazy swig of his soju. It was only then that Sang-woo found he could properly breathe again. “How is it you’re still finding new ways to surprise me?”

“It’s not intentional,” Sang-woo replied testily. 

“...No one’s ever even offered you the chance?”

“Hyung.” Sang-woo swore he squeezed his glass so hard he could feel cracks begin to form. “Drop it.”

“Alright, okay, yeesh!” Gi-hun threw up his hands. “Touchy subject much.”

Silence settled between them, something Sang-woo was privately grateful for. Silence never betrayed him. Most especially not when he was tipsy. The world was tinted pink and tipped askew, not unlike his thoughts. But thoughts would remain just that - thoughts, bitten back behind his teeth and swallowed down alongside the rest of his alcohol. Fermenting there. Hidden so deep that, sometimes, Sang-woo forgot there was any semblance of truth to be found within them. 

That didn’t stop Sang-woo from attending their ritualistic Friday night drinks. It had become a somewhat intrinsic part of his routine, though he’d never intended for it to last so long. It was … risky. In ways he couldn’t quite articulate or even fully comprehend. He promised himself that he’d put a pin in it. Soon. One more Friday night, he’d think each and every Friday afternoon; I can stop whenever I want. The irony was not lost on him. He told his mother a similar thing on the odd occasion when he squeezed in a visit; I’ll quit smoking. Tomorrow. Not today. Never today. 

Yet another lie rotting in his belly. 

He told himself that it was no big deal, really. Two old friends hanging out. Talking shit. Like the good old days. 

(The good old days were happening now, in retrospect - he was only twenty, and Gi-hun twenty-one. They were in the spry of their youth, young adults in every sense of the term. But it was impossible not to feel older, weather-knuckled and beaten down, as if he’d lived an age already. People used to say that about him, when he was a kid - he’s old before his time, said fondly, admirably, like it was a miracle to witness. But Sang-woo didn’t feel any wiser than he had at sixteen. Only now he was expected to act it. Was this just what being an adult was all about?) 

Still. No drama. No problem. No one cared. No one looked. (Was anyone looking? ) He tried to convince himself they weren’t. But it was hard. Made harder still when Gi-hun lost all sense of propriety after his first bottle of beer. Sometimes, when Sang-woo was helping him stumble his way home, Gi-hun would brush up close, an arm slung around his neck, the touch of their skin pressed together like exposed wires, static and electrical; the wild curls of his hair damp with sweat, voice strummed with laughter (and people were looking.) A hole in Sang-woo’s chest that yawned ever so slightly wider. He’d swallow hard, swallow down all the thoughts that crept up his throat like vomit. Since when was there ever any use in dwelling on impossibilities?

Some things were better left unsaid.

Most things, actually.

xxx

“What’s your deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret?” Gi-hun had asked, two empty soju bottles cast to the side of their table.

Sang-woo had retorted that Gi-hun ought to share his own first. It was only fair since he’d been the one to ask. He did, of course, with no hesitation. Shameless as ever. And inevitably, fucking unbearably, it was about sex. 

It was about a girl he’d taken to bed, the first, and he was her first too; in the morning, he’d woken up with a jolt, because he could hear her father downstairs throwing a fit, and, in a panic, his drunkenness worn thin, he’d tossed on his boxers and attempted to scale out her third story window, plummeting halfway down into her mother’s perfectly manicured rose bushes. A ruined garden to match his ruined virginity. 

“My mom never found out, of course,” he’d boasted. “And neither did you. Obviously. Do you remember that time I broke my arm? And how I said it was from saving this random old lady’s purse? Yeah … that may have been a lie. Fooled you pretty good though, didn’t I?”

“Oh absolutely,” Sang-woo had said. He hadn’t the courage to say he’d known all along. Could tell by the way his hair was all mussed, the weird bruise on his neck, the guilty drop of his eyes when pressed on the matter. Gi-hun was a shitty liar. One of the worst. But he’d let him get away with it, if only because Sang-woo wanted to believe in the half-baked lie he was providing. It was easier to imagine that than the alternative. 

A lost chance.

Sometimes, though, when he had nothing better to do with his time, he entertained his curiosity and wondered what this mystery fling had been like. A guy? Or a girl? (Most likely the latter - Gi-hun had never given him any inkling that he’d swung the other way.) So, in that case. Was it a good experience, or the type regrets were made of? And what had Gi-hun sounded like while he was caught up in it all? What had he said ? Did he make promises? Were they empty? Or real? Did he say much at all, or did he make those raw, guttural noises from deep inside one’s throat, the kind he’d occasionally heard in porn? Oh. That was embarrassing to think about. And dangerous. Because then it led to other thoughts. And he didn’t find those other thoughts quite as shallowly entertaining. 

“So! Your turn,” Gi-hun had teased.

And without thinking, Sang-woo had replied, “I’m a virgin.” 

xxx

Thoughts didn’t belong anywhere other than a box banished to the very back of his mind. A box specifically made for thoughts about Gi-hun.

Sang-woo hated alcohol sometimes. It dredged everything up . All the shit and the gunk and the rot and the things that were supposed to dwell below the surface — he felt it all inside of him like a blister, rubbed raw and burst. 

“You know,” said Gi-hun kindly, “there's nothing wrong with it. I mean, we've all been there. Virginity is a dumb concept anyway. It means nothing.”

“That's easy for you to say. You lost yours at sixteen.”

“Yeah, and I barely remember it! I was drunk outta my mind. So was she.”

“Poor you,” Sang-woo lamented humorlessly.

“Hey, c’mon, like I said — it's no big deal! I’ve had plenty of sex since then, good sex. Oh! The other day, there was this girl I met at a club, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I know I say that a lot, Sang-woo-ya, but seriously, she was so beautiful. Anyway, we got talking, danced for a bit, and after a while she took me back to her place and we -”

Panic sliced a fine red line through his chest. “I didn’t realize being easy was something to brag about.” Don’t talk about her, don’t talk about her, don’t talk about her. But it was too late. The fantasy was already out of its box, that same twisted fantasy he had every time Gi-hun spoke of his latest, luckiest fling. In it, he was beneath him (you’re so pathetic) and Gi-hun was murmuring praise (patheticpatheticpathetic.) It wasn’t the kind of praise Gi-hun usually threw his way; in this imaginary context, it was sensuous, slipped between harsh, quiet breaths into his kiss-bitten ear. Sang-woo wanted to drown the image in more soju. Suffocate it to death under a pillow. Wrangle it into the graveyard in his head where all such thoughts ought to whimper out and die.

“Is there something wrong with being easy?” Gi-hun replied, amused. “I’m having fun. And from what I’ve been told, they have fun too. Why should I care what other people think?”

Sang-woo hid his frown behind a delicate sip of his drink. Of course they had fun. They were fucking Gi-hun. He was the type of man to make his one-night stands a tray of pancakes and hot cocoa come the morning. A local heartthrob if there ever was one. 

“Fine,” Gi-hun sighed. “You caught me. Maybe I am bragging. Just a little. But can you really blame me, Mr. Hotshot Genius of SNU? You get the better of me in pretty much everything. Smarts, grades, looks. Hell, my mom thinks you’re the better son, and she didn’t even give birth to you! What’s up with that? So, sue me. I have to enjoy this moment while I still can. You’re a handsome guy. You’ll find someone you want to lose it to one day. And it’ll be romantic and sappy and gross and whatever else you want it to be. M’kay? Stop sulking, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Okay, hyung.” Sang-woo was more than happy for the conversation to end. He’d sooner die than admit that he’d had his chances, more than he could count, from pretty girls, mostly, though he’d turned them all down because … well. 

Sometimes he wondered if it was obvious.

If people could tell.

He liked to think that he hid it well. Gi-hun didn’t seem to know. Or care. Knowing and caring were interchangeable, really; Sang-woo didn’t mind which one it was, so long as they never talked about it. 

But to even admit it to himself felt like such a failure on his part. Like he’d let himself down.

Like he’d let his mother down. 

Oh. That thought was sobering. It punched him in the stomach. Made his guts squirm like sliced worms.

(Pathetic.)

Another neon flash from the dancefloor. It thrummed in rhythmic pulses. A distant heartbeat. (People were looking at him.) They weren’t. Everybody was far too wrapped up in their own fun to pay any heed to the corner booth they sat at. The wash of pink illuminated Gi-hun again in all the wrong ways. He had his hand resting on his cheek and his legs half-stretched across the couch like a lazy cat sunning itself by a window. The look in his eyes was … not intense, but sharp. The pointed probe of an injection. Sang-woo hated eye contact. It made him feel restless. Anxious. He felt Gi-hun’s look, then, as if it were the slip of a needle sliding beneath his skin. (Gi-hun was looking at him . What did he see?) 

“If you’re that bothered by it, though,” said Gi-hun carefully, “I could always set you up. I know a few girls who might meet your standards. Or guys, if that’s more your speed.” He shrugged. “I’m sure they’d be down for a date if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“...What?”

“Oh, hey, did I tell you about the stupid bullshit that happened at work the other day? It’s so dumb. My friend and I, we —”

“Stop. Shut up.” The bar was a prison. Caged in. Suffocated. “What are you talking about? Why would you even say something like that?”

“Sorry. Am I wrong?” Gi-hun scratched his neck. “I just assumed you weren’t that into girls. You never look interested when I talk about them. I thought maybe you were … It doesn’t matter. But, I mean. Well.” He fidgeted awkwardly. “If you are, I don’t mind. Guys, girls, it’s all the same to me. Like who you like. It's whatever.”

“I like girls,” Sang-woo said, a little too quickly. 

“Girls, then. I know a ton of girls who’d go absolutely crazy for a chance with someone like you. You’re the pinnacle of success.”

“No, hyung, that’s not what I want.” Sang-woo rubbed his temple, exasperated. He felt a bit like he’d been scattered across the floor, a thousand pieces to a puzzle he couldn’t be bothered to solve. “Don’t set me up with anybody. I have far better things to do with my time than sleep around.”

“Like what? Oh, right, like filing your taxes.”

Sang-woo shook his head, exasperated. “I just don’t understand the appeal.”

Gi-hun snorted. “That’s probably the dorkiest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re so lame, you know that, right?”

“Lame?”

“And smart and good-looking and important and a national treasure and blah blah blah - there! Was that enough to soothe your fragile ego? Heaven forbid I take a break from singing your praises for one second —”

Sang-woo glared.

“ — and I get that look! See, that one right there! I’m older than you, remember? You have to treat me with respect. I practically taught you everything you know! What are they teaching you over there at SNU anyway? This new generation has no respect for its elders.”

Gi-hun keeled over with laughter, spilling out from his seams like he was overflowing with it. Alcohol had that effect on him.

Usually, Sang-woo would watch in detached amusement. Whenever Gi-hun laughed like this, there was a spark in his chest, a warm glow that could only be compared to fondness. He consciously tried his best not to show it. But he was so wrapped up in his mortification that, this time, it barely even occurred to him. If Gi-hun knew, how long had he known? Had he always known? That was more than a little disconcerting to consider. He didn’t like the idea that there was someone out there in the world who knew him better than he knew himself, didn’t like it at all. Even if that person was supposed to be his best friend. 

How long had Sang-woo known? Always? Never? He skirted between the two, never quite sure, never willing to fully commit to either. It seemed safer that way. Some things were better left untouched. And this was one of those things. A wasp nest rattling inside himself, loud and dangerous and violently buzzing into a crescendo. One day, he would look at it, maybe, but not yet. (Never yet.) 

Gi-hun wiped a tear away, stubbornly caught on his eyelash. “Ah, man. Sorry. It’s too funny. And all this because you’re still a virgin —”

Sang-woo pulled in a deep breath through his nose. Steadied himself. Steeled his nerves, which were frayed at the edges, held together by split, thin threads. “I told you to drop it. Can we talk about something else? Something less … vulgar, perhaps?”

“Since when is sex vulgar? Jeez, no wonder you’re still a virgin. You’re not losing it any time soon with that attitude. Word of advice, Sang-woo-ya: no one likes a prude, not when they’re our age. Okay, okay!” Gi-hun held out his palms, pacifying. “I’m done. Drop it. I hear ya. Loud and clear.”

With a bit of luck, Gi-hun would forget this entirely pointless conversation by morning, far too preoccupied nursing a hangover to care. With a bit of luck, Sang-woo would forget too. It’d take a more conscious effort on his part. Still, he was good at categorizing memories, good at separating the bad from the worst, good at putting things into boxes — (DO NOT OPEN, DO NOT OPEN, DO NOT OPEN) — a methodical and profoundly ingrained habit he’d had since young. Sometimes it felt like his head was an abandoned attic. Boxes piled upon boxes, reaching high as a roof. He wondered if there was a limit to how much he could lock up inside; he wondered if, one day, his brain would simply explode from it all. 

Gi-hun finished the last of his drink in one fell swoop. He slammed it down on their table. The pleased, high sound he made at the sudden kick of soju, a sound pitched awfully high in his throat, drew so many wandering looks that Sang-woo turtled, the couch against his back a poor substitute for a shell. “Damn, that feels good! How’re you doing? Am I winning? This is my third, but I can go another round, try me!”

Grateful for the change in topic, Sang-woo pushed his now empty bottle across the table. “This is my fourth, actually. And judging by your awful tolerance, I’m on track to win. Again.”

Gi-hun puffed out his cheeks in a pout. “No fair. You always win Friday night drink-offs.”

“I win most things, according to you.”

“Exactly. Which is why I have to take my victories where I can.”

Sang-woo let that unnecessary comment slide. If only because Gi-hun, cheeks tinted pink with a wry smile and a wink, looked far too handsome for his own good.

For the millionth time that night, Sang-woo thought, I am going to leave you. 

He kept that mantra close to his chest, where not even Gi-hun’s prying eyes could reveal it. Repeated it over and over in an endless loop until it was nothing more than a garbled string of letters stripped of all meaning.

I am going to leave you.

I am going to leave you.

I am going to leave you.

I am going to leave you.

I am going to -

xxx

Sometimes Sang-woo wondered what his life would be like if he wasn’t the biggest fucking coward to exist on planet Earth.

Maybe, when he was fifteen, he would've just come right out and said it, like ripping off a band-aid. Maybe people would've made fun of him for it, sure, but maybe it wouldn't have really mattered in the end, because he was still better than all of them even if his sexuality defied expectations. Maybe, when he was eighteen, he would've asked if Gi-hun ever looked at men the same way he looked at women, and if Gi-hun had answered yes, maybe he would've scrounged up the courage to ask, then why don't you ever look at me that way? Maybe, tonight, when Gi-hun had assumed he liked guys, he wouldn't have blustered and lied and hidden behind his shame. Maybe he would've gone along with it, said, yeah, I do. Maybe saying I do didn't have to be the big, scary failure he'd hyped it up to be. Maybe no one would care. (They would.) Maybe Gi-hun wouldn’t care. (Would he?) Maybe that was all that really mattered in the end. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. So many maybes. Too many. Not enough. Fuck. His head hurt.

It was midnight when they left the bar. The sky was bleached pink by the neon lights of Seoul. If there were stars, they were drowning, smothered beneath a sea of pollution that turned the air to liquid smoke. 

They walked under halos of street lamps. Gi-hun sang an old sailor’s fishing ballad off-tune while he swayed into and away from Sang-woo’s side. His feet were guided by the lingering aftermath of soju and, eventually, Sang-woo’s hand on his shoulder.

“...Fish of the East Sea, fish of the West Sea, our boat has captured them all.”

“Are you done?” Sang-woo subtly steered Gi-hun away from walking off the curb.

Gi-hun laughed and fell against his shoulder. Sang-woo tried to ignore the way his breath stirred against his neck. “Why? Don’t like my singing?”

“I’d like it better if it weren’t the middle of the night. You sound like a cat in heat.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You know, Sang-woo-ya, you might be the only person who thinks that. I’ve been told I have a wonderful voice by many a beautiful lady.”

“And how much did you pay them to say that?”

“You’re unbelievable!” Gi-hun slapped his shoulder. “Bet you’re jealous.”

“Sure, hyung. Jealous. Let’s go with that.” He hated how close to the truth that drunken accusation was. “Do you want me to walk you to the station? You might be in time for the train if we hurry.”

Gi-hun shook his head. “Nah. My mom’ll burst a blood vessel if I come home like this. She’s this close to kicking me out, I swear. What if I end up homeless, Sang-woo-ya? I’m too pretty to survive on the streets!”

“Maybe if you start paying rent, she’ll be less inclined to do so.”

“Do I look like I’m made of money?”

“You look like a mooch, hyung. I paid for your drinks tonight like I do every Friday night.” From my own scholarship allowance, no less, he thought sickly.

“My point exactly. So hey, in that case, can I crash at your place?”

Sang-woo froze. His hand slipped free from Gi-hun’s shoulder. 

Without Sang-woo to guide him, Gi-hun’s wobbly ebb and sway returned. He staggered on with a lopsided gait, singing out-of-tune all the while, and Sang-woo would’ve found it immensely amusing had he not been so fixated on Gi-hun’s request.

“Fancy SNU bedroom, fancy SNU bed, fancy SNU sheets. Woah. That sounds pretty nice right about now, yeah. Shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your dorm before. Do you still wear those tacky old man pajamas? If you do, we need to have a serious talk.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. No. It was a fucking terrible idea. 

But how could he ever begin to convey that to Gi-hun without seeming … weird? They used to have sleepovers all the time. It was no big deal. It definitely didn’t need to be a big deal. They were friends. Just friends. (Best friends.) No one would bat an eye. Sang-woo didn’t have to explain himself. He had nothing to hide. (You do.) So why did the mere prospect of Gi-hun in his dorm fill him with so much dread? Why did he suddenly feel so, so guilty? 

(You know why.)

Alone with Gi-hun. For the first time in … what? Years? He couldn’t be held responsible for what he might say. What his body might betray. It was always different in the privacy of his own room. Sang-woo knew that from experience. 

Fucking hell. Why couldn’t he be normal? 

It had come as a quiet relief when he’d moved into the SNU dormitories. The sudden separation from Gi-hun, from his mother - it was a blessing in disguise. He told himself that daily. Held that mantra close to his chest for the first few nights in his new bedroom, where everything was new and cold and unfamiliar, where even the smell was strangely empty. (He’d never tell anybody this, but he missed the stench of fish from his mother’s shop, or the cheap, chalky aftershave Sang-woo sometimes noticed on Gi-hun when they hung out together.) By comparison, SNU was clean. Prim. Everyone there dressed to impress. Looked like they belonged. (Do I look like I belong? Yes. Yes, of course I do.)

Time made things easier. But he never quite managed to shed his nostalgia. He sensed it like a snakeskin wrapped around him whenever he visited his mother. Whenever he saw Gi-hun on Fridays. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly sentimental, he would make an effort to pass by Ssangmun-dong, catch the fleeting beat of a glimpse. When he did, he’d smell street food, meat-sick and heavy in the air, and he’d hear kids playing, an echo that threatened to unbox one of his memories, and he’d see the parks and playgrounds he used to haunt as a young boy, ghostlike even back then. It pulled at him, this awful, awful place. He wanted to go home. 

Gi-hun turned around, blinking owlishly, bathed in the washed out glow of a flickering street lamp. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Sang-woo cleared his throat. “Nothing, I —”

“SNU’s ten minutes away, right?”

“Yeah. Yes, it is.”

“Then hurry up. Let’s go.” A glint lit Gi-hun’s eyes then, so piercing and pointed it sliced through the dark like a kitchen knife. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

Sang-woo fidgeted. There it was again. That ever-present, gnawing sensation. Eyes. Peeling him open. Was Gi-hun making fun of him? Was he in on it? It felt like that sometimes. Like the whole world was part of some big joke he wasn’t privy to. 

…Maybe he’d imagined it.

“Fine. You can stay over.” Sang-woo stamped down on the unwelcome flicker of excitement in his chest. “But you need to behave. This isn’t like my mom’s house. No smoking on the premises and absolutely no singing. Alright?”

Gi-hun chuckled. “I’m always on my best behavior. Around you, however…”

“Hyung.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t embarrass you in front of your cool new friends. Promise.”

He wanted to say that it had nothing to do with embarrassment, that Gi-hun could never embarrass him, but who was he kidding? It would be a lie. Sang-woo’s heart dropped to his stomach, a feeling not unlike the swoop and rush of falling. A mixture of shame, and something else, swelled inside him, something he would perhaps never feel ready to confront. 

The walk to his dormitory was a short one. Gi-hun’s singing had fallen down to a hum, suffocated into silence by the distant churn of car wheels and the muffled heartbeat of night-clubs thumping with music. Seoul was beautiful at night. Ethereal in the way of most concrete jungles. He could almost lose himself in it. The veins of the streets. Tightly wound and stretched taut. Wrapping around the city’s steadily pumping heart. He was blood pushed through a blood vessel. Automatic and oxygenated. Alive.

 It felt close to a loss when they escaped inside; everything was suddenly too quiet. Squeezed tight. Like an artery cut off from circulation. His building was one in a block of several. Seven stories high and an identical clone to its neighboring twin. There was a liminal quality to this space. As if he’d crossed a boundary. Left one world behind for another. Pristine white walls and sleek linoleum floor. The smell of cleaning product.

They’d made it in time before curfew, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing them, so Sang-woo grasped Gi-hun by the wrist and dragged him to the elevator.

“Hey, hey, easy!”

“Quiet. I’m not supposed to have visitors this late at night.” Sang-woo shot a paranoid look over his shoulder just as the elevator doors slid closed. He half-expected the countless prying eyes from the bar to have followed him home. 

Gi-hun snatched his wrist back and rubbed it. “Jerk.”

His room was on the seventh floor. He was lucky enough not to share. Gi-hun always talked about the dormitories as if they were rich, prestigious places. “You must live in a mansion now, Sang-woo-ya!”  he’d gushed when he first moved in. Sang-woo wasn't sure how he'd ever gotten that impression. His bedroom was nicer than the one he'd had back home, sure, but it was also small and compact, a chamber not unlike that in an ant nest; Sang-woo was, after all, only one of many. 

He didn't like to think about that. You're not special. You're nothing. A worker ant born into a mechanical sense of purpose. Running on pure instinct. Destined for little more than the legacy of his birthright. So, like all truths he didn't appreciate, he found it a box, and tucked the thought away. 

“Wow. This has got to be the most boring bedrooms I've ever seen.”

“Shoes. Off.”

“Duh. I'm not a savage.”

Sang-woo shut the door behind them. Only then did he release the breath he'd been holding. His bedroom was, as Gi-hun so delicately chose to put it, boring. A simple bed. A desk. A neat and tidy bookshelf organized according to the Korean Decimal Classification. (He liked libraries; they were immaculately kept places, calm and preserved, and he thought if he brought a smidge of that methodical approach home with him, then maybe it'd make his head just that little bit more silent. A long overdue hush.)

There was a clock pinned on the wall, which he’d painstakingly set to the exact time by the second. Tick-tick-tick. An omnipresent sound. 

“Where's the color? Where's the personality? I thought I taught you better than this,” Gi-hun teased.

“That thing you call color is actually just clutter,” Sang-woo retorted. “It's not the bold statement you seem to think it is.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing. Clutter is another word for worldly, did you know that? It means I'm living.”

“...Since when?”

“You wouldn't get it.” After putting his shoes away in the locker, he padded on in, a tomcat making himself right at home. “It's fine. No shame in being boring. It's only because you're so brilliant, after all. You don't have space for anything else.”

Sang-woo would've bristled had Gi-hun not tossed him his trademark smile. A wordless assurance no harm was meant. Tentatively, after putting his own shoes away, he followed him in. His palm was hot. Sweaty. The lingering ghost of Gi-hun's wrist in his hand — it was more than a little distracting. Sang-woo tried to inconspicuously wipe the feeling away against his pants. 

“Jokes aside, nice place you got here. Not a single cockroach in sight! Is this what a scholarship gets you nowadays? You're totally spoiled rotten.”

“It's good,” Sang-woo agreed distantly. 

“Careful, Sang-woo-ya. It's not good. That makes you sound so ungrateful. It's great.” He paused. Looked at him with open, undisguised affection. So raw and honest it hurt. “You're great. Obviously.”

I'm not, though.

Sang-woo bit the inside of his cheek. Until blood bloomed. Until he tasted salt. 

Gi-hun wasted no time settling in. He threw himself face-first onto Sang-woo's bed, rolled so that he was splayed on his back, and threw out his arms. His shirt rode up ever so slightly, revealing the dip of his bellybutton and a small trail of hair that trickled down beneath his pants. Moments like these made Sang-woo wonder, really wonder, if Gi-hun knew how he felt; if he leveraged his body in all the ways he suspected would make Sang-woo ache the most.

But that was stupid. Gi-hun might've thought he liked guys, but he wasn't so perceptive as to know how Sang-woo felt about him. 

Gi-hun didn't know anything.

Except that wasn't true. He knew too much. 

The burst of anger that exploded in his chest was not entirely unexpected, nor wholly unfamiliar. Sang-woo scowled. His vision was tinted red at the edges, blurry from too much alcohol, and he could feel his liver inside him like a fresh bruise. He needed to find something to do with his hands, otherwise he was afraid he might punch a hole in the wall, and oh, this urge was new, flitting like a spark across his fist. So, he busied himself by sifting through the clothes in his drawer. 

“Those ‘tacky old man pajamas’ you hate so much are all I’ve got for you to sleep in, so you’ll have to deal with it.” Behind him, he heard the mattress squeak beneath Gi-hun’s weight. 

“Does it really matter that much to you? Being a virgin?”

Sang-woo froze. He could feel Gi-hun staring at him. A hole burned into his spine. 

“I thought we were moving on from that conversation,” he said stiffly. 

“Answer the question and I will.”

Sang-woo turned around. Gi-hun was balanced on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, leaning back onto the splayed palms of his hands. He looked so relaxed, as if the alcohol and the midnight stroll had popped all his bones loose. And yet there was that knowing glint again, a sharpness in his eyes that betrayed his shallow smile. Like he was seeing something Sang-woo couldn’t. 

Gi-hun usually knew when to let sleeping dogs lie. It was one of the many things Sang-woo liked about him. This unusual persistence was not only bothersome, but unnerving. He wanted Gi-hun to go back to being pliable and thick-headed, the way Sang-woo expected him to be, a happy-go-lucky, thoughtless idiot. 

…It was an unfair stab at Gi-hun, and despite it not being said aloud, guilt tightened his stomach into a knot. They were such different people. Two pieces of a puzzle that couldn’t be made to fit no matter how hard the universe tried to push them together. 

 “It didn't matter to you?” Sang-woo winced. What an obvious deflection. 

Gi-hun shrugged. “Not really. Losing it just kinda happened, you know? I would've waited, but, well, she was pretty, and I liked her, and she said she liked me … next thing I know her dad's having a fit downstairs and I'm falling three stories down out her window.”

“Not your finest moment,” said Sang-woo critically.

“Nah.” He cocked his head and offered a small, lopsided smile. “Losing your virginity never is.”

It seemed so vulnerable, so ugly, to expose yourself in such a way before another human being; to have them see you without clothes, without dignity, without pride. What would Gi-hun say if he saw who Sang-woo really was, hidden beneath years and years and layers upon layers of carefully crafted pretense? Would he laugh in his face? Call him obscene? Would he mock him for ever even thinking he had a chance?

Would he leave?

Oh.

That thought pierced him. It was a terrifying thing to consider. So terrifying, in fact, that it reminded Sang-woo he had to be the one to leave first, if only to prove a point. It was an animalistic instinct. Primal. Devoid of anything resembling a sound mind and body. Maybe he would’ve listened to it right then and there had there been any place to run to. But he was trapped, caged in, a rabbit caught in the snare that was Gi-hun’s calculated, measured gaze. 

Besides, Sang-woo needed to properly plan his leaving, execute it with the same kind of precision and cleanliness that a surgeon would employ when slicing through skin. Tick-tick-tick. Time was running out. Sang-woo would do it first. And soon. Before Gi-hun ever had the opportunity.

“What do you want?” He hoped Gi-hun would take the hint and reply with something soft-headed and expected, something like, ‘I don’t know, actually. I was just wondering,’ and that would be that, and they’d go to bed, and come the morning the world would be clear and focused and aligned again. Back under his precise control.

But Gi-hun didn’t say that. Sometimes, Gi-hun seemed dead-set against doing what Sang-woo expected of him. It was admirable, occasionally. Inconvenient, constantly. “I think the real question, Sang-woo-ya, is what do you want?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I mean, yeah. So are you.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“It’s midnight. We've got nothing but time.”

Sang-woo bit down on a sigh. He turned back to his drawers and brought out a spare pair of pajamas. Gray. Drab. Tacky. The way most people wanted him to be; the way he wanted to be, especially when contrasted with Gi-hun, who was the antonym to all such expectations. Sang-woo threw the clothes behind him without looking back, heard them crumple into colorless fabric puddles on the floor. “I don’t have a futon. We’ll have to share the bed.” He was already dreading the sensation of Gi-hun’s body pressed against his own; the worn jut of his spine, the slow and languid breaths through his nose. Comforting and familiar. Stirring something inside himself he could not escape.

“I could be your first.”

Sang-woo laughed without feeling it. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious. You and I, we could —”

Something snapped inside Sang-woo, something that, had there not been so much alcohol in his system, wouldn’t have broken at all. “This is a cruel joke, hyung, even for you.” He whipped around to face him. “Did someone put you up to this?”

“What? No! I’m just saying —”

“Stop! Stop it. You’re not — you’re not saying anything. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.” And his voice cracked around the word, the weight of it heavy in his mouth, too heavy. “You can’t say these things when you’re drunk, hyung. It’s not … it’s not proper. And it’s not funny. Not to me.”

“What if I wasn’t drunk?”

“What?”

“What if I was sober, Sang-woo-ya?” Gi-hun looked away. “What then?”

Then maybe his resolve would finally break. Maybe he would allow Gi-hun to press his warm lips into his neck, above where the rhythmic drum of his pulse pounded a predictable beat; maybe, when Gi-hun asked who he liked, he’d croak, “you,” the revelation of it all too much to keep inside of him, and maybe then Gi-hun would reward his uncharacteristic honesty by slipping one hand beneath the waistband of his slacks, lower and lower until —

Then.

But ‘then’ wouldn’t come. Couldn’t. 

Sang-woo didn’t deserve a ‘then.’

And Gi-hun deserved so much more. 

“I need to get changed.” Sang-woo fumbled his way into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

He’s fucking with me. He turned on the faucet. Splashed his face with scalding hot water. He’s fucking with me. His fingers slipped around the buttons of his shirt. He’s fucking with me. A callous tug at his pajama pants chafed his hips. He’s fucking with me.

Sang-woo gripped the sink. Glared at his reflection. Drab and gray. Frown cemented so deep into his face that it ought to be permanent.

He’s fucking with me.

Right? He had to be.

But Gi-hun wasn’t an asshole. There was a reason why most of his flings stuck around afterwards and became his friend. He exuded kindness and compassion so effortlessly. What would Gi-hun possibly have to gain by teasing him in this way? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Unless Sang-woo making a stupid, flustered fool out of himself was that entertaining to witness.

He splashed his face again. The water was so hot it burned his cheeks red. There was a certain grounding element to the pain. It gave him something to latch onto. An anchor of sorts. Sang-woo sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He turned the faucet off. Silence fell, save for the distant tick-tick-tick of the clock. An obnoxiously terrible sound. It set his teeth on edge.

What if he’s not fucking with me?

Did Gi-hun even like guys? He’d never given Sang-woo any sign if he did. All his one night stands — the ones he’d been forced to hear about, anyway — were with women. Beautiful, beautiful women, who wore their femininity proudly on their sleeves. 

Then again, it wasn’t an easy thing to talk about. And their friendship wasn’t exactly built on difficult conversation. How did one even go about broaching the subject? Sometimes secrets were kept because secrets were safe. 

He’d known a guy once. An acquaintance. A friend of Gi-hun’s, actually, who’d come out as gay. He’d been nothing like the stereotypes. Just a normal, everyday sort. And yet people still looked at him differently after that. When he walked into a room, there came a sudden hush, a shift in the crowd, an uncomfortable ripple. It was as if the world around him had been fundamentally changed, as if the laws that governed the universe had given way beneath his feet; as if, in admitting something so simple, a complexity he’d never asked for had been thrust upon him. It didn’t make sense. Maybe nothing would ever make sense again.

Sang-woo had watched it happen, detached and mostly uninterested, but he’d never forgotten; it was one of the few memories he liked to unbox every now and then. People were … complicated. Sang-woo preferred to avoid them where he could. It was why he’d chosen to hitch his float to Gi-hun, of all people; he was an uncomplicated sort, remarkably simple in ways Sang-woo thought he could accurately predict. Except for when he wasn’t. 

I am going to leave him. It had to be true. 

So why did he always find himself hooked back into Gi-hun’s orbit?

Sometimes (all the time) gravity felt like an inescapable force. Why fight it? But Sang-woo had to. There wasn’t any other option. Either he broke the laws of the equivalence principle or he fell back into Ssanangmun-dong’s pull. Everyone seemed to think he could do it, everyone seemed to want him to do it, so why did it always feel like he was coming up short? Was Gi-hun a rope that kept him anchored to the ground? Was his own mother the one holding him back? He longed to be weightless. Floating. An astronaut untethered. Maybe relationships were what kept people subject to the universe’s unfair laws. Maybe, if he purged himself of everything that made him Cho Sang-woo, scooped himself empty, until not even a kilogram of useless fat remained — well, maybe then, and only then, he’d finally float. 

Sang-woo swallowed around the lump in his throat. The mirror seemed to amplify all his worst features. Drab and gray and tacky. Glasses slightly askew. He looked like a virgin in every sense of the word.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Gi-hun was inspecting his bookcase. He traced the spine of a weighty textbook on economics.

Sang-woo balked in his tracks.

“Do you have to read the whole thing?” he asked. “Or is it only here to make a statement about how fancy and smart you are?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

“My shirt? It’s summer, Sang-woo-ya. What kind of psychopath wears clothes to bed? Oh. Right. The ‘you’ kind of psychopath.”

The loose pajama bottoms fit comfortably around Gi-hun’s hips, but everything above —

Sang-woo tried to find something else to look at, settling on the clock and its ticking second hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Gi-hun half-naked. They’d grown up together. He had seen more of his best friend’s body than he would ever care to admit. It was, however, the first time he’d seen the angular lines of a man’s waist immediately after being propositioned for sex.

“What’s the problem? We used to sleep together like this all the time.”

“This is getting ridiculous. I gave you a shirt. Put it on. Let’s go to bed.”

Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “You’re acting so weird tonight, man. Am I missing something here? I thought alcohol was supposed to make you less uptight.”

“You’re the one who —”

“I’m the one who … what? Say it.”

“You’re drunk,” Sang-woo repeated, for what must have been the millionth time. “And you need to sleep it off. I do too.”

Gi-hun hummed thoughtfully. “You never answered my question. About what you’d say if I was sober.”

“Does it matter what I would say?”

Gi-hun’s roaming fingers paused. Confusion screwed up his face, as if he hadn’t considered the answer. “Well … I dunno. Yeah? No? I guess not.”

Sang-woo breathed out through his nose. “Come on,” he said, in a surprisingly gentle tone. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Mm. Okay. Yeah.” 

(Though he didn’t put a shirt on.

Because of course he fucking didn’t. 

Sang-woo was far too tired — and privately, secretly, disgustingly grateful — to care.)

Once the lights were switched off, Sang-woo took off his glasses and cautiously slid beneath the blankets. He tried to maintain some semblance of distance between them, though his bed wasn’t exactly designed to comfortably fit two. Gi-hun kept his back turned. He exuded a broody aura. As if he were sad. Or disappointed. (He knew those feelings intimately well, could feel them inside of himself even now.) It was impossible not to stare. The silence that spilled over them was like curdled milk. He could almost taste it. Had they just had an argument? It felt like one. Though if Sang-woo tried to understand how or why or what or who had caused it, his mind turned up blanks.

“Goodnight,” he offered hesitantly after some time had passed. A soft, muffled snore was his only response.

Sang-woo shifted onto his back. What a weird fucking night. What a strange turn of events.

“I could be your first.”

Sang-woo closed his eyes.

“You and I, we could —”

Gi-hun had said it so carelessly. So casually. Probably because of the alcohol, but still.

That’d hurt. Loathe as he was to admit it.

So should he have bitten the bullet and said yes? 

It would've been like ripping off a band-aid. Virginity gone. The buzz of soju sure to blur the memory. His best friend in his bed. A practiced, experienced touch. Indulging a fantasy Sang-woo had been content to keep tucked away behind his breast, where all such secrets belonged.

Suppose, for the sake of argument, he said yes. Would he have regretted it? Would he have hated himself just that little bit more, come the morning? Would it have been enough to finally sever their friendship in two?

“It didn’t matter to you?”

“Not really. Losing it just kinda happened, you know? I would've waited, but, well, she was pretty, and I liked her, and she said she liked me …”

Sang-woo had waited for so long. Waited for nothing, really. He’d long made peace with the fact that such feelings ought to be buried six feet under. But if he’d said yes, and the alcohol had smudged the memories from his mind, numbed the sensations on his skin, would he have woken up a new man? Would losing his virginity leave him fundamentally changed? Would it fix him? Slot all his broken pieces back together again?

Would Gi-hun suddenly see him as more than just a friend?

Or would he wake up, and realize with a lurch that nothing could be fixed? Cho Sang-woo, belatedly having sex, and yet still the same tired, unrelenting, pretentious man the world had deemed him to be. How silly, to ever expect that something as shallow and meaningless as fucking could change him in such a way. How silly to even ruminate on all this stupid, empty bullshit anyway.

And maybe Gi-hun would be the one to regret it, in the end. Sang-woo wouldn’t blame him for it. Maybe Gi-hun would’ve woken up, seen Sang-woo naked, sweat-drenched, at his side, and excused himself to the bathroom to vomit. Maybe he would beg Sang-woo to forget that anything had ever happened between them. Maybe they would’ve gone back to being friends, though now with a strange wedge to slice their closeness in half, and maybe that would’ve been the kick Sang-woo needed to finally leave him, so maybe sex wasn’t such a bad idea after all, if it meant he could hurt himself with it.

Sang-woo was starting to get fucking sick of all these fucking maybes.

It’s for the best. I had to turn him down. It wouldn’t have been right. He held that reassurance close to his chest. Forced himself to fall into sleep. 

xxx

When Sang-woo next opened his eyes, morning had yet to arrive. The darkness in his room was deep. Impenetrable. Without his glasses, he could barely make out the fuzzy shape of Gi-hun, mere moments before something soft slammed down on his face.

Sang-woo jolted upright. He fumbled for his glasses and flicked on his bedside lamp. The weaponized pillow flopped into a heap on his lap. Gi-hun’s limp arm settled violently down atop it. He wriggled closer. Snored. Dream-deep and dead to the world.

“Damn it, hyung.” Sang-woo’s anger died quickly. In its place grew a reverence. Sprouting like a weed inside his chest.

Somehow, Gi-hun had managed to steal the pillow from beneath Sang-woo’s head and hit him with it. It should’ve been annoying. It had to be annoying. It was annoying. Sang-woo tried to feel annoyed. But he couldn’t feel anything, anything at all, besides hopelessly, pathetically in love.

Gi-hun yawned. He turned onto his stomach with another loud snore. His hair fell in fluffy curls close to the nape of his neck, over his eyes. Sang-woo couldn’t help himself. He brushed a few stray hairs from his fringe aside. “What am I going to do with you? You’re a nightmare to sleep with.”

Though I’m sure all your pretty little girlfriends say otherwise.

Sang-woo pressed two fingers firmly against his temple. A trick his mother had taught him to ward off headaches.

The lamp’s yellow light cast a soft glow across Gi-hun. His face was open. Peaceful. Untroubled. Shadows hugged the laugh-etched creases that hid beside his eyes. The long river of his spine flowed down his back, until those stupidly loose pants hid the rest of him from view. He was toned, muscular in the ways that his work required of him, but he was also thin. Close to unhealthily so. Sang-woo wasn’t an idiot. They’d both grown up poor. Foregoing meals in favor of a couple extra bucks at the end of the day. Why do you want to stay like this? Sang-woo thought. There’s a whole world out there that we’ve been missing out on. We could be so much more than the families we were born into. We could be —

Sang-woo folded his glasses. He flicked off the lamp. It wasn’t a welcome reprieve, but he considered it a necessary one.

“Gi-hun.” Sang-woo’s voice was soft. Barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think you’re going to be the death of me.”

The death of his success —

The death of his potential —

The death of his pride and dignity —

The death of himself —

What kind of death it would be, Sang-woo didn’t know.

xxx

He slept terribly. His dreams were haunted by images of Gi-hun balanced above him, tracing the lines of his body, mouthing hungrily at his neck, his chest, his thighs. By the time his clock ticked over to 5am, Sang-woo had been awake for hours, his eyes unbearably heavy.

He sat up and scrubbed his face. Gi-hun shifted beside him. Groaned a half-hearted complaint. I bet your dreams were great, Sang-woo thought bitterly. He probably dreamt about girls. The way they moaned. The way they kissed. The soft, yielding suppleness of their lips. 

Sang-woo had never kissed anyone before. He imagined kissing men was a rougher sensation, punctuated by the stroke of stubble.

Gi-hun stirred. He squinted groggily up at him. “What time is it?”

“You’re up early. It’s five in the morning.”

“Ugh. Too early.” He joined Sang-woo in sitting up and resting back against the headboard, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

“Hungover?” Sang-woo asked, mouth dry.

“Maybe? No, I don’t think so. I do need some water though. I’m parched.”

“I’ll get you some.”

Sang-woo was grateful for the distraction. He put on his glasses, savored the sudden clarity in his vision, and fetched Gi-hun a drink, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he tipped his head back (—the thin valley of his throat exposed, the gentle rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, a lingering red mark tucked just above the junction where his neck and clavicle met, an old hickey?—) and swallowed. 

“Better?”

Gi-hun made a pleased noise at the back of his throat. “Much.”

The quiet domesticity of the moment was almost too much to bear. “Anyway. You should probably be heading home soon. Don’t make your mother worry any more than she needs to.”

“Pfft. You’re funny, Sang-woo-ya. My mother? Worried about me? Please. She’s having the time of her life right now. I’m finally out of her hair.”

“Don’t say that,” Sang-woo groused. “She’s always fussing over you.”

“Yeah,” Gi-hun scoffed, “‘cause she thinks I’m a disappointment.”

You are, though.

Mortified, Sang-woo had the good sense to keep that intrusive thought to himself.

So what if Gi-hun wasn’t a star student at one of the top universities in the country? He was happy. Free. Unequivocally himself. Which was more than could be said for Sang-woo, ‘the pride and joy of Ssangmun-dong.’ Fuck. Sang-woo hated that title. Hated it with every fiber of his being. It was impossible not to feel mocked whenever Gi-hun said it in that adoring tone of his; whenever his mother said it as if, one day, he was supposed to make it ring true. He wanted to be more than the legacy of his poverty. More than the legacy of his home. But Ssangmun-dong had a gravitational pull that kept him coming back, if only because Gi-hun was there, and his mother was there, and they loved that place, loved it not in spite, but simply because.

And he hated them for that. Just a little. The smallest, most bitter part of himself. They were content to stay. Would always stay. So not by choice, but by responsibility, a piece of Sang-woo would always be obliged to stay with them. Ssangmun-dong was inescapable in that way. A prison without bars, latched like a tick onto the legacy of his family name.

I am one unbelievable prick, Sang-woo thought. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered if Gi-hun would be better off without him. If the whole world would be.

“She cares more than you think,” he said, slow to choose the right words as he sat down beside him. Gi-hun was rolling the empty glass around in his hands, unwilling to meet Sang-woo’s eyes. “She just … she isn’t good at showing it.”

“Ha. Reminds me of someone else I know.”

“Who?”

“You. Obviously. Dummy.”

“I show it.”

“In your own way, yeah. You’re lucky I know how to read you.” Gi-hun leaned into him. “We grew up together. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines. Being your best friend kinda demands it.”

A wave of nausea crashed over Sang-woo. His stomach sloshed. Swirled. It was a repulsive feeling, a feeling he wanted to rip out of his belly. He nearly doubled over from the force of it.

“Sang-woo-ya?” Gi-hun’s voice was arrow-sharp with alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, I’m just —”

“Hungover?” Gi-hun moved impossibly closer so he could rub soothing circles across his back. “Aw, you poor thing. Now who’s the guy who can’t handle his alcohol? Not me, I’ll tell you that much!”

“That’s rich,” Sang-woo laughed, and before he could swallow the words down, he said, “considering you’re the one who offered to take my virginity last night.” 

Gi-hun jerked back. The glass he’d been holding slipped and clattered against the carpet. It rolled beneath the bed, eaten by shadows, and Sang-woo found himself wishing he could follow. The shame was immense. All-consuming. And yet there was power there, too, an exhilarating rush of satisfaction. Forcing Gi-hun to confront the full weight of what he’d offered. Sang-woo hoped, when he turned to look at him again, he’d see disgust, a violent mirror into his own nausea.

He could hear the small wobble in Gi-hun's chest when he took a breath; felt the way his fists grasped the bedsheet, choking it into crushed ropes of throat between his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

Gi-hun sounded so sincere it hurt.

“I know it was outta the blue,” he said, “and I know it was the last thing you wanted me to say. But …”

Sang-woo quietly begged him not to finish the sentence.

“I'm sorry, but I don't regret it.”

And in that moment he knew.

What came first was the anger. It exploded the thickly wound knot in his chest, so abrupt in its reckoning that Sang-woo’s lungs contracted around it. Gi-hun knew. Gi-hun knew everything. Because of course he did. Of course he'd known. Of course he'd always known.

Which meant Sang-woo had spent the past five years making a fool out of himself in front of the one person who'd mattered most. And for what? So Gi-hun could mock him? So Gi-hun could turn around and say ‘I could be your first,’ on a routine, insignificant Friday night, as if he were hitting on a stranger at a nightclub, and not his best friend of twelve impossibly long years?

Maybe sex didn’t matter much to Gi-hun. Maybe it was one meaningless fuck to the next, regardless of whom it was with. Maybe Sang-woo was the next thread in an endless rope. Inevitably forgotten about. Eventually replaced. Maybe that was all he could ever hope to be. All he should’ve expected. Longed for. 

And Sang-woo would’ve been fine with that, content, too, had Gi-hun known his place and allowed it to go unsaid. If he’d played along, feigned ignorance, and pretended. Let fantasies remain just that — fantasies, simmering low and slow beneath the surface. Let dreams linger behind closed eyes where they rightfully belonged. If Gi-hun had known, then it stood to reason that he also knew this was a secret. And secrets were supposed to go unspoken. Even between friends. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Huh?”

Sang-woo stood. The sudden height difference between them was empowering. It goaded him on. “I don’t care about what you get up to in your spare time,” he said, even though he cared so much, too much. Gi-hun probably knew this as well as he knew everything else. “Who you hang out with. Who you fool around with. But this is too far. This is too…” Personal balanced on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. He suddenly felt like a wounded animal. Vulnerable and preyed upon. “What do you want?”

Gi-hun flinched.

Tick-tick-tick. That sound burrowed under Sang-woo’s skin like a parasite. How much time had he lost, how much time would he continue to waste, all because he couldn’t find the strength within himself to be brave?

“I know what I want,” Gi-hun said carefully. “But I … I don’t know what you want. Sometimes I think I know. Sometimes I know that I know. But then you turn around, and you lie to me, and I wonder if I ever really knew you at all.”

“I’ve never lied to you, hyung.”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes. When he spoke next, it was in a poor, mocking imitation of Sang-woo’s voice. “'I like girls.’ C’mon, Sang-woo-ya. Since when have you ever looked at a girl the same way you look at me?”

“That’s a completely baseless accusation,” Sang-woo spluttered.

Gi-hun leaped off the bed, shoulders squared. It was a rare act of defiance from someone who was usually happy enough to roll over in submission. Sang-woo was more than a little intimidated by it. 

“Listen. I get it. It’s a scary thing to admit. I’ve been there. But dude. You’re my best friend. You can tell me anything. You should know that by now.”

“Oh. Really? You understand? Since when? I wasn’t aware you had time for men in between all your indiscriminate fucking of women.”

“Hey, it was never indiscriminate!” Gi-hun matched his glare, and held it. “You’re such a pompous asshole sometimes, you know that, right? A total headcase. It’s like you think the whole world revolves around you. Well, guess what, it doesn’t. You’re not the only one who's struggling with shit. Maybe you would know I liked guys if you’d ever even thought to ask.”

And there it was - the one truth he’d always been afraid to hear.

“God, Sang-woo-ya.” Gi-hun pressed forward. Sang-woo stepped back - one step, two steps, three, until there was nowhere else to go, the wall firm against his back. “You’re the smartest, most brilliant guy I know. But I swear, that incredible brain of yours is way too big for its own good. If you can’t see what’s so obviously right in front of you, then maybe you’re dumber than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

For as long as Sang-woo could remember, Gi-hun had always been his biggest cheerleader. 

On his first day at primary school, when he’d felt his smallest, Gi-hun had noticed him from across the playground, sullen and alone, and dragged him up into his orbit.

When he’d been overwhelmed by exams, Gi-hun had hovered in his peripheral, snacks and energy drinks at the ready. He’d liked to remind Sang-woo to take a break, have some fun, and Sang-woo had listened, if only because Gi-hun was older than him, and that was the appropriate thing to do with your elders. Sometimes, their one-year age difference felt like a canyon between them, a gap that only widened in size as the years ticked by. 

While waiting for his acceptance letter from SNU, Gi-hun had waited alongside him through each sleepless night, sharing cigarettes he couldn’t afford and alcohol that tasted cheap and rustic. Reassuring Sang-woo all the while that, no matter what, he would always be the star of their humble little hometown, and SNU would be lucky, no, privileged to have someone who shone as bright and big as he. 

Sang-woo hadn’t the heart to tell him that all stars were destined to die. His implosion was imminent. But he’d appreciated the thought nonetheless. It made him feel seen. More than that — it made him feel loved. 

Gi-hun liked to jokingly take credit for Sang-woo’s success, but he never seemed to comprehend just how much Sang-woo truly owed him. From the lifts to school Gi-hun gave on the back of his bike, all the way up to now, their Friday night drinks. It was everything. It was theirs. 

He’d never insulted him before. Or, well, he had, but not like that. Gently, yet firmly; tiredly, yet with calculated patience, as if he were speaking to a child. Sang-woo couldn’t think of a response. All that looped in his mind was, “I could be your first,” over and over and over again. It was maddening. Gi-hun was maddening. Sang-woo wasn’t sure if he wanted to push him back against the wall or kiss him. Maybe both.

“So, what? If I said yes, then what? Would you have treated me like one of your lucky girls?”

“No. Of course not.”

Sang-woo scowled and shoved past him.

Gi-hun reached out. His fingers hooked Sang-woo’s wrist. Reeled him back in. “I would’ve treated you like Sang-woo,” he said, looking down at his feet. “My best friend and the guy I’ve had a dumb, fat crush on since I was fifteen years old.”

There was so much Sang-woo wanted to say. 

Don't lie to me.

You've got it all wrong.

I don't know what you're talking about.

This is cruel. You’re cruel. 

…I hate you.

The words were stuck in his throat, buzzing like flies. He swallowed painfully around them. Each a lie he couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Sang-woo asked flatly. 

Gi-hun gave a soft, amused noise, halfway caught between a laugh and a scoff. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“It’s a fair question,” Sang-woo snapped. “Why now? Why not when we were fifteen? Or sixteen? We had all the time in the world back then. So why wait?”

“Funny. How long have you waited, Sang-woo-ya, for me to give you what you so obviously want?”

Sang-woo thought back to when he was seventeen, when Gi-hun had introduced him to his first girlfriend. She’d been the popular, pretty sort; long black hair that flowed in rippling waves down her shoulders, plush lips painted pink from lipstick. He thought of how he’d nodded along while they all ate lunch together, his smile tight, his rarely offered word or two somehow even tighter.  And he thought of how, one month later, when they’d had their inevitably amicable breakup, Gi-hun had come to him first in the dead of night, the full moon a fat thumbprint of a silhouette behind him, the rain running rivulets down his wet skin, and Sang-woo had thought of what it would be like to kiss him. Had closed his eyes, instead, and hoped Gi-hun would cross that bridge on his behalf.

“You’re always doing this. You’re always making me take the lead in our relationship. I thought, with this, you could … I dunno … maybe you’d finally …” He gestured vaguely between them. “I know how you feel about me,” Gi-hun mumbled, shoulders slumped. “So why don’t you ever say it?”

Because I don't know how.

But that was an excuse. An excuse that kept him firmly rooted in place. Like a weed - stagnant, unchanging. Marinating in his misery, because it was the only way Sang-woo had ever known how to be. 

“I was scared,” Sang-woo admitted. “I was afraid of how you’d see me. What you’d think of me.” What the world would think of me. “I don’t know. I didn’t want you to leave.”

“Sang-woo-ya. Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I do.”

“And? What do you hear?”

“...I hear myself being an idiot.” It took all his strength and then some to wrench the admission out of himself. The feeling was suspiciously close to pulling teeth.

Gi-hun smiled. “Idiot’s a bit of a strong word,” he gently chided. “But you do sound silly. I’ll give you that.”

With an exasperated shake of his head, Gi-hun stepped away. He collapsed back onto the bed, legs dangling, toes touching the carpet, staring up at the ceiling as if it had all the answers. After a few moments of deliberation, Sang-woo followed.

He perched on the edge of the mattress next to him, folding one leg delicately over the other, and followed his gaze. The dim outline of the light bulb. A dead moth frozen in time stop the glass. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Somehow, all the girls Gi-hun had taken to bed were made so much worse knowing what he knew now. Like he could’ve prevented Gi-hun from kissing anyone other than him. (Which was silly - wasn’t he supposed to be leaving? What did it matter who Gi-hun kissed? You’re leaving, soon, Sang-woo, don’t get distracted. Don’t do it. Don’t let him anchor you.)

“I was supposed to … what? Wait for you to grow the balls to ask me out?”

“That’s what I did,” said Sang-woo. He realized too late how fucking pathetic that sounded. (See? He makes you sound weak. He makes you look weak. He makes you weak.)

Gi-hun propped himself up on his elbows and glared. “I’m not like you, Sang-woo-ya. I can’t sit around on my butt all day, waiting for things to happen and feeling shitty when they don’t. You have to admit, it’s a little sad, even for you.”

“Sad?”

“Only a little!” 

Sang-woo was overloading with questions. They flooded his brain. Made him short-circuit. But he just had to know, because if he didn’t know now, maybe he’d never find out. Maybe this was the catalyst for his leaving. Good riddance. And maybe this was the last time he’d ever see Gi-hun in such a real, authentic way, shirtless and honest and pouring himself empty. Sang-woo had to commit the details to memory, before it was too late. The last spill of starlight through his curtains. The rough outline of Gi-hun’s body. The visible purple threads of the veins in his wrist, as if the stress of their night together had pushed them up into clarity. 

There was so much he wanted to ask, but really, only one thing mattered in the end. 

“Then why didn’t you tell me you were …” And he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Yet another failure notched in his belt. 

 “You can't even accept yourself,” Gi-hun said softly. “Why on earth should I have ever believed, even for only a second, that you would accept me?”

“I would have.”

“No. That's not true, Sang-woo-ya, and you know it.”

“I do now.”

“Do you?”

Sang-woo paused. 

“I don’t know,” he said reluctantly. “I think so? I hope so. I do. Accept you, I mean.” Sang-woo closed his eyes. “I’m trying.”

A few moments passed where all that could be heard was the clock, and their out-of-sync breaths, and the world stirring awake outside. “I guess that’s all any of us can do, in the end,” Gi-hun finally said. “Try.”

Sang-woo tugged at his collar. “Maybe we’ve both been stupid,” he said, nose scrunched, “and maybe we should’ve talked about this years ago, instead of … whatever this is.”

“Mm. Yeah. Maybe. But can we at least agree you’re the bigger idiot here?”

“...Sure. By a single decimal point.”

“Ugh, Sang-woo-ya, you know I failed math, so that’s just unfair! But keep talking. You’re much more tolerable when you act all smart.”

“You didn’t fail math,” said Sang-woo, confused. “You were good at it. I seem to remember you trying to tutor me, at one point.”

Gi-hun threw a light punch at his shoulder. “It’s a joke. Don’t worry about it. Lighten up. C’mon, you’re so dark and broody - try a smile, I hear it’s a popular look nowadays.” He laughed, and that familiar sound turned the air to liquid, flowed over Sang-woo’s shattered ego until it was momentarily soothed; until what remained of his anger was washed away, in its place something heady and floaty. Something not unlike the buzz of an alcoholic’s high. Something new.

Gi-hun liked him.

Oh.

It was impossible not to feel conflicted by the revelation. Giddy? Yes. A little. (What are you, a thirteen year old schoolgirl?) He ignored the voice, for once, and listened to other things. Kinder things. He felt strangely weightless, like he'd been hollowed out from the inside. A good feeling. Definitely new. No wonder confessing was such a big deal in high-school. If he'd known how addictive it could be, perhaps he would've had this conversation earlier. So much earlier. When the spring blooms of his crush had only just begun to sprout. When he was an awkward, stern-faced teenager caught in a perpetual winter. Chronically in love with his summery excuse for a best friend.

But existing alongside the thrill of it all, the giddy exhilaration — fear. Raw and undiluted. Sang-woo was afraid. Sang-woo was always afraid, though his anxiety usually manifested in a distant sort of way, held at arm's length and experienced through a dissociative lens. Now, he could feel it in his guts, all squirmy and gross and overwhelmingly real and fuck. Fuck. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Not even from himself. 

Gi-hun waited. Expectant. That same glint in his eyes from earlier. How could Sang-woo have ever been so stupid? Gi-hun was smart. Scarily so. In ways Sang-woo could only dream of being. It intimidated him. More than that — it made him love Gi-hun impossibly more.

“You made a fool out of me,” Sang-woo said lamely.

Gi-hun tutted. “Nuh-uh. You did the fool stuff all on your own. Don’t be so bitter. All I did was refuse to play your game the way you wanted me to.”  He swung himself upright to sit alongside Sang-woo, crossing his legs boyishly as he did so. “If you want me, Sang-woo-ya,” he said, and his voice straightened into something more serious, “then you have to let yourself want me. You’re so stuck in your own head sometimes, man. No offense, but it must be exhausting. I could never. You gotta learn not to worry so much. You’re not the only person who wants what he thinks he doesn’t deserve.”

The truth was simple, and it was this: Gi-hun deserved better. Sang-woo knew it. He knew it intimately, he knew it well, because sometimes, (all the time), when Gi-hun talked, he felt this thing inside of him, rattly and unpredictable and not unlike the buzzing cacophony of a beehive. And he poked and prodded up against this thing because it made him feel powerful. Important. He knew Gi-hun sensed it; maybe even understood it. I am better than you. A superiority complex that only doubled in size the wider the years and the gap between them grew. 

It wasn’t Gi-hun’s fault. Not really. He was content. He liked his job, was good at it, and he’d breezed through his technical college with a practical ease. There wasn’t anything necessarily wrong with what Gi-hun wanted from life. In many ways, Sang-woo envied him for it. And yet he still felt it, existing in tandem alongside the jealousy, shivery and buzzing. I am better than you. He felt it on a fundamentally primal, toxically masculine level. How could he not when the breadth of Gi-hun’s hopes and dreams amounted to opening a fried chicken restaurant in their backwater excuse for a neighborhood?

"It'll be the best fried chicken restaurant in Ssangmun-dong, Sang-woo-ya!" 

"The only fried chicken restaurant in Ssangmun-dong," Sang-woo had corrected.

"Exactly. That's how I know it'll be the best."

Sang-woo had always pinned success on school, and perfect grades, and on a long, boring future riddled with paperwork and stuffy old men sporting white collars and expensive suits. Gi-hun could never survive in such a world, though. And perhaps that was for the best. 

“I meant what I said, y’know,” said Gi-hun gently. “About, well … I know I was drunk, and it was shitty timing, but I still meant it.” I could be your first. “Have you ever been kissed, Sang-woo-ya?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t make me ask again! Seriously, man, do you ever pay attention to me?”

“I’m listening! This is - it’s a lot. Give me a minute to think it all through.”

“You’ve had more than a minute,” Gi-hun huffed. “You’ve had twenty stinking years. And that doesn’t answer my question. So. Out with it. Have you?”

“...I haven’t.”

Gi-hun covered his mouth in an attempt to smother a laugh. “Sorry, sorry, but — no way! Not even a peck on the lips?”

“I had opportunities.” Sang-woo shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not like you, hyung. Making out with every floozy who so much as looks my way.”

“Floozy? Ew. Gross. What are you, sixty? Don’t call girls that, Sang-woo-ya. It makes you sound like such a conservative old man.”

Sang-woo eyed him dubiously.

“Anyway.” Gi-hun rolled his eyes. “I like kissing. Sue me.”

“I can’t imagine it feels anything other than wet. And unpleasant.”

“Oh. Wow. See, I wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the whole virgin thing, but then you said that, and now I know you gotta be telling the truth. Your imagination must be pretty piss-poor.” Gi-hun leaned in. “Kissing is … how do I explain it? Think of an orgasm, but a thousand times better.”

“A thousand?”

“I’m underselling it, I know.”

Sang-woo blew a rush of warm air out his nose. “That’s high praise coming from someone like you.”

“Hey, what's that supposed to mean?”

“Mooching. Mingling. Masturbating.” Sang-woo forced some levity into his voice. “Your three favorite activities.”

“Rude!” Gi-hun's laugh was surprisingly deep, a blend between a rumble and a purr. “But can you add making out to that list? Seriously. It's the best. Trust me on this.”

“I trust you.”

Gi-hun scooched closer. Until their foreheads were almost touching. 

“I could show you,” Gi-hun said quietly. “Not to brag, but I've been told I'm a great kisser. One of the best.”

He tried to ignore the fresh pang in his chest at the thought of Gi-hun's mouth on anyone other than himself. Sang-woo drew in a deep breath. It wasn't enough to calm his nerves, but it would have to do. “Show me then.” 

That was all Gi-hun needed to hear. He closed the sliver of distance between them and chastely pushed his lips into Sang-woo’s own.

He'd imagined this moment. Dreamed it countless times. Wondered what Gi-hun's mouth would feel like while sinking into his. It had been easy to think, it'll be underwhelming. It'll be unpleasant. But that hadn't stopped him from wanting, in every sense of the word. 

He couldn't hear the infuriating tick-tick-tick of the clock anymore, so maybe time had stopped. Maybe it had buried itself so deep beneath his skin that he'd need a knife to cut it out. Don't worry about that right now, his brain offered distantly, perhaps the first helpful piece of advice it had ever supplied. So, he listened. The mattress squeaked as Gi-hun shifted closer, wrapped one arm to brace curled fingers behind Sang-woo's neck. Fresh bristles of stubble scraped over his upper lip. The sensation made Sang-woo's stomach turn over pleasantly.

It was the type of kiss that didn't seek to push further, the kind of kiss that dripped with innocence, and to Sang-woo's dim surprise, he found he was more than okay with that.

His lips were tingling when they finally broke apart. Gi-hun's breath fanned Sang-woo's face, gentle and warm and smelling faintly of soju.

“Well? Was that wet and unpleasant enough for you?”

Sang-woo swiped his tongue over the valley of his lower lip. The tender skin was electrical. Alive with static. “Quite the opposite,” he said. There was no thought in his head aside from what it would be like to kiss Gi-hun again, though this time harder, faster, with an urgency that could not be matched. No thoughts — that was new, too, and once again, good .

“Your technique could use some work,” Gi-hun lamented, “though overall not bad, for a first timer. Solid C+. Ah, it feels good to be the star student for once!”

“You forget that I'm a fast learner.”

“Hm? Oh —”

He could almost taste Gi-hun’s surprise; the tremble in his bottom lip, the salty hint of sweat. Sang-woo knew he was clumsy. Fumbling. Where was he supposed to put his hands? And how much tongue was too much tongue? Should he even use tongue? Would it be too much too fast? His anxiety spiked. He was so woefully inexperienced, so hopelessly out of his element. A lackluster student for the very first time in his life.

Gi-hun, as if anticipating the inevitable spiral, combed through the hair at the nape of Sang-woo's neck, nudged him just that little bit closer. 

“Like this,” Gi-hun murmured against his mouth. “Follow my lead.”

Sang-woo had never considered himself much of a follower before. But it was impossible to argue when Gi-hun so confidently slipped his tongue into the equation. The sensation was strange. A little exciting. Maybe too exciting. Sang-woo tried not to focus on that part. 

Gi-hun caught his lip between his teeth. Tugged back. Let go with a pop, the sting sharp, pulsing. One last kiss, short and breathless. Sang-woo shivered. 

“Is it good?” Gi-hun asked gently. Their noses brushed.

“I…” Why can't I say it? “I don't know.” But he did. He did know. And that was a terrifying thing to admit.

“Ouch. My poor, sensitive ego. I'm wounded. I was gonna up your grade, by the way, a generous B-, but I think I might dock you to an F if you're gonna treat me this way.” Gi-hun bumped their noses together. “What’s up? You look so miserable. This shouldn't be the face of a guy who just had his first kiss. You're making me nervous.” 

“I like you.”

The words were punched out of him. No longer implication. Sang-woo suddenly felt like a scab, peeled back and exposed. (Do you have any idea what you've done?) But once he'd started, he couldn't stop. A faulty faucet. Gi-hun was looking at him so softly. It coaxed him into spilling more. “I have for a long time. I don't know why I didn't say it sooner. I'm sorry.”

“...Wow. An apology? From you of all people?”

Sang-woo glowered. “Don't rub it in.”

Gi-hun hummed, thoughtful. He drew his finger down the sharp line of Sang-woo's cheekbone, until his thumb came to rest on his chin. With a slight nudge from his hand, he had Sang-woo looking up at him, and it occurred to Sang-woo then how close their faces were, which was awfully silly, considering they'd been kissing only a moment ago.

With a small, loose laugh, Gi-hun pressed their foreheads together. “M’kay. You're forgiven.” And this time, when he kissed him, Sang-woo could almost believe it was true. 

xxx

I am going to leave you.

An irrefutable fact.

I am going to leave you.

Sex couldn't change anything.

I am going to leave you.

This, Sang-woo knew, was the truth.

But are you going to leave me first?

xxx

There was a drunken quality to their kisses that made Sang-woo's liver ache.

They were caught in that strange limbo before dawn, when the darkness was velvet-thin and the ticking of the clock a hushed, relaxed breath, like a heartbeat come to rest. There was something within this pocket of slowed and stolen time that reminded Sang-woo of a promise. He wondered if the moon had yet to slip into slumber, and he wondered if it was too late to follow it down below the horizon line. Promises were scary, tangible things. He wondered, and then Gi-hun kissed him again, and his wondering was cut blissfully short.

“Hey,” said Gi-hun, “how far do you wanna take this?” 

Sang-woo realized with belated shock that he'd been pushed down against the bed, Gi-hun leaning precariously over him.

I don't know. It seemed such a predictable thing to say.

He wanted to go further. He wanted it more than anything. He wanted Gi-hun to fuck him. In every sense of the word. Hard and fast and shallow. Meaningless. Which was funny, because Gi-hun probably didn't fuck anyone like that; he was too gentle in disposition, never one to hurt, always eager to please. And he wanted that side of Gi-hun, too, the kind and compassionate parts he could not afford himself, slow and relaxed and calm. How would it feel to be loved wholly, even when he was naked and raw and had nothing left to hide behind? Didn't he deserve to know how it felt at least once?

 Sang-woo wanted all of him, all of the time, all to himself. But how could he even begin to articulate all of that to Gi-hun? It would, by contrast, be much easier to swallow it down, and simply row through the motions.

“What do you want?” Gi-hun pressed.

“I want you,” Sang-woo said plainly. Gi-hun's fringe, at this angle, was falling over his eyes. Sang-woo reached up to brush it out of the way. Gi-hun hooked his wrist, as if he'd been anticipating it, and brought up Sang-woo's hand to kiss his knuckles one by one.

“Yeah, but like … how do you want me?” 

Sang-woo thought it was obvious. There was a pressure in his pants that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Why couldn't Gi-hun read his mind and say it for him already? Wanting came so naturally, but doing, well, that was a different battle.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You look like you're trying to figure out an equation or something. There's no wrong answer. When you think of this — when you think of us — what do you think of?”

“You. Inside me.” 

Sang-woo burned from the admission. Felt his skin go clammy with it.

“Aw. Cute.”

“Cute?”

“I just never thought you'd … you know.” Gi-hun gave a noncommittal shrug. “You always seem so …”

“Come on. What is it this time? Uptight? Old-fashioned? Repressed?” Gi-hun had an entire dictionary of words used to describe him. Brilliant, extraordinary, genius and gifted were among the most flattering, but he managed to slip a few insults in there, too, when Sang-woo was acting especially egregious.

“Hey, I say those things with love! You're the most uptight, old-fashioned, repressed twenty-year-old business major I know, and I admire you all the more for it.”

“I'm the only business major you know.”

“Exactly. That's why you're extra special.”

“Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever done this before?” Gi-hun looked at him like he was joking. Sang-woo had to tilt his head away, cheeks hot. “With another man, I mean.”

“Oh. Oh.”

Gi-hun sat up. Sang-woo was grateful for the momentary reprieve, his mouth sore, Gi-hun's shadow a cage. “Well … yeah. A few times. Why? Is that a problem?” There was a defensive edge to his voice Sang-woo hadn't expected, though he didn't look annoyed, only a little embarrassed.

“So what does that make you, then?” It came out more delicately in his head, but when said aloud, even Sang-woo could tell it sounded sharp and insensitive.

“I don't know. Does it have to make me anything?”

He didn't have a good answer for that. 

“Guys. Girls.” Gi-hun’s shoulders slumped. “I dunno what I am. I don't think I really care.” But he said it caringly, and Sang-woo knew that he did, deep down, in a way that was strangely familiar to witness. “But I do like you. I have for a long time now.”

Did you like me even when you were fucking other people? 

“I want to do this with you,” Gi-hun continued. “But only if you want it too.”

And after? What will happen to us if we go through with this?

“There is one rule though. You gotta talk to me, man. I can't … I can't read your mind. I wish I could. I think I can, sometimes. But not with this. If something doesn't feel right, or if I make you uncomfortable, then you gotta tell me. I can't make this good for you unless you communicate.”

Sang-woo bristled. “What makes you think I won't communicate?”

“Call it a hunch,” Gi-hun retorted dryly.

“You talk as if I'm socially inept.”

“I mean …”

“Shush. You're not supposed to agree.” 

“What made you think I was gonna agree? You're a little quiet, but that's just because you have so much going on up there.” Gi-hun smiled, the shape of it close to sad. “I don't blame you for it. I'd be the same way, too, if I had anything to show for myself. There's nothing going on in my head. It's pretty empty up there.”

You're the kindest person I know, thought Sang-woo helplessly, and yet you talk about yourself like you're nothing. 

Gi-hun sidled closer and took Sang-woo's hand in his own. He fidgeted restlessly with his fingers, thumbed over the knuckles, ran his nails down the lines on his palm. They were both so scared to look each other in the eye. Where did one even go from here?

“You look … good.” Sang-woo fumbled around the word. It sat awkwardly in his mouth. Gi-hun looked better than good — he looked handsome. The darkness made him look so soft. Candlelight waxing.

“Thanks. You're not so bad yourself.” He paused. Then, seeming to reach a decision, Gi-hun picked up Sang-woo's hand and pressed it against his cheek. “You can touch me now. I won't break.”

Sang-woo pressed his thumb in. Circled it gently. Gi-hun hummed. Leaned into his touch. Closed his eyes, like he was enjoying it.

“Your hand is so warm. And big.”

“...Is that a bad thing?”

“Nah. It's a you thing. Which means it's good.”

“You're so easy to impress.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Sang-woo's belly flipped.

“I like how you taste,” he continued. “How you feel. You, uh — you have some stubble. Just over your upper lip.” Gi-hun scooched closer so he could run his finger across it, and Sang-woo had to stop himself from catching his thumb between his teeth.

“Your point?”

“I never see you with stubble,” said Gi-hun, in awe. “You're always so … so clean. And well-shaven. It's like I'm seeing you for the very first time.”

“There isn't much to see,” Sang-woo said testily. “I always look my worst in the morning.”

“Nah. That's not true. This is when you look most real.”

And Gi-hun kissed him. Tenderly. Affectionately. Sang-woo was almost convinced.

“Lie back,” he said softly, the words pushed into his lips. 

“I still have my clothes on.”

“That's fine. I'm not done with you yet.” Gi-hun smiled against his mouth. “I wanna take my time with you. Let's go slow. Have some fun.”

Time . Time was the last thing they had together. I am going to leave you, he thought, and he thought it so much, but never about it, and suddenly the realization hit him hard, hit him fast, stole the air from his lungs in one guillotine swoop. Sliced through him clean as a razor. Not yet. Never yet. Soon, though. Soon.

Sex somehow made that fact seem so much more inevitable. The finality of it all — he could only avoid it for so long. Perhaps fucking Gi-hun would be a good thing after all. No more excuses. No more tethers. He would leave, and he'd never, ever look back.

Gi-hun pressed a kiss into the corner of his mouth. “You’re pouting,” he murmured affectionately. He nuzzled into his cheek, cat-like and fond.

“I’m just … thinking.”

“What a surprise. Doesn’t it get exhausting? Being stuck in your own head all the time?”

Sang-woo, predictably, took a moment to think about that. “I don’t know any other way to be.”

Gi-hun tutted. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that. You can’t be thinking about taxes while I'm fucking you.”

Sang-woo laughed. It was a soft, unfamiliar sound. “Is that really what you think I'm thinking about? Taxes?”

“I dunno. Is it?”

“...Sometimes.” Gi-hun chuckled against his neck, kissed an apology above his throat. “Not now, though. I’m not that predictable.”

“Ooh. An unpredictable Sang-woo. How exciting! So. What are you thinking about, then? Enlighten me.”

“You.” It wasn’t totally a lie. Still, Sang-woo couldn’t meet his eyes when he said it. “It’s always you.”

“Even before taxes?” Gi-hun teased.

“Even before taxes,” said Sang-woo fondly.

“Aren't I lucky?”

Another kiss to the shuddery hollow of his throat. Sang-woo swallowed down a moan.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to talk around so many distractions. He didn't quite know what to do with his hands. One still rested against Gi-hun's cheek. The other squeezed his bedsheet into a mangled knot of rope. Gi-hun's hair was so close at this angle, smelling like cheap two-in-one strawberry shampoo. Maybe, just this once, it'd be okay to give into his urges. Sang-woo hesitantly scraped his nails across his scalp, following the raspy flow of his hair, and oh, it was soft. Not quite silky. Maybe even a little course. But it ran through his fingers in a way that bordered close to addictive. Everything about him was addictive, especially in this context. Gi-hun made a delicious noise against his neck, and that was addictive too. Pitched low, breath stuttered. Sang-woo wanted to hear more.

Gi-hun paused, lips pressed lightly to where Sang-woo's collarbone perked out above his pajama shirt. Seeming to reach a decision, he slipped open the first button.

“I'm glad you don't have a bra,” said Gi-hun mildly. 

Sang-woo wished, sometimes, that his friend understood the subtle art of shutting the fuck up.

“Why would you say something like that? Of course I don't.”

“Yeah, ‘cause bras are the worst,” Gi-hun huffed, as if that were the only reason. “Have you seen those things? There are so many different straps and clips, and every bra is different, and ugh. Literally, it's so bad. I'm good at taking them off now, but only because I've had tons of practice. I dunno how girls do it. Every. Single. Day. I'd go mad!”

“I don't think it's as complicated as you're making it out to be.” 

Gi-hun slipped the second button undone, following the path down with his mouth as he did so. His kisses were short. Sweet. Sang-woo, hand tight with a fistful of hair, tugged him closer, an uncontrolled jerk. He could feel the telltale curl of Gi-hun's smirk against him. Cocky son of a bitch.

“Enjoying this?”

“What do you think?” remarked Sang-woo grumpily. Surely he'd noticed by now. The bulge in his pants wasn't exactly subtle. It made him feel indecent. Exposed. He scrunched his legs together, hoped it'd be enough to hide it from view.

“I think you're nervous. You always deflect when you're feeling overwhelmed.”

“I don't know if I would say always…”

“Ha. Not so unpredictable now, are we, Sang-woo-ya? See? I know you too well.”

You don't know me at all.

With the third button came an unveiling that left Sang-woo uncomfortably warm, despite the chilled air in his bedroom. Goosebumps pimpled across his skin. It was a contradictory reaction that confused him almost as much as the adoration in Gi-hun’s eyes. He’d pulled back to look at him, really look at him, as he finished unbuttoning the rest of Sang-woo’s treacherous shirt. You don't know me, he repeated to himself, and it was sort of true. Gi-hun didn't know him. Not in the raw, unfiltered way he knew himself. 

You don't know me. Sang-woo clung to that thought like a second skin, even as he shrugged off his shirt in resignation. Even as Gi-hun took in the bare, half-naked sight of him. Sweat-slick. (Ugly?) He was staring so intently (definitely ugly). Sang-woo couldn't help but squirm.

“You've seen me without a shirt before.” He said it to offset the tension, a careful simmer in the air like the background buzz of TV static. “It’s nothing new. Stop … stop looking at me like that.”

“Sorry. This is new, though. Everything is new.”

“Not for you.” Sang-woo couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“You’re such a sulk. What does it matter if I’ve fucked other people? I’m here with you now, aren’t I?”

Sang-woo didn’t reply. Gi-hun sighed. 

“What am I gonna do with you, huh? You’re incorrigible.” 

“I wasn’t aware that was a word in your vocabulary,” Sang-woo snipped.

“I’m not as dumb as you seem to think, Sang-woo-ya. Here. Let me prove it to you.”

Gi-hun sank in, latched onto the pulse point over where his heart thrummed a beat, and sucked.

Sang-woo winced. The scrape of teeth against the newly blossoming bruise was a pleasantly hot sting; he arched into it, pulled Gi-hun even closer with a careless yank at his hair. Gi-hun made a sound pitched high in his throat, a thin, reedy whine that broke around the suction. Perhaps incorrigible was right. Sang-woo wanted more. Sang-woo wanted to hold him there, nails sharp and scratchy against his scalp, the bruise darkened to a blotchy wine-stain he’d wear as a regret come the first light of dawn; Sang-woo wanted Gi-hun to press another into his neck where it would be unmistakable and impossible to miss. People would look. Maybe they should.

There was something primal about trusting someone enough to hurt you in such a way. Something that reminded Sang-woo about ownership. Did he belong to Gi-hun? That was more than a little disconcerting to consider. Perhaps he ought to turn the tables. Bruise Gi-hun in a place where he knew people would see. A silent and articulate, you’re mine. When he imagined it, in his twisted fantasy, it’d never fully leave, a shallow bruise turned scar that Gi-hun would be forced to remember him by even after he was gone. 

Sang-woo didn’t want to be owned by anybody. But he liked the idea of Gi-hun being his. Only his. He would chase after him, a lost puppy, even after his best friend had faded into nothing more than the lingering haunt of a ghost. A Sang-woo shaped hole in his heart that couldn’t be filled, not by sex or cigarettes or meaningless wins at the races; he’d look and look and look, long after Sang-woo was gone, long after all he had to remember him by were memories, nostalgia-tinted and threadbare from age.

Gi-hun pulled off, but not before laving his tongue over the spot, a thankless apology. Sang-woo wasn’t aware he’d been holding his breath, but he let it all go in one rushed swoop. 

“See?” Gi-hun grinned. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“...Hickeys are so immature,” said Sang-woo disapprovingly. Still, he wished he had a mirror nearby so he could properly admire the shape of it; dark and deep and pushed up against his skin, fresh as the first few sprouts of daisy weed come Spring. 

“Don’t act so tough. It’s okay to say you liked it - it doesn’t make you any less of a ‘big, strong man,’ promise. I mean, look, you’re so hard right now. No, wait, don’t try and hide it from me!” Gi-hun pushed his legs apart. “Ha! See? I did that! Now who’s easy?”

Sang-woo snapped his thighs closed, mortified. “Hyung!”

“What? If you wanna have sex, I’m gonna have to get to it eventually.” Gi-hun dropped the humor, his voice adopting a kinder tone. “We can stop if you’ve changed your mind. We can always stop. You only gotta say the word.”

He could feel the hickey on his chest like the persistent pressure of a thumbprint. His erection ached. “I don’t want to stop. Do you?”

“No,” Gi-hun admitted. “But I would if you wanted to. I just … I need you to know that, okay?”

“I know,” said Sang-woo softly. 

“Can I touch you?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I like asking. It’s better than what you do. You always look like you’re playing the most serious game of Chess. Sorry, but I’m more of a checkers guy myself.” 

Gi-hun turned his attention to his chest and, with zero build-up or attempt at foreplay, poked his nipple. It was a purely curious, explorative touch. Sang-woo didn’t quite know how to react.

“I’m not a girl,” he said flatly, a touch indignant. 

“Obviously. Doesn’t mean it won’t feel good. How’d it feel?”

“...Like you poked it?”

“Oh. True. I guess that’s not very sexy of me, huh? Let’s try something different.”

Gi-hun dived in and licked a long stripe up. He did it so casually, again with that similarly curious approach, that Sang-woo, who hadn’t been expecting it, jerked back. The back of his skull connected with the headboard, and the sound was close to sickening, a dull, heavy thud. It, predictably, hurt like a bitch. Gi-hun yelped, as if he’d been the one to hit his head. He jumped straight to fussing over him.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think you’d have that kind of reaction! Uh - where does it hurt? Here? There?” He poked about a dozen sore spots in his panic. 

“It’s the back of my head, hyung.” Gi-hun tried to check, but Sang-woo swatted his hands away. “Enough. I’m fine.” 

“You sure? Head trauma is no joke. What if you have a concussion? Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“What part of ‘I’m fine’ don’t you understand?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Twenty-seven. No, wait - make that twenty-eight.”

“...Okay. You’re fucking with me.” Gi-hun’s laugh was tremulous with relief. “You’re fine.”

Sang-woo rubbed the back of his head. He could feel the brewing shape of a bump, but he was pretty confident that the only real injury was the blow he’d taken to his pride. 

“Sorry,” said Gi-hun sheepishly. “I should’ve warned you. I was trying to be all sexy and mysterious.”

“Is this what sex is supposed to be like?” Sang-woo remarked frumpily. “Awkward? Headache-inducing?”

“Headache-inducing? I hope not. Can’t say that’s ever been my experience. Awkward, however … Kinda. Porn is a lie once you’ve had the real thing. There’s a lot more talking involved, for one.”

“There’s always talking involved with you,” said Sang-woo tiredly (tenderly.) “You don’t know how to shut up.”

Gi-hun ran his fingers through Sang-woo’s hair, though for no other reason now than to simply touch him. “You sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine. Really.” 

“Permission to make a joke?”

“Since when do you need my permission for these things?”

“I figured your pride might’ve suffered enough for one night.”

Sang-woo sighed. “Out with it.”

Gi-hun grinned. With enthusiastic aplomb, he cuddled up against Sang-woo’s side, fitting perfectly into him like the curve of a semicolon, lax and languid. There it was again, another whiff of that terribly cheap shampoo, Gi-hun’s hair tickling his nose, the artificial reek of strawberry so strong it nearly made him sneeze. It was incredible how something so objectively awful could also smell so, so good. All because it was Gi-hun’s. All because he was in love. 

(Pathetic.) 

Gi-hun perched his chin delicately on Sang-woo’s shoulder, fingers gliding across his chest, little shapes drawn into his skin that Sang-woo could vaguely recognize as hangul characters. “Who knew your nipples were so sensitive?” he teased, the words breathed straight into Sang-woo’s ear, and with a flick, he tweaked him harshly against his thumb and forefinger, the motion close to mean.

Sang-woo winced, closed his eyes,  leaned his head back (and this time, thankfully, he avoided an injury.) “How’s that?” Gi-hun asked. He did it again, and this time it was mean, done purely to elicit a response. Sang-woo tried to stay in control, stamped down on what would’ve been a reasonably embarrassing moan, but he couldn’t stop himself from audibly swallowing around it. “Sorry,” said Gi-hun, without sounding very sorry at all. “That wasn’t much of a joke. Guess it’s not funny if it’s true.”

“Are you done making fun of me yet?”

“I’m not making fun of you.” Gi-hun changed tactics, switching to slow, idle circles drawn around his nipple. “You look like you’re really feeling it. That’s good. It is good, right? Tell me.”

“It’s good.” Sang-woo sighed around an involuntary full-body shudder. There was more he wanted to say, though the words were lodged in his throat. He had to claw them out by force. “Don’t stop.”

Gi-hun all but purred. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” 

Quick as a cat, he straddled Sang-woo’s lap, pressed down hard against him so that he sat directly on his cock, which made Sang-woo inhale, thick and low, a snag in his throat he struggled to focus around. They were perfectly aligned at eye level like this. It made him want to look away.

Gi-hun leaned down to nuzzle his chest, an affectionate and unnecessary gesture, before swallowing a nipple whole.

“Fuck.”

Gi-hun popped off immediately. “Woah. Since when do you swear?”

“No more talking.” Sang-woo grasped the back of Gi-hun’s neck and tugged him close. “Do that again.”

Gi-hun pressed a smile into his skin. “You’re the boss.” When he took him into his mouth again, Sang-woo all but melted. 

His body, usually pulled taut like a rubber band prepped to snap, simply gave up, went slack with it, as if the strings of his puppet had been cut loose. Control slipped away from him. He thrust up instinctively, which Gi-hun met halfway by pressing down so that they moved together, and oh, the pleasure was warm and fuzzy, not unlike slipping into a hot bath after a long, arduous day at work. 

Gi-hun’s mouth was wet, yet he knew just how to be precise, pushed in with the right amount of pinpoint pressure that Sang-woo arched from the feel of it, until with a small parting kiss, he came up for air.

“Don’t say it,” panted Sang-woo, surprised at how wrecked he sounded. (Pathetic.)

Gi-hun poked out his tongue. “Cute.”

He closed his eyes. Maybe he could imagine something different. Maybe he could pretend Gi-hun was just some random guy he’d found in a bar. Anonymous and uncaring. Maybe he could dip into the dark recesses at the back of his mind, hide away there until it was all over. Give in to the physical pleasure. Mentally check out for the rest of it.

“It’s good, right?” said Gi-hun, prompting. It dragged him back out. He couldn’t escape from Gi-hun. Even if he wanted to.

(Patheticpatheticpathetic.)

“It’s wet,” said Sang-woo vaguely. He tipped his head away. Focused on a distant spot on the wall, maybe the splotch of an old water stain. He could feel something in his eyes, then, prickling and unfamiliar. 

“It can be even better.” Gi-hun caught him by the cheek. Gently guided him back into the moment, so that they were looking at each other again. “If you’re ready.”

“I’m not.”

“Need a break?” Gi-hun was already making to move away, and that scared Sang-woo more than anything else they’d done tonight, so he gripped him, hard, by the wrist, fingers sharp like the pointed poke of a fish hook. If they took a break, then that would be his chance. He’d run. Everything would sink into him, the strange dreamscape that was their reality would shatter into something more real and tangible, and he wouldn’t be able to come back to this, because his chance would be gone, and the moment lost, and he’d be Sang-woo again. A coward right up until the very end.

Sang-woo blinked the strange feeling in his eyes away. “I’ve barely touched you.”

“...Oh. Um. You're touching me now, actually.” Gi-hun gestured awkwardly to his wrist. Sang-woo's grip was firm. Constrictive. Squeezing the bone. It took Sang-woo a moment to realize that this was Gi-hun’s way of politely requesting he let go. 

“Sorry.” Sang-woo's fingers flexed around the release.

“It's okay,” said Gi-hun cautiously. He rubbed his wrist. “You're uh — you're surprisingly strong. You know. For a stuffy nerd." 

“I don't know what came over me.”

“I guess you're really feeling it, huh?” Gi-hun joked, but it fell flat between them. They'd always preferred to tiptoe around the big subjects, skirting discomfort like the plague — their earlier argument had been an outlier of sorts, entirely uncharacteristic. Sang-woo wasn't ready to revisit honesty. At least, not with this. Gi-hun didn't need to know every thought in his head. It'd hurt him too much. It hurt Sang-woo, too, but that was his cross to bear.

“You can touch me, for real this time,” said Gi-hun gently. “I'd like it if you did, actually. You're acting like such a pillow princess right now.”

“Don't ever call me that again,” said Sang-woo seriously.

“You're right, it doesn't suit you much.” 

They were moving back into the familiar. Treading past a beehive that begged to be poked. The tension in Sang-woo's chest eased, replaced with something more welcome. (A distraction.) He didn’t know where to start. Gi-hun made it look so natural, had touched Sang-woo with a grace he didn’t usually possess. Sang-woo couldn’t help but compare himself. He was so stiff and awkward. A floundering fish hooked out of water.  

“Hurry up. Do something.” Impatient as ever, Gi-hun grabbed Sang-woo’s hand and placed it square on his chest. 

Everything inside Sang-woo stopped, like a jammed clock caught on the wrong time. There were so many variables. So many potential outcomes. What if he didn’t do it right? What if he fucked up and ruined everything? What if —

“It’s not rocket science,” said Gi-hun exasperatedly. “It’s sex. Stop thinking so hard about it and just do it already.”

Sang-woo bridled. With a rough push, he had Gi-hun pinned down on the bed, and the sudden swap in dynamic flipped his stomach in turn. Gi-hun half-caught a yelp amid the broken rush of a laugh. 

“So strong and scary! What now?”

“Now …” From this new angle, Sang-woo could see everything. Gi-hun was so thin. His ribs were prominent, jutting out like cracked knuckles, and that wasn’t attractive so much as it was deeply, deeply sad. So, he turned his focus to other things. Like the smattered hair that ran in an alluring trail down his naval. And the slight shake of his chest when he breathed. And the indiscreet bulge in his pants. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one affected, nice to know that he maintained some semblance of power here, too. Sang-woo had spent so much time wrapped up in his head that he’d hardly noticed Gi-hun dripping with such obvious desire. He appreciated the sight now, at least, and committed it to memory before it’s inevitable packing away. 

“Now … what?” Gi-hun prompted. “Sorry to say, but your stare isn’t doing much for me.”

He trailed his finger down Gi-hun’s side, relished in the way his skin automatically reacted; a shudder, a ripple, as if his sensitivity were dialed up to eleven. How fascinating. “Yeah,” said Gi-hun breathlessly, “that’s much better.” In this position, he almost seemed to have lost his earlier bravado. He turned his head shyly, cheek resting against the blanket in the perfect picture of an image that Sang-woo never wanted to forget. 

When he brushed across Gi-hun’s chest, his touch light and barely there, Gi-hun closed his eyes and moaned. The sound was more than a little jarring. Sang-woo had swallowed down his own noises; hell, he’d barely uttered more than the sharp intake of a breath. Yet Gi-hun gave into it so easily. Shamelessly. No embarrassment, no pretense. He simply felt what he felt and vocalized it accordingly. Sang-woo was jealous. He’d always been jealous of Gi-hun, but he was especially jealous of this. 

Everything was so quiet. Save for the incessant tick-tick-tick of the clock. It throbbed under Sang-woo’s skin. A second heartbeat. Time. Time. Running out of time, all the time in the world - oh for fuck’s sake, he was so out of his element. The pressure to perform nearly crushed him in its weight. 

“What do you want?” Sang-woo asked. His voice emerged like cracked ice. “Tell me.”

“I want you to touch me. However you want. Wherever you want.”

“Here?”

Sang-woo skirted his hand across the bulge in Gi-hun's pants. Gi-hun's eyes flew wide. His hips did a little jerk, entirely instinctive, and more than a little — was cute the right word? It made him think of all the times Gi-hun called him cute, which never failed to set his teeth on edge. Still. It was endearing. Everything about Gi-hun was endearing, honestly. He loved him for that. He loved him. 

Unwilling to prod too closely at that private realization, Sang-woo did it again, though this time he applied more pressure. Gi-hun's hips echoed that same amusing stutter. Sang-woo would've been happy to repeat it all night, an endless loop of light touches that barely scraped the surface of both their desires, but his curiosity was mounting with each strangled noise Gi-hun choked around. What else could he coax from him, if they went that little bit further? He had to find out.

“Is it okay if I —”

“You're such a tease,” Gi-hun whined. Evidently, his patience had run short. “Touch me properly already!” He grasped Sang-woo's hand and pushed it beneath his pants. 

It all happened so fast. Sang-woo short-circuited, frozen in place. He'd had a whole thing planned, a script to follow. Gi-hun, in all his bloody impulsiveness, just had to throw a wrench in the works. He wanted to reprimand him, but there was now a cock directly below his fingers, Gi-hun's hand heavy atop his own, and he didn't know what to do, which was a distinctly stupid feeling, and that feeling of stupidity coiled in his stomach like a fat, lecherous worm.

Completely and utterly overwhelmed — that seemed to be his constant state of being for the moment.

Gi-hun propped himself up on his elbows and, with the hand that still held Sang-woo's, threaded their fingers together.

“Relax. It's nothing complicated. See, like this.” He guided Sang-woo slowly. A steady motion up. Then a quick beat down. Gi-hun made a shuddery noise, his eyes glassy. Sang-woo had to begrudgingly admire the self-control he possessed. “You've jerked off before, yeah? It's no different to that except, you know. Another person.”

“I know that,” said Sang-woo petulantly. “It's just — I don't want to hurt you.’

“Oh yeah, I'm so hurt right now!” Gi-hun wriggled his hips for emphasis. “I'm in so much pain, Sang-woo-ya, how could you do this to me? If you don't stop I think I'm gonna keel over and d—”

Sang-woo stroked down, this time with no guidance from Gi-hun's hand, and it was as if with that one motion the words had been knocked from his chest. 

“You were saying?” Sang-woo couldn't help but feel slightly vindicated. 

“You're not hurting me at all.” Gi-hun said it so quietly. A hushed breath. He let go of Sang-woo, so that he could balance up on both elbows, watching the subtle shift of his fist as he stroked him beneath the fabric. “Yeah. Fuck me. Just like that.”

This isn't fucking, thought Sang-woo pettily. But he was getting rather tired of the constant interruptions, so he kept that picky correction to himself. Besides, there were better things to focus on. Softer things. Gi-hun was hard in his grip, but he found himself surprised by the texture, delicate and fragile against his palm. He was a little wet, too, around the head, which surprised him. Sang-woo wasn't an idiot. He knew how it all worked. For fuck’s sake, he had his own, could feel it now pressing against his thigh, trapped by the uncomfortable heat of his pants. But it all seemed so different when mirrored by another person. Gi-hun was right. This was new. 

He needed to experiment further. Make Gi-hun writhe. Would he whine again? That had been a good sound, a great sound. It’d gone straight to his groin. Turned his blood hot and heady. 

When he moved his hand, Gi-hun breathed in through his nose, a sharp and raspy intake that fanned Sang-woo’s pride. He felt so good. His fingers strummed around him. Long, languid strokes, unhurried, and so gentle, too gentle, as if he might break. Sang-woo didn’t want to break him. Not now. He knew he’d have to one day. Knew it was inevitable. But this was far too precious an act. More than anything, he wanted Gi-hun to feel safe.

“A little faster.” Gi-hun peered up at him, eyes smoldering. Sang-woo did as he instructed, and there, that was a reaction; he went all rigid with it, a delicious moan breaking on his lips that Sang-woo couldn’t stop himself from kissing into. It was almost meditative — Gi-hun’s tongue swiping across his mouth, the way he bit against him sometimes, enough to make him hurt. Sang-woo pulled back, tugging on his bottom lip as he did so, a trick he’d picked up on fast. Gi-hun was a good teacher, after all. 

“You’re getting good at this,” Gi-hun whispered in an unusually thin, hoarse voice. Sang-woo privately preened at the praise.

“I told you. I’m a fast learner.”

“Mm. You mentioned.”

He was tempted to ask if Gi-hun had upped his grade from that pitiful B- to a B+, maybe even an A. But that seemed too desperate, even for him. He could already imagine Gi-hun splitting at the sides from laughter, shocked that he’d taken his joke so seriously, the mood they’d painstakingly created together shot point blank. 

Sang-woo cleared his throat. He backed off an appropriate distance, pulled his hand free, the loss unwelcomed. Gi-hun’s hips did a final tiny jerk in protest. “Asshole,” he muttered, but his eyes were warm with mirth. 

“I was thinking … maybe it’s time we …”

“Yeah. Yeah, totally. Oh shit, right!” Gi-hun leaped off the bed and fumbled for his clothes. He retrieved his wallet from a pocket full of crumpled betting receipts and returned to Sang-woo with a bounce in his step, flopping back onto the bed with zero attempt at grace or poise. “If we’re gonna do this then we need to be safe. You remember Sex Ed, right? Something, something, wear a condom or you’ll explode. I think it went something like that, anyway.”

“Explode as in …? There’s two ways you can interpret that.”

Gi-hun laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Look at you, making bad sex jokes! I’m so proud!”

It was like he was starting to wake up from a strange, off-kilter dream. He was about to lose his virginity. Sang-woo’s heart seized. The air in his lungs coiled uncomfortably. 

“Hyung…”

“So. Condoms.” Gi-hun cracked open his wallet and pretended to peruse, rifling over several sealed packets. “You’re lucky I come prepared. Let's see here. Your choices include … strawberry, green apple, ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, chocolate — ooh, that one really tastes like chocolate, by the way, it's so good! Isn't technology great? Now where was I … oh yeah. Warming, cooling, mint —” Gi-hun made a face. “ Gross. Tingling, studded, dotted —”

“Do you have any normal condoms in there?!” 

“What a surprise. Sang-woo-ya picks the boring option. But yeah. Of course I do.” He pressed a quick, pacifying kiss to the corner of Sang-woo's mouth. “I'm actually relieved you said that. Normal is all I got. Sorry. I was pulling your leg. I couldn't help myself. Oh wow, imagine if you actually asked for ribbed? Or mint? That would've been so awkward.”

Sang-woo felt more than a little mocked. “Is now really the time for jokes?”

“You're nervous,” said Gi-hun, not unkindly. “Now is exactly the time for jokes.”

Sang-woo loved him. He had known it for so, so long. But fuck. He loved him so, so much. With an intensity that was terrifying in its scope. With a ferocity that could not be repressed. With a gentleness that made him feel so small, so insignificant, so weak in the face of it all. Why, why, why did Gi-hun have to like him back? When that exuberant boy of not-yet-ten saw him from across the schoolyard, sullen and alone, what had he seen? Why did he have to persist throughout the years? Sang-woo had tried to put distance between them. He’d even tried to create some artificial semblance of growing apart. What did Gi-hun see in him? He was boring. Colorless. Torn apart on the inside. Barely scraped together into the functioning shape of a human being on the outside. What was there to like beyond good grades about the Pride and Joy of Ssangmun-dong? What was there to be proud of?

Why couldn’t Gi-hun just fucking leave him already?

There was no severing what simmered between them now. It was a tumor. Parasitic. A shared burden dragging them both under. It grew bigger and bigger with each tick-tick-tick that passed, and the bigger it grew, the more it needed to feed. Because that’s what their friendship did, at its core - it fed upon them, and fed upon them, and fed upon them, like the fine-toothed combs of a leech’s mouth. Eventually, there would be nothing left to feed on. How much of himself was he willing to give up, all for one extra week by Gi-hun’s side? Who was Cho Sang-woo without Ssangmun-dong, without his best friend, to weigh him down?

“Hyung,” said Sang-woo, and his voice was a dry crack that nearly died in his throat. He wanted to say I’m scared, but that was fucking pathetic. Scared of what? The sex? Or the full and ugly scope of their relationship? The inevitability of fucking everything? Yeah. That was terrifying. That was too much. “I can’t wait any longer,” he said instead, because it was sort of true. Gi-hun hummed in reluctant agreement. (Did he feel it too? This shared parasite between them? Or was it yet another cross to bear that Sang-woo was forced to shoulder all on his own?)

“Lie back.” Gi-hun tapped the bed authoritatively. “Take off your pants. I gotta prep you.”

He wasn't naive. Sang-woo knew what the prep entailed. His skin prickled uncomfortably.

“I'll be gentle, okay? And if it doesn't feel good, you can tell me to stop. There's other stuff we can do together. I don't care, so long as I'm with you.”

Sang-woo slowly slid off his pants, then his underwear, methodical and somewhat detached, as if such an approach might help what was to come. Gi-hun sidled close as he lay back, one hand pinned against his hip to keep him down, the other trailing around his crotch. Sang-woo tried not to flush at the sight of Gi-hun above him. He failed.

“Do you have any lube?” Gi-hun asked.

“It's in the top drawer.”

“Woah. You actually have some?”

“I was gifted it. At a party.”

“You went to a party?”

“Not willingly.” It'd been his first week at college. He'd attended solely because his classmates refused to take no for an answer. Besides, it had seemed like the appropriate and polite thing to do when faced with an invitation. Since he was now an official adult, Sang-woo had thought it would be one of those prim and proper parties, where people delicately sipped on wine and talked over half-baked politics. What he hadn't expected was the sheer chaos, the noise, the smashed beer bottles, and the rampant sex — a college cliche if there ever was one. The lube had been a gag gift. Shoved into his awkward hands amid giggles and whispers. Something dawned on him, then, a realization of sorts. “...They were probably making fun of me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

Gi-hun raised one eyebrow skeptically. “I don't think people care as much as you seem to think they do.”

“Maybe,” Sang-woo agreed half-heartedly, but he didn’t really believe it. People cared about appearances. They formed scathing judgements based on them. Childhood stories and feel-good fairy tales liked to pretend that they didn’t, or that those sorts of people got their comeuppance, but pretty lies were still lies, no matter what fancy words or illustrations you dressed them up in. 

Gi-hun frowned, but he didn’t press the issue further. Instead, he retrieved the bottle from his bedside drawer and squirted a generous helping on his fingers. Sang-woo stiffened. The sound was confronting.

“Okay. Let's see here.” Gi-hun trailed lower, lower still, until his finger fluttered around where his entrance was, tentative and teasing. “You're stiff as a board. You need to relax.”

“I don't know how to do that,” Sang-woo admitted. His body felt like a coiled spring set to burst.

“I dunno, man. Think about a really hot actor. Imagine a porno. Have a smoke. Lighting one up always calms me down.”

“You know it's against dorm policy to smoke on the premises. Besides, I'm not going to ‘light one up’ during sex.” Sang-woo shook his head disapprovingly. “That's utterly deranged.” 

“I do it all the time. It's hot. Even better if they're smoking weed. That way, when you kiss ‘em, you get what's called a secondhand high. It’s pretty great.”

“For your sake and my own, I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that.”

“I know you won't report me to the police. You'd miss me too much.” Gi-hun stole a quick kiss to his tip. An efficient form of revenge. He lay down so that his cheek rested squarely on Sang-woo's hipbone, so close now to his cock that he could feel Gi-hun's breath ghosting along it. It made him twitch in anticipation. “Hey. Can I try something?”  

“Depends what that something is.” 

“I wanna give you a blowjob,” said Gi-hun, as he started to stroke him. “It's hard to focus on the fingering when you're getting your dick sucked. Trust me, I speak from experience. Maybe it'll help.”

“You say it so crudely,” said Sang-woo, flustered.

“Is that a yes? ‘Oh, hyung, yes you can suck my dick! It'll feel so good! Drain me, drain me, drain me — try saying it like that. It'll suit you, promise.”

“Drain me? What kind of porn have you been watching?”

“The scandalous kind.”

“I’m not going to ask you to … do that,” said Sang-woo, unimpressed. 

“Fine. Then how about some manners, huh? A simple ‘yes please’ would suffice.”

Gi-hun's smile was lazy, as lazy as his shallow pumps. Like this, it would never be enough. 

He’d thought about Gi-hun sucking him off a lot, actually. More than he’d ever care to admit. It was a fantasy burned into his brain, something he desperately pulled upon when he was horny and alone and overcome by desire. How could he say no? Gi-hun was staring up at him, eyes soft and doughy. Another image from tonight to pack away into its own special box. If he wasn’t careful, then he’d be seeing this for years to come whenever he closed his eyes, a lingering imprint behind his eyelids. 

“Okay.” 

Gi-hun fluttered his eyelashes, expectant. Sang-woo bit back a sigh. “ Please ,” he added, his voice rough behind gritted teeth. Not nearly as cute as such a word in such a specific context ought to be. 

“Well, if you’re gonna beg like that, how could I refuse?”

He started simple. A few soft kisses to his thigh. The skin there was surprisingly sensitive. It almost tickled. When Gi-hun reached the coarse hair of his crotch, he buried his nose in it, breathed it in, and somehow that was more embarrassing than anything else they’d done tonight. “You smell good,” he said approvingly. Then he shoved Sang-woo’s legs open, hooking one so that it came to rest over his shoulder, and pinning the other. “It’s hotter this way. Feel free to be rough with me. I don’t care.”

Sang-woo wasn’t quite sure what being rough entailed. All he had to do was lie there and take it, right? 

Again, Gi-hun returned to kissing, though never where he needed him most. The tender skin of his groin. His belly button. That particularly sensitive area between his stomach and cock, where the hair grew thickest. Always hovering close by. Never enough. The anticipation had Sang-woo wrung out like a dishcloth. Why couldn’t he just get on with it already?

When Gi-hun finally took him into his mouth, it summoned a rush of pure, unfiltered relief. Sang-woo sagged with the feeling. His thighs trembled from the effort to stay still, though he buried his heel into Gi-hun’s back, a sharp dig that jerked close to a kick, and maybe that was what Gi-hun meant by being rough because he moaned appreciatively around him. There was no talking now. Nothing except the lewd noise from Gi-hun’s mouth. He found himself missing the constant interruptions, the playful banter, that familiar back-and-forth that had defined their friendship for so many years. The sounds were sexy, but if he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were anyone’s sounds, and that made him feel so terribly, terribly alone. So, he fought that instinct with another one. Perched up on his elbows, focused on Gi-hun’s face. Even if the sight was confronting. Even if, beneath the pleasure, it made him feel vaguely sick.

The pleasure was as good a distraction as any, though. Hot. Tingly. He could feel it in his fingers, his toes, occasionally thrusting up with the rise-and-fall of it, an obnoxious rhythm. He’d spent so much of his life carefully exerting control; his every action practiced to a precise art, his every decision carefully calculated. Sometimes he felt like a puppet master working the strings to a puppet. There was no place for any of that here. Sex was, as he’d successfully predicted, an act that sliced him surgically open. 

Gi-hun’s mouth on him was practiced. Controlled . Shallow and cautious, at first, but growing bolder by the minute. The sight alone - Gi-hun’s cheeks flushed, his lips split around him, each movement accompanied by a sound that was wholly wet and lurid - was almost enough to make Sang-woo unravel. He took him deeper, a few extra inches, until he was snug at the back of his throat, an incessant nudge that made Sang-woo hiss through his teeth, and only then did Gi-hun look up at him through sweat-damp lashes. It was too much. He could barely think around the influx of new sensations. Gi-hun was ruining him. And it felt so fucking good to be ruined. 

The inevitability of it all sunk into him marrow-deep, just as Gi-hun took him to the root. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Omnipresent. He wondered if Gi-hun noticed that sound the same way he did. He wondered if Gi-hun ever even thought about it at all. Time didn’t seem to matter as much to him. Where would he be in ten years? Twenty? Sang-woo had asked, once, and he’d shrugged that easygoing shrug of his, said, “I dunno. I guess I’ll know once I get there.” And it was a maddening response, half because he couldn’t imagine leaving life up to chance like that, and the other half because he’d expected him to say something stupid, soft-headed, something like “with you, of course.” Which was all Sang-woo wanted to hear, at the end of the day. 

Gi-hun kissed his tip, then took him deep again, one swift motion, and a fresh burst of heat made its way down Sang-woo’s spine just as he slid his first finger inside, all the way up to the knuckle. Suddenly he was thoughtless again. Wrung out to dry. 

It was an odd feeling. Not pleasant. Not entirely unpleasant, either. Just … new. Maybe close to overstimulating. Gi-hun was still focused on his cock, a stuttered rhythm, bobbing his head while he cautiously pressed in with his finger. Sang-woo wanted to squirm away. Sang-woo wanted to push back into it. Sang-woo wanted Gi-hun to be done with formalities, hurry up and fuck me, hard, fast, make it hurt. He wanted to be left wounded and used. Indistinguishable from roadkill. 

But Sang-woo knew Gi-hun wouldn’t ever entertain such a sick idea. Even now, he was gauging his reactions. Brow knitted together in focus. Searching for any sign of obvious discomfort. Whatever he saw must’ve been encouraging, which made Sang-woo feel privately relieved. He wasn’t that easy to read. How could he be when his breath came in harsh, short pants, like he was fighting it? Face screwed up, fists tight, blood pounding inside his ears, and it was all simultaneously too much and yet not enough, and yes, he wanted it to hurt, but he’d settle for this, too, because it was almost just as good.

“Hyung,” Sang-woo gasped out brokenly. “Talk to me.”

Gi-hun pulled off to give him the stink eye. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s kinda hard to talk with a mouth full of dick.”

“I don’t care. Do it.”

He clicked his tongue. “You’re so demanding, you know that? I guess even geniuses sometimes need a reality check.” Despite complaining, he took a break to idly rest against his thigh. Sang-woo could still feel his finger inside him, though he wasn’t moving it now, allowing it to rest nice and still. Sang-woo was slowly adjusting to the feeling.

“What do I taste like?” Such an odd question. But Sang-woo needed to fill the silence. And he was, admittedly, curious.

“Salty. A little bitter. Pretty good, if you’re into that sort of thing. I can show you, if you want.”

“How?”

“Here.” He leaned up to kiss him. Sang-woo was surprised to find he could taste himself, a lingering smear on Gi-hun’s lips. His assessment was reasonably accurate. Salty. A tad bitter. Sang-woo wasn’t a fan of the flavor. It stuck to his mouth like glue.

“Like it?”

“It’s … different.”

“Mm. I think it’s nice. Now stop distracting me. I’ve got a job to do.”

He flexed his finger, a little reminder. Sang-woo shuddered.

“Should I move now? How’re you feeling? Is the blowjob helping?”

He’d adjusted, mostly. It was still uncomfortable, but he was confident in his ability to take another. Gi-hun didn’t need to tiptoe around him like he was fragile porcelain. “You don’t have to be so gentle. I’m not going to break.” 

It felt good to parrot back his earlier words, though Gi-hun didn't laugh; instead, he looked at him, solemn and uncharacteristically serious.

“...Sometimes I worry you might.”

He pulled out, applied more lube, which left Sang-woo aching and empty in a way he hadn’t expected, then pressed back in with two. The second finger made him visibly wince, an intense stretch that blurred close to a burn. Gi-hun slid as deep as he could, a slow, cautious crawl aided by a generous amount of lubricant, his gaze pinned to Sang-woo’s face all the while, searching. Sang-woo had to remind himself to breathe through it. His muscles contracted around the intrusion. Like he wanted to push him out. Like he wanted to keep him inside. He wasn’t sure which one was closer to the truth.

“You can move,” he hedged, more out of curiosity to see how it would feel than any real comfort. Gi-hun nodded, shuffling back down the bed so he could tease him again, small kitten-licks to his slit that sent arousal pooling in Sang-woo’s belly, heavy and thick. He drew his fingers out, unhurried, a scrape against hot walls that made his hips instinctively jerk, before sliding back in, even more careful than before. 

Sang-woo wished more than anything else for a cigarette in his mouth. The nicotine hit never failed to keep him calm. Distant. It was hard to be anxious, a creature made of thoughts and feelings, when his head was wrapped up in smoke.

“Good?” Gi-hun asked. He mouthed down the length of him. Pressed an affectionate kiss against his groin. 

“Different,” Sang-woo said again.

“You promised you’d talk to me. Be honest. What’s it like?”

“It’s overwhelming. You’re overwhelming.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Another push in, this time faster than before. The air was punched from Sang-woo’s lungs. “It’s been mutual for a long time,” he managed, and tick-tick-tick, it was like a pickaxe, that sound, trying to chip its way out of him. “I still wonder why we did nothing about it.” He paused. “Why I did nothing.”

It was a minor correction. But Gi-hun had been right. This was his boat to row. Gi-hun was chasing him constantly, always inserting himself into Sang-woo's narrative, as if afraid that someday Sang-woo might no longer want him. It begged the question: did he know Sang-woo planned to leave? Did he sabotage every attempt Sang-woo made from a place of malignancy or desperation? Wasn’t it understandable, then, that he’d left this final bridge to cross in Sang-woo's court? Maybe Gi-hun wasn’t entirely shameless after all; maybe all this chasing had rubbed him raw, left him bruised, and maybe it was only fair that he’d waited, if only for the simple assurance that Sang-woo wanted Gi-hun as much as Gi-hun wanted him. 

“I don’t know. Why do people do anything?” said Gi-hun tersely. “Maybe we do the best with what we have. Maybe we don’t. Maybe we fuck up and make mistakes. Maybe we don’t. Maybe we fall in love and fuck other people because it’s a fun distraction. Maybe we don’t. Maybe we fall in love and do nothing but watch. Maybe we don’t.” Gi-hun sighed. “See how stupidly useless it all is? These dumbass fucking maybes. Maybe I’m an idiot, and maybe you’re a God. Maybe you deserve me, and maybe I deserve something else. I don’t care. Thinking about it all … it makes my head hurt.” Gi-hun blinked owlishly up at him. “This is such unsexy talk. I have my fingers inside your ass. Where is this going again? Oh yeah.”

He withdrew, the motion harsh, almost cruel, and thrust back in fast. Sang-woo broke around the noise in his throat. It was small and low and pitiful and over far too soon.

Gi-hun smiled. “Now that’s more like it. Much sexier. Keep it up, please.”

It was an easy glide now, even for two fingers, though Sang-woo still felt wound tight, like his body was a sponge squeezed out to dry. “You're taking me so well,” said Gi-hun rapturously. His voice was low, close to rough, a rumble in a thicket, and Sang-woo had to consciously suppress a gasp when he pressed deeper, his fingers hooking into a tentative come-hither motion as if he were searching for something. When that didn’t summon the reaction he was hoping to elicit, he pushed that extra bit further, and brushed against something, something that made Sang-woo lurch, something he had to blink blearily against. 

“Aha! There you are!” Gi-hun nudged that same spot, his touch gentle yet firm, experimental. “It’s so weird, right? The first time it happened to me, I came so hard. It was pretty embarrassing.”

Sang-woo propped himself up on his elbows, his head swimming. “Did you just …” The word sat weird and wrong in his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, suddenly shy.

“Did I … what?” Gi-hun rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t kill you to say it, y’know. It’s not a bad word.”

Another stroke against his prostate, this time with undeniably cruel intent. Sang-woo was powerless against the pleasure that spiked down his spine. It had him on his back again, fists clenched white, and it was almost too much, maybe would’ve been had Gi-hun not noticed his struggle and kindly threaded his hand with Sang-woo’s own, so that their palms rested together, a grounding touch that comforted him more than he would like to admit. The sensation sat low in his stomach with each persistent nudge from Gi-hun’s fingers. He realized, distantly, that he was leaking all over himself, his cock slick and shining with it. How deeply, awfully embarrassing.

Gi-hun’s erection, by comparison, was tragically neglected, still tucked safely away in the pants that hung too loose around his frame. Sang-woo didn’t have much time to linger on that thought before he’d withdrawn his fingers entirely. The loss was shocking. Cold. His muscles fluttered around the sudden emptiness. 

Gi-hun kicked off those stupidly inconvenient pants. “Watching you like this — it’s so hot. I can’t help myself.” 

He shimmied up Sang-woo’s body so that they were nestled together again, their legs tangling, an inseparable knot. Gi-hun slotted perfectly into his side. He buried his nose in Sang-woo's neck; pressed a quick nip above his jugular, teeth scraping dangerously close. And then another, just to test his luck, if only because he could. Sang-woo tilted away from it, cheeks ruddy with heat.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, to fill this new void of intoxicating silence between them.

“Yeah. Please. Do.” Gi-hun trembled around a gasp once he obliged. Sang-woo was glad to finally have something to do with his hands. It was a welcomed distraction, even if this new angle was slightly awkward, made his wrist ache, unpracticed. Gi-hun didn't seem to mind. He moaned, deliciously sweet, cock twitching in Sang-woo's hand; reapplied more lube before he could lose himself in it. Then, with three fingers, he pushed back in.

If two was a stretch that edged close to a burn, then three definitely burned. Sang-woo shook from the feeling, tugged at Gi-hun's dick keenly, desperately. He fell into Gi-hun's shoulder, a perfect place to hide away. To bite. Sang-woo, so overcome by it all, listened to the instinct as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The hickey he sucked appeared as a dark red welt, punctuated by the shallow indents left behind from his teeth. Gi-hun shivered appreciatively against him as he did so, clawing his free hand through Sang-woo's hair. His fingers lost their coordinated rhythm, restless and out of sync inside him. 

“Yeah. Mark me.” He said it so violently that Sang-woo blinked a few times, caught off-guard. “I want people to know I've been fucked. Fucked by you. Oh, fuck, Sang-woo-ya. You feel so good. Shit. You're so … so warm. And tight. So good for me. You're doing so well. You're —”

“You're rambling.” Sang-woo needed to put a pin in it, fast. There was only so much sensory input a man in his position could take. Especially when Gi-hun was brushing up against his prostate again, mercilessly mean.

“...Sorry.”

Sang-woo suspected Gi-hun wasn't very sorry at all.

Gi-hun swatted his hand off his dick, a loss that had Sang-woo grasping at air, before he moved back down so he could suck him off again. It tempered the ache, the newness, somewhat; it was hard to focus on anything else when Gi-hun's tongue laved across his slit, gathering the pre-come pooling there so he could lap it up, the sound so lewd in the still and stuffy air of his dorm room. When he took him even deeper, it was with such a calm, casual ease, the muscles in his throat flexing, and Sang-woo knew it didn't matter ( except it did), but he had to wonder how many other men he'd done this to, if he'd fucked those men with the same amount of tenderness, like they might break. Sang-woo fought the urge to snap his hips forward, bury himself impossibly deep. Make Gi-hun choke and splutter around the shape of him. 

He didn't want to hurt him. But sometimes, in the darkest patch at the back of the attic in his mind, a place he was so dreadfully afraid of — well, sometimes he did.

Gi-hun was still three-fingers deep, his movements more cautious than before, mindful of how intense the stretch must’ve been.  “You’re really feeling it, huh?” Did Sang-woo look that obvious? He was dimly aware of the ruddy shade in his cheeks, a hot-iron press, and the occasional, uncontrolled roll of his hips. It didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. Only foreign. New.

“Fuck, Sang-woo-ya. I’ve thought about this so much. It’s even better than I imagined. Did you think about it too? How often?”

Sang-woo’s voice was shot when he replied, “every night. All the time. I —” Gi-hun’s knuckle brushed just shy of his prostate, that same knowing glint back in his eyes again. “— I’ve wanted you for so long. You have no idea.”

“I do. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You’re not exactly subtle. Hey, can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything,” Sang-woo said, and in that moment, he meant it.

“Promise you won’t get mad?”

“I promise.”

“I loved making you jealous. Every time you saw a new hickey, or … or listened to me talk about my hookups. I know it was selfish. But I loved it. Feeling your eyes on me. Knowing I’d made you angry.”

“I was never angry at you,” Sang-woo lied. “Only at myself.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why it was selfish.”

“Hyung.” Sang-woo broke around a whimper, a fucking whimper, wrenched out from hiding behind his teeth when Gi-hun started to thrust his fingers in earnest. He was full of feeling, close to bursting with it, could feel his veins stretch like elastic, a rope in his belly that was threatening to uncoil. His body went rigid with it, his thighs closed in, pelvis rocking up, cock rubbing haplessly against Gi-hun’s cheek, and even that was almost too much, would’ve shattered him into a million pieces had he not managed to hold himself back. 

“...What is it?” Gi-hun said smugly, watching this dramatic display unfold with a mix of tenderness and immense amusement. 

“Hurry up.” Sang-woo was dizzy. He collapsed against the mattress. Suddenly far too tired to care. “Fuck me already.”

“I guess we have been dragging this out, huh?” Gi-hun punctuated that statement with one last torturous drag of his fingers, languid and long. He pulled his hand free, and Sang-woo mourned the loss. 

“I had to make sure you’d opened up for me,” he explained lightly. “Otherwise I might not fit.”

Sang-woo gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that big.”

“Like you’d know,” Gi-hun retorted, looking slightly affronted. “Mr. SNU Virgin over here. Your only frame of reference are those dumb anatomy textbooks from high-school!”

“That’s not true!”

“Um, yeah, it is. It’s so true. Bet you’ll be begging for it by the time I’m done with you. Bet you’ll scream.”

Sang-woo recoiled. Humiliation turned him ripe red. Scandalized. It was thrilling, being spoken to in such a way, and he was almost inclined to agree — if anyone could make him writhe and scream and beg for it, then it was definitely Gi-hun, perhaps the only man for the job. That realization stirred something inside his chest he wasn't quite ready to touch upon. “I can’t,” he said meekly. “There’s people around. I wouldn’t want anyone to hear.”

“Not like that.” Gi-hun chased his ear, tugged on the lobe. “Just loud enough for me to hear. Just me. It’s always been just me, hasn’t it?”

Sang-woo didn't know how to respond to that, so he moaned, instead, because somehow that was far less embarrassing than just saying, yes. 

“...I guess I should put a condom on, huh? Responsibility and all that.”

“It's not like you can get me pregnant.” 

“No, but it's, I dunno. Safer. I get tested a lot, but, you know.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don't wanna risk anything. Besides, you seem like the kind of guy to throw a fit if there's a clean-up. Sex is messy. I want you to be comfortable.”

Sang-woo couldn't argue with that. He was a prickly and particular sort, and nowhere did that ring more true than when it came to mess. The few times he'd been overwhelmed enough to jerk off had been colored by an awful aftermath, his afterglow dampened to a dim by the wet and sticky feeling of himself spread across his hand and stomach. He tried to imagine that same feeling, though this time pushed inside him, deep as it could go, the steady drip back out when gravity eventually did its job. He couldn't decide then if he longed for it or if he was deathly afraid of it. Either way, perhaps a condom wouldn't be such a bad idea. He'd already unpacked enough truths about himself for one night.

Gi-hun fished out his wallet from where it had fallen, forgotten, amid the blankets. He plucked out a condom and tore the wrapper open unceremoniously with his teeth, a feral act to witness that set Sang-woo's pulse stuttering in expectation. The trash was tossed carelessly to the floor, a problem for later, which earned him a derisive glare, though Gi-hun returned his ire with nothing more than a cheeky smile. 

“I wasn't lying about the glow in the dark condom, by the way,” he said. “That one's real. I got it free somewhere. I can't remember where. It was probably a joke gift or something. Sure you don't want to try?”

“I think I'll survive not knowing what a glow in the dark condom feels like,” Sang-woo said distastefully.

“Your loss.”

“...Why does something like that even exist?”

“I dunno, man. Why anything? Because it's fun? Because it makes money? Because people are freaks? That's why.”

Sang-woo watched as he opened it up, the latex transparent and tight-looking. Would it hurt? Was Gi-hun making a sacrifice on his account? He remembered a few guys from school bitching about having to wear them, how it made everything feel worse, how a tiny slip of rubber between two organs made all the difference, and his anxiety flared like a firework, a bright bloom inside his chest.

Gi-hun noticed his gaze and laughed, misunderstanding. “You wanna help? Here.” He grabbed Sang-woo's hand and guided him through the motion, kissing him as he did so, a polite stopper to the protest fumbling on Sang-woo's lips. His tongue rolled across his bottom lip, a request to be let in that Sang-woo begrudgingly obliged. A swift roll, a silent snap, and that seemed about right. “There,” said Gi-hun sweetly, rewarding him with a shorter, more innocent kiss. “A real team effort.”

And again, Sang-woo loved him. He was so close to saying it. The words stuck in his mouth; the feeling surged through his chest, washed him clean and sparkly new. Sang-woo loved him, and he was drowning in it. Theirs was the worst kind of love. Inexperienced. Youthful. Suffocating. 

Gi-hun gently pushed him down onto his back and found a comfortable place to balance above him. He nudged Sang-woo's thighs open with his knee and pushed up against him, a gentle, probing tease to test the slight give of his entrance. He looked more than a little proud of himself when it worked, face smug and self-indulgent, all his careful prep paid off in spades. Sang-woo wanted to bite the smile off his lips, if only to reassert some petty display of control.

“Ready?”

Sang-woo bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't think he'd ever be ready. “Just get it over with already.”

When Gi-hun pushed in, it was accompanied with a kiss, warm and soft and heady against Sang-woo’s mouth. He delivered it slowly, only the head caught inside him, but it was still enough to make Sang-woo gasp, a tiny, pitiful sound that Gi-hun drank in, licked up until not a trace remained on his lips. “Oh, you sweet thing,” he breathed, and Sang-woo could hear the restraint in his voice, could even feel it, the subtle tremble in Gi-hun’s muscles, the effort it must’ve taken to hold himself back, “you’re so … so tight.”

Gi-hun was inside him. The reality of it all tumbled over Sang-woo in a delayed rush, just as Gi-hun slid in further, trailing kisses down his chin as he did so. He winced at the intrusion, pressed himself deeper into the mattress as if that would help temper the ache. It didn’t hurt, not in any typical sense of the word, but it didn’t feel particularly good, either. Mostly full. Sharp. Overwhelming. There was a slight burn as his muscles flexed to accommodate him, but there was also a hum beneath all of that, a thin, pleasurable stir he felt in his cock, which had softened somewhat from the penetration and the small break they’d taken in between.

It was too much, such a complicated array of sensation, each a spark behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes. Inescapable. 

He wanted to wrench his arm across Gi-hun’s back and drag him forward, until he was sheathed impossibly deep, and then he’d hold him there, marvel at the throbbing wound of it all, a pressure below his naval. He wanted it to hurt in that way. Wanted it to leave him bloodied and sore and scraped empty. Gi-hun could use him, and he wouldn’t mind, at least, not until the inevitable aftermath of it all. Maybe that would be his reason to never try something like this again. 

Gi-hun nosed his neck affectionately. “Hey. Sang-woo-ya. You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” It was difficult to speak around the moan in his throat, a moan that broke when Gi-hun pushed past his prostate. 

“Just checking. I know it’s a lot. The first time and all. Does it hurt?”

“No.” Sang-woo desperately, desperately wished it did. “Not really.”

“Here. Let me help.” He found his cock, still half-soft against his belly, and thumbed it back into hardness. “There. How’s that?”

Sang-woo couldn’t reply. It changed everything. He had to keep his eyes closed. If he opened them, he knew he’d find Gi-hun above, and even the mere feeling of his sloppy kisses, so broken and skewed around the irregular rhythm of his hand on his dick, was almost enough to break him apart. That white-hot, familiar coil sat in his stomach, a pressure building, like the steady whine of a kettle. Gi-hun kept pushing in, stopping every so often to catch a breath, shaking from the effort of it all, and fuck. Sang-woo couldn’t feel that strange, accommodating burn anymore. He almost missed it. 

“You’re so good for me, you know that?” Gi-hun sounded wrecked, the words strangled and arrowed straight into Sang-woo’s ear. “Fuck. How are you staying so still?”

“I don't know.” Sang-woo found the nape of Gi-hun's neck. The curly bristle of hair there. He rasped his fingers through it. Savored the prick, the red welting line of a scratch underneath his nails. He hoped it left a mark. A silent declaration that this had all been real. “You can go deeper. It doesn't hurt.”

It throbbed, but in a way that was entirely expected. Maybe it was sort of frightening, but it was nowhere close to raw or bloody. Gi-hun nuzzled his face, kissed the salty tang of a stray tear away. (When did that get there?) “My poor baby,” he said, in a drippy, affectionate tone Sang-woo had never heard from him before. A little deeper, a little more, until Sang-woo knew he was as deep as he could go, could feel it in the strained twist of his insides, the subtle twitch of Gi-hun’s cock inside him, persistent and probing.

Gi-hun's fingers fluttered across his naval. Pressed in slightly. As if he could feel himself there, which was silly, but sort of hot to consider. “You take me so well,” he murmured, voice cracked. “It's like you were made for me. Like we fit together so perfectly.”

That was such a cheesy thing to say. Like something out of a trashy romantic drama. Leave it to Gi-hun to find the positives in an undeniably shitty situation, to spin truth from a lie. They weren’t perfect for each other. Quite the opposite, actually. They were mismatched puzzle pieces. Not totally misaligned. Their edges curved differently. Just enough to be incompatible. Sang-woo didn’t want to believe that, though. He wanted to believe that Gi-hun slotted into him seamlessly, that right here, in his arms, was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

“Ah,Sang-woo-ya — talk to me. Now isn’t the time to think.”

“I love you.”

He said it without thinking. Said it because the words had rested behind his breastbone since … since when? Since he was ten. Fifteen. Twenty. How awfully cliche to fall in love with your best friend. How awfully tacky to say it while getting fucked for the very first time. Gi-hun was a bad influence. Sang-woo, as usual, blamed him for it. 

He opened his eyes, squinted behind his lashes. Gi-hun's lips were slightly parted, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. Sang-woo tilted his head. Forever unwilling to face the consequences of his own actions, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

“...Say it again.” Gi-hun rolled his hips back and snapped forward, the first real movement he'd dared since sliding into him, and Sang-woo’s spine arched as he leaned into it. “Again. For me.”

Sang-woo didn't know if he had the strength within himself to say it again. It had been an impulse, the sudden spurt of blood from a nicked vein, said without thought or pretense or even a care in the world. He regretted it almost immediately. But then Gi-hun drew out, nice and slow, and when he drove home the words were cut out of him again. It left a puncture hole inside his chest, empty and hollow, as if without that secret to hide behind, he was nothing, lacking in substance. “Love you,” he said, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself so, so much.

Gi-hun pressed their foreheads together, pressed so close against his chest that Sang-woo could smell the sweat on him, could feel it, even, sticky and unpleasant. “Aww. See? I knew you were fond of me.” 

Sang-woo tipped his head back, throat exposed. Gi-hun used the slight shift in position to nibble along the skin there. He didn’t suck a hickey, aware perhaps that it would be nigh impossible to hide in the summer heat; still, the way he tugged and bit was like a quiet threat, an innocuous display of power. I could if I wanted to. They were so immature. It was fitting, he supposed. They had barely breached their twenties after all, and yet Sang-woo was still small and sullen and surly, barely any different from the child he’d once been to the tired adult he’d become.

He couldn’t last much longer. Again, that sound. In his ears. His veins. Pumping in time to the flow of his blood. A pressure building in his groin. The inevitability of it all. Irrefutable. He never seemed to last long; the few times he’d been frustrated enough to masturbate, he’d come in mere minutes, and the orgasm had been sour and unpleasant, left a bad taste at the back of his throat — (it had been so disgusting, you are disgusting, the white on his hands, the buzz in his feet, people are looking at you eyes in his bedroom walls boring pock-marked holes into him what is wrong with you ) — and he dreaded it now, the pull in his cock, dreaded it almost as much as he yearned for it. Gi-hun, as if sensing it in the way he squirmed, tried to strike a more predictable rhythm, his fingers slipping around each relentless stroke. 

“That’s it,” he whispered, and placed a small kiss to his temple. “Yeah. Is it good? It looks good. It feels good. For me. How does it feel for you? Fuck.”

“Close.” It was all he could manage around the thickness in his throat. 

Gi-hun blinked. His smile turned smug. “Oh. Already? Wow. You must be pent up.”

“I have better things to do with my time than play with myself all day,” said Sang-woo hotly. 

“Yeah. That’s true. I guess that makes this even more special, huh? Okay. You can cum. But you gotta promise me one thing first.”

Could there be anyone more demanding than Seong Gi-hun? Sang-woo wanted to reprimand him, remind him of his place, but then he was nudging against his prostate again, calculated, short thrusts that made his lungs bunch up with anticipation. He’d do anything for Gi-hun, actually, he always would. All he had to do was ask.

“Say my name when you do.” 

Gi-hun slipped the request into his kiss-bitten ear. Sang-woo nodded. He was too far gone to put up any semblance of a fight.

There was the sex itself, a marathon of sorts, a steadily rising flatline he could keep pace with, and then there was the climax, a quickening in his pulse, cresting along the swell like the foamy curl of a wave. This part, the precarious tightrope between those two states, was almost euphorically mindless. Gi-hun fucked into him, unable to commit to any consistent pace, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and all Sang-woo could do was clutch onto him. Completely and utterly thoughtless. Powerless. A victim to an onslaught of sensation. He should’ve sensed it coming sooner, and he had, but he was stupid, and figured there was more time, always more time. There wasn’t though. There never was.

Sang-woo shuddered apart. It hit him violently hard, a blinding pleasure that almost hurt. Gi-hun fucked him through it, grinding against his prostate in a way that bordered close to oversensitive. It made him want to wriggle away. Sang-woo couldn’t breathe around the tangled knot in his lungs. He didn’t say his name because saying it would make everything real, make Gi-hun real, and he couldn’t find it within himself to choke up more honesty for tonight. He was a bloody pulp inside, a ruined corpse of a man, hole-punctured, seen , and that was enough.

When it was over, he was boneless. The feeling of himself spread over his taut stomach. Disgusting. Beautiful. He couldn’t decide which. Maybe both. Most likely neither.

“...You didn’t say my name!” Gi-hun protested feebly.

“Was I supposed to?” Sang-woo answered, dazed.

Gi-hun nuzzled Sang-woo’s sweaty mop of hair. “Ah, whatever. It was probably too corny anyway.” He was unnaturally still inside him, though Sang-woo could sense the strain in Gi-hun’s muscles. “Want me to pull out? I always get oversensitive after I cum. It’s a curse.”

Sang-woo definitely felt sensitive. Maybe even done. He was throbbing all over. His head swam. Reality sank bone-deep inside him. Gi-hun’s cock. The mess on his stomach. Sweat. In his hair. On his skin. Sinking into the sheets. He wanted to drown himself in hot water. Water so hot that it peeled the fat from his bones. 

Maybe he could get a similar effect in a different way. Maybe he could allow Gi-hun to use him. Leave him gouged out and vacant and nothing more than the picked apart remains of something inhuman.

“Keep going,” he said. Tick-tick-tick. I want to feel you even after I've left.

“You sure? It’s no trouble. I don’t mind finishing another way.” 

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?”

“...I just want you to be comfortable,” Gi-hun said warily. 

Somehow, that made Sang-woo angry. Comfort. He’d never known it. Primarily because Gi-hun was always with him. He was a blister lodged underneath the tender bed of his fingernail, the kind he could scratch and scratch at until it bled and oozed and wept, but he’d never leave, because where else was there to go? How could he be comfortable in his own skin, comfortable with his place in the world, when he was constantly reminded of everything he had yet to lose? Gi-hun would never understand. Could never. Sang-woo didn’t want him to. It wasn't fair.

“Just do it,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fuck me, ruin me. I don’t care anymore. It’s fine. I’m fine. Gi-hun. Please.”

“I don’t want to ruin you, Sang-woo.” Gi-hun frowned, obviously perturbed.

“You know what I mean,” he muttered.

“...Okay,” said Gi-hun, voice small, and for what must’ve been the first time in his life, he didn’t. 

He began to thrust, tentative and uncertain. Each brutal stroke against that same spot inside sent a vein of pained pleasure through Sang-woo’s cock, despite its softening, and he gasped into Gi-hun’s shoulder, tasted the salt-bitten skin there and traced the muscle with his teeth. When Gi-hun came, it was with the most tortured sound, like it had been wrenched out of him by force. His thrusts lost their rhythm, he stuttered, he grasped at Sang-woo’s hip and pulled him up so he could slot impossibly deep. Animalistic. 

He pulled out with a delayed gasp. Rested his head on Sang-woo’s chest. Turned away, so that he couldn’t meet his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” he said distantly, “I love you too.” And it was worth nothing. Love couldn’t buy success. It couldn’t buy anything. It was useless in that way. An unaffordable burden.

xxx

Everything after that was a blur.

Sang-woo couldn’t quite grasp it. The moment sifted through his fingers like sand. 

Gi-hun helped clean him up. Wiped the cum from his belly, threw away the used condom in a clumpy wad of more tissues than strictly necessary. Excused himself to the bathroom. (To vomit ?) No. Maybe because he wanted space. (Space from you.) Sang-woo wanted space too, so he couldn’t fault him for it. He wanted to throw on his clothes and leave. Sip a cigarette. Walk away and never look back.

But he was stuck here. As usual. Stuck with himself. Unavoidable. 

Sang-woo threw on his pajamas. There was a small comfort to be found in the act of hiding himself again. He was sore. Aching. The pack of cigarettes on his bedside table looked up at him imploringly. He pocketed them, figured there wasn’t any harm in at least entertaining the idea.

Dawn peeked through his curtains. A soft and hazy gray. 

The clock loomed down at him. Tick-tick-tick. He wrestled an impulse before giving into it. 

Sang-woo took it off the wall. He disemboweled it, allowed the batteries to drop to the carpet, forgotten. When he hung it back up again, the world was quiet and deathly still. Its hands were forever snagged on the time that was 6:43am, and he felt this was fitting, because he wanted this moment to stretch on forever, trapped in the limbo that was the wreckage of their aftermath. 

When Gi-hun emerged, he’d changed back into his clothes from last night. “You okay?” He approached Sang-woo as if he were a wounded dog poised to bite. “You were kinda out of it at the end there.”

Sang-woo startled. He had been staring intently at the clock. Gi-hun followed his gaze but he didn’t seem to understand what he was looking at. He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “What’s up?”

“...I suppose I’m craving a cigarette,” Sang-woo said softly.

Gi-hun laughed. “Yeah. You and me both. No offense but your dorm sucks. How are you supposed to de-stress if you can’t even light one up?”

Sang-woo fumbled for his smokes and found a pre-rolled one. He struck a flame with the match against the packet and sighed around the immediate hit of nicotine.

Gi-hun watched him, wide-eyed and starry. “Since when do you break the rules?”

“Since I decided I needed a cigarette,” said Sang-woo vaguely.

He took the opportunity to push the curtains aside and open a window. The morning air tasted like the city, a rapidly quickening heartbeat, petroleum and aftershave and tobacco layered atop each other. Gi-hun followed him, and they stood there, side by side again, Seoul spread out before them, endless and magnificent in its scope. A living, breathing organism. 

“Hypocrite,” Gi-hun said fondly, punching his shoulder, the force of it loose and lax from the aftermath of sex. “You said, and I quote, ‘no smoking on the premises.’ Now here you are, smoking on the premises! You’re a total rebel!”

“What now?”

“What do you mean, what now?”

“Back to fucking girls and indiscriminate men?” He said it blandly, tone completely flat, smoke billowing out from his nose in a concealing shroud. 

“...What?”

Sang-woo refused to look at him. Even as Gi-hun jerked away. Angry. Disappointed. (Which one is worse?) “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that, right? Can you pull your head out of your own ass for one second? Why would you think something like that? After everything I said? After everything we did?”

“There isn’t a future,” said Sang-woo automatically, “for people like us. It is what it is.”

“It doesn’t matter. Who you are. Who you like. It’s all useless bullshit. You’re Sang-woo. You come from nothing. You’re turning that nothing into something. There will always be a future for people like you. There has to be. Or else … I dunno. What’s even the point?”

There is none, Sang-woo thought. But he kept that thought to himself.

Gi-hun fidgeted restlessly. “Was it good for you?” he finally asked.

“It was.”

“Do you regret it?”

Sang-woo blinked. The smoke floated around his head in a smog. Blurred his vision. “No. Of course not.”

“That’s good.” Gi-hun’s voice was shaky with relief. “I don’t either, by the way.”

He sidled close enough so that their shoulders touched. Sang-woo was quickly discovering that he didn’t want to be touched, hell, even talked to after sex, but he allowed him this one kindness, if only because Gi-hun suddenly looked so scared. “Can I share?” he asked tentatively. Sang-woo sighed and passed him the cigarette.

They stood like that for a while, passing the smoke back and forth between them, the air heavy with the reek of ash. Sounds spilled in through his window. Car horns for the morning rush, the patter of hurried feet, and birdsong, only a tenuous thread of it, buried six feet beneath a concrete crescendo. 

“I don’t envy you,” Gi-hun said.

“...Excuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I do. Especially when I hear the way your mom talks about you, and see the way my mom … the way my mom looks at me. And I think, maybe if I were more like Sang-woo-ya. He’s so cool and put-together and smart. Maybe if I had something to show for myself. Like a proper degree, or a job that pays well, or … or something that wasn’t just old hickeys and betting receipts. I don’t know.

But then I see you, Sang-woo-ya, every Friday night, and more than that, I see how fucking sad you are. How much this all weighs on you.” He paused, considering, and the next word was hammered like a nail into Sang-woo’s chest, hit him like a blow to the head. “How trapped you must feel.”

“I’m not trapped.” Sang-woo said it fiercely. Angrily. Gi-hun pretended he hadn’t heard him.

“I wish I could take it all away from you. I do. I dunno how though. You’re so far beyond my reach sometimes. And it feels like you’re only drifting further away. How do I stop it? How do I keep you here? Is it selfish for me to even want that?”

“Shut up,” snapped Sang-woo. “That’s not true. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” he said hollowly. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“I don’t want to get in your way,” Gi-hun said. “I know no-one can ever find out about this stuff. I know it means a lot more in your circles than it probably does in mine. I know that. I know. Last thing I ever wanna do is ruin our friendship.” He took another drag, his body going soft with it, folding into Sang-woo as if it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. “I liked having sex with you. Loved it, even. But um. I think I like being your friend more.”

People trawled like ants far below. Marching black specks. Suddenly, Sang-woo found himself wanting to be part of that march. An invisible stitch. A perfectly blended seam sewn into the fabric of the crowd. Even if it meant he wasn’t special. Even if it meant he stayed orbiting around Ssangmun-dong forever. Even if it meant all he could hope for was that he could share this morning, and every other morning, together with Gi-hun. Hidden away from prying eyes. A new routine that was all their own. 

“Look at that,” Gi-hun said reverently. “The whole city’s waking up!”

I don't think I can leave you, thought Sang-woo helplessly.

He was pulled into his orbit. Not because he necessarily wanted to be there. (Though he did, he so desperately did.) No, it was simply because the law of attraction was too fundamental to resist. He floated around Gi-hun because it was where he was supposed to be. Where the world had deemed he ought to stay. Maybe this moment in time was but an eclipse, and when they inevitably split apart, as eclipses were want to do, they would still rotate around each other, an endless loop. Sang-woo understood, then, that he would never be free of him. He could run and run and run all he liked, but Ssangmun-dong would always drag him back in, a slow and inevitable pull no matter how many years he put between them.

Gravity was irrefutable in that way.

Maybe Gi-hun was, too.

xxx

Next Friday was the same as every.

They found a bar. One of those sleazy hole in the wall type places, a hidden gem. 

“So,” said Gi-hun, after downing his first bottle of beer. He leaned across the table conspiratorially close, a familiarly knowing glint in his eyes. “What’s your deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret?”

Sang-woo smiled. He shrugged. It felt good to be in control again. “I don’t have any,” he said.

But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, you. 

xxx

The irrefutable law of gravity was this: all objects were pulled together by a force proportional to their mass. Gravitational attraction was inevitable in that way. An inescapable magnetism. 

He was going to leave him. Gravity be damned. 

He would find a way to rise above it. 

He always did.

fin.