Chapter Text
The water from the shower was still dripping down Hyuntak’s back, soaking into the towel he’d barely managed to knot around his hips as he stumbled out of his apartment. His wet feet slapped against the cold hallway floor at first, but then, in the middle of his sprint, he remembered he had bought flip-flops for this exact reason—not the reason of running out to the washing machine in the middle of a shower, but to have something easy to wear when he loaded the washer. He went back for those ridiculous-looking orange flip-flops, doing all that while leaving little puddles behind him.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid gogo," he muttered under his breath, his voice echoing in the dim, narrow corridor that connected his flat to the shared laundry room.
Why did he always do this? Rush through everything without thinking. Sieun would be disappointed if he heard it now and tilt his head the way he does when he is indeed disappointed but surprised. He always told him and Baku not to rush things. Why couldn’t they just not listen? His hair was plastered to his forehead, soap suds still clinging to his neck and shoulders, and the smell of vanilla becoming disturbing by the second. Of course, he’d remembered his wallet in the jeans mid-shower. The jeans—his stupid jeans with stupid pockets—he’d tossed into the washing machine without a second thought before hopping under the spray. Now, here he was, half-naked and freezing, praying the water hadn’t ruined everything inside that wallet.
What was even in there, anyway? He ran through a quick mental list as he shoved open the creaky door to the laundry room, holding the towel with a hand around his hips. His ID card, for one—plastic, sure, but it could warp or something, right? A couple of bank cards that he couldn’t afford to replace right now, not with rent due next week. And that crumpled photo of his dad, the one from when he was a kid, in front of a car that was bought the day Hyuntak was born because his father didn’t want his little boy to get cold in the harsh winter of the city. It was faded already—the years never treated anything right, not even a person, let alone the photo of one—but the thought of it turning into a soggy mess made his chest tighten.
"Come on, don’t be ruined," he talked to himself, crouching down in front of the machine. His towel slipped a bit, and he yanked it back up with one hand, cursing under his breath. "Please, please."
The load inside was a mess too—his favorite black jeans, the ones that fit just right around his thighs and didn’t make him look like he was trying too hard to show them off. A couple of t-shirts stained from everything that went to Hyuntak's mouth since he didn’t have any bodily control when it came to eating—he would just spill—socks, socks, socks, and that hoodie he’d worn every day this week because the weather had turned cold out of nowhere but not cold enough to wear a jacket yet. He’d dumped it all in there in a hurry, figuring he’d kill two birds with one stone: he would have clean clothes and a quick shower before crashing on the couch with the newest episode of The Great British Bake Off. But no, his brain had to get on the mode it always did with the constant sound of his friends around him and remember the wallet halfway through soaping up.
"How do I get you to stop now," he muttered, jabbing at the buttons on the machine, already planning on breaking the thing if only it gave him his father's photo back dry and smiling. The display blinked back at him stubbornly, the cycle timer ticking down way too slowly. Still, the machine needed forty-six minutes.
This wasn’t the first time this damn machine had screwed him over. He remembered that one night last month, when he’d loaded it up late. He’d fallen asleep waiting for it to finish, only to wake up to a washer blocking the handle of the door of the laundry room because the washer liked bouncing in its place when it was draining the water, and he had made the great mistake of closing the door on it. He had moved its place after that—now it was just across the door itself and had to take at least a meter of a journey to touch the door handle.
Deciding to force his way with the washer’s door, Hyuntak pulled as hard as he could, and it vibrated under his hand, but the door stayed locked tight. He yanked at the handle again, harder this time, his muscles straining as water from his hair dripped onto the floor, his towel barely holding on now.
"Open up, please! I don’t have time for this! You fucker!"
Hyuntak leaned his forehead against the lid for a second, breathing hard, the cold metal against his skin making him shiver. Other than the disturbing notes of vanilla from Hyuntak’s shampoo and the detergent scent of the laundry room, Hyuntak realized he had been smelling some other scent. Cigarette smoke—sharp and biting—cutting through the other notes. Hyuntak wrinkled his nose, pausing mid-yank.
"Oh, great, now what? Someone smoking in here?" he snapped to the empty room, his voice bouncing off the walls. He really hoped someone was smoking and that he didn’t do something to the machine for it to smell like cigarettes. Would it blow up? His photo would burn up then?
But he tried to be reasonable. It was probably that neighbor again, the one with the endless parade of guys and that stupid joke that echoed through the thin walls almost every night of the week. But who cared right now? He had bigger problems. He leaned in closer, pressing his ear to the machine like he could hear his dad from the photo. When he, in fact, heard nothing but the water sound, he started cursing again.
"Come on, drain or something. Pause. Anything!" He fiddled with the dial, twisting it back and forth, but nothing happened. The water sloshed inside, mocking him, and he could almost picture his wallet tumbling around in there, getting more wrecked by the second.
Frustration bubbled up, and he kicked the base of the machine lightly with his bare foot—with nothing but flip-flops. Big mistake, as pain shot through his toe. "Ow! Damn it!"
He couldn’t believe he was getting rage-baited by a fucking washer right now.
He hopped back, clutching his foot, the towel threatening to come undone again. He caught it just in time, muttering a string of curses that would’ve made his mom wash his mouth out with soap. His mom. His beautiful mom who always said, "Check your pockets before washing anything." His mom who said to turn clothes inside out to make sure they didn’t get worn out easily. His mom, whom he loved more than anything and who loved Hyuntak more than anything, but would be angry and disappointed when she heard her idiot son had put her late husband’s one of the only three photos into the washing machine.
He tried the handle one more time, pulling with both hands now, ignoring how ridiculous he must look: dripping wet, towel-clad, wrestling with an appliance like it was personal. "Just... open... already!" Nothing. He let out a frustrated groan, wiping water from his eyes, and that’s when he felt it—a prickle on the back of his neck, like he wasn’t alone. The smoke smell was stronger now, clinging to the air, and he turned his head slowly toward the door.
And there he was. Seongje. His neighbor. Leaning against the doorframe in a way that was telling he had time to get comfortable against it, one hand in the pocket of his worn-out jeans, the other holding a lit cigarette. His dark hair fell messily over his eyes between his glasses and he didn’t bother brushing it away as he stared at Hyuntak, lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t far off either. Hyuntak’s stomach did a weird flip. This felt like the start of a very colorful movie. It was unnerving.
And, okay, maybe a little hot, but Hyuntak wasn’t about to admit that.
"Uh," Hyuntak started, his voice cracking slightly as he straightened up, one hand still death-gripping the towel. Trying to save some face for himself, he tried to stand taller and make his voice less pitched to make sure Seongje understood Hyuntak was not to be messed with.
"What’re you doing here?" he said, like Seongje didn’t live ten feet away, just across his flat and share the same damn washing machine with Hyuntak. His voice came out defensive, all right, but it was definitely high-pitched.
Hyuntak was to be messed with, it seems.
The neighbor didn’t answer right away. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing red as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke that curled lazily in the air. His eyes didn’t leave Hyuntak, trailing over the water droplets sliding down his chest, the way the towel sat low on his hips, barely holding on. Hyuntak felt his face heat up, and he wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or something else entirely. Probably both.
"Machine giving you trouble?" Seongje finally said. When Hyuntak didn’t say anything—because honestly, he had no idea how to convey what was happening for minutes here in this room—Seongje pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, his boots scuffing against the cracked linoleum floor. Hyuntak’s mouth went dry as Seongje closed the distance, now standing way too close to his half-naked body and, of course, the bane of Hyuntak's existence—the washing machine.
Hyuntak stepped back instinctively to make the guy some room as Seongje crouched in front of the machine, still looking at Hyuntak. He was way too close now, and Hyuntak—his stupid nose that picked up on everything—could smell the cigarette smoke along with something else, something nicer. Hyuntak’s brain was short-circuiting, torn between wanting to bolt back to his apartment and wanting to stay right there, watching the way Seongje’s fingers moved with annoying ease over the machine’s controls.
Seongje didn’t say anything, just pressed the pause button—something Hyuntak had done like a million times in the last five minutes, probably. The machine groaned, then quieted, the sloshing sound slowing to a stop. He turned the dial to the off position, but Hyuntak had no idea how he could locate the dial and the buttons this accurately while still not leaving his eyes from Hyuntak's face.
Hyuntak was still dripping on the floor some water. Life must have been kidding him.
He tried to look anywhere else other than Seongje, but in two seconds, like a voice called him over, he was again watching Seongje watching him, but this time with a smirk on his lips that was then opening to welcome the cigarette. He started inhaling the smoke and blowing it around, but mainly toward Hyuntak, who was watching Seongje crouching down in front of him and smoking with big round eyes.
He probably looked like a fish. He was wet as well.
After what felt like forever—but it was not more than two minutes—the machine made a soft click as it drained, and Seongje pulled the door open with a tug. "There," he said, standing up and taking another drag from his cigarette. He didn’t step back, though—just stood there, close enough that Hyuntak could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his lips curved around the cigarette. "You’re welcome, sweetheart."
Hyuntak opened his mouth to say something—he would have to say thank you for not disappointing his mom, his father, his friends, mainly Sieun, by not thanking a guy who just saved his life—but in his heart he knew he would just scoff and get flustered by the fact Seongje had done what he couldn’t do in fifteen minutes in just two. But before he could say anything at all, Seongje leaned forward slightly, pressing the cigarette against the wall behind Hyuntak. The faint sizzle of it extinguishing against the concrete made Hyuntak jump, and then Seongje smirked—a real one this time, sharp and dangerous and way too smug. Without another word, he turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft creak.
Hyuntak stood there, heart pounding, towel still clutched in his fist, staring at the smudge of ash on the wall.
. . .
The walls in Hyuntak’s apartment were paper-thin, which was both a curse and a cruel kind of entertainment.
It was two nights after the washing machine fiasco. Hyuntak Seongje had indeed saved his photo from being gone with the wind or the water he must have said he guessed and Hyuntak was now sprawled on his couch, a half-eaten bowl of instant ramen cooling on the coffee table. The TV was on, some sports show he wasn’t really watching because his ears were traitorously tuned to the sounds coming from next door. Seongje’s flat. Again.
Laughter came again, loud and obnoxious but also so damn fake, cutting through the drone of the TV. Hyuntak’s grip tightened on the remote. It was the same routine that was happening for every week for the last two months: Seongje’s low, smooth voice, followed by some guy’s over-the-top cackling laughing giggling and maybe even suffocating based on the sounds, like Seongje was the funniest man alive.
Hyuntak didn’t get it. He really didn’t get it.
He sat up and strained to listen to the same story he almost memorized by this time. The same story Seongje told every guy he brought to his apartment. Seongje’s voice carried through."So, Baekjin, right? You know Na Baekjin. He’s got this thing for sneaking into places he shouldn’t—thinks he’s slick. One night, he’s trying to-"
And on the story goes. Nothing funny about it. Nothing.
The guy with Seongje burst into laughter so loud it made Hyuntak’s teeth grind."No way! He actually did it?" the guy wheezed, followed by a thud, like he’d slapped his knee or fallen off the couch.
Hyuntak did not see how this was real. Honestly, were these guys just so desperate to get into Seongje’s bed that they’d laugh at a grocery list if he read it?
He flopped back against the couch. He could tell Seongje a funny story. Or Seongje could tell those guys how he had found his neighbor in their shared laundry room half naked going at it with a fucking washer.
Yeah so his brain, the traitor, kept circling back to the washing machine incident. It was too humiliating to ever let go. Everytime he passed in front of the laundry room or even saw his fucking jeans who are clean and dry now, thank you very much, they reminded him of Seongje’s stupid smirk and the way he’d pressed that cigarette against the wall, so close Hyuntak could smell the smoke and that other scent—cedar or leather, that had no business lingering in his head two days later. And how he said "sweetheart" in the exact opposite voice he was using now to tell a story.
Sweetheart. Who even said that?
People in love said that. Real, actual people in love.
Sieun said it to Suho all the time. He loved dropping the word like it was punctuation. They could be in the middle of arguing about takeout orders or cleaning schedules and suddenly Sieun would slip it—"sweetheart"—and Suho would melt, every time. Or Suho would make one of his god-awful jokes, it would make everyone groan except Baku, who would laugh like it was the funniest thing ever. And Sieun would look at him, smiling so wide it softened his whole face, and say it again—"sweetheart"—but this time in that fond, half-laughing voice that made you feel like you are chosen to see this reserved man smile.
So yeah. The only people in love in Hyuntak’s life were Suho and Sieun. The only people who got to use that word and make it sound real were also them.
He wasn’t thinking about Seongje, though. Nope. He wasn't thinking about his version of sweetheart. He was thinking about how annoying it was to hear that laugh track every night.
Another burst of laughter from next door snapped him out of it."Oh, Seongje-ah!" the gravel-voiced guy said and Hyuntak could practically hear the guy leaning closer to Seongje, probably batting his eyelashes or playing with Seongje's t-shirts neck or twirling Seongje's stupid hair with his pointing finger.
Hyuntak groaned, dragging a hand down his face noting how hot the face udner his hand felt."What is it with this guy?" he muttered."Is he, like, that good? For real?" The thought made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. Was Seongje that charming? That good at… whatever he was doing to make these guys lose their minds over a dumb story about his friend Baekjin? Hyuntak didn’t want to know. Except he kind of did, and that was the worst part.
He stood up, pacing his tiny living room, trying to shake off the irritation. The TV babbled on but all he could hear was Seongje’s voice, now quieter, murmuring something he couldn’t make out. Probably sweet-talking the guy into staying the night. Hyuntak’s jaw clenched. He needed to do something, anything, to drown this out.
The laundry room. Perfect. He’d check on his clothes from earlier—he’d tossed in a load before dinner but this time he ahd checked everything and also turned them inside out to send love to his mother. Maybe the monotony of folding socks would reset his brain. He grabbed his keys, slipped on those ridiculous orange flip-flops (because he wasn’t making that mistake again), and headed out.
The hallway was dim as usual and there was a single bulb flickering. The laundry room door creaked as he pushed it open and the damn but also not so damn now that it wasn't swallowing his dad, the sound of the washing machine greeted him. His load was still going but the timer showing 3 minutes left so he thought he would be done by 10 minutes since the last minutes always take the triple amount of time than it said it would.
Washing machines were liars, Hyuntak told so.
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms just to focus on the rhythmic boucne of the machine that was now draining the last water in the clothes instead of the faint sound still audible from Seongje’s flat.
But, of course, the universe hated him after two minutes the door was opened and Hyuntak’s heart did a stupid little jump as he turned to see Seongje standing at the entrance, holding a basket of laundry.
He was in the middle of bagging a guy. Why did he decide to do laundry now? The infuriating half-smile was plastered on his face like he’d known Hyuntak would be here.
"Back for round two?" Seongje said as he set the laundry basket down with a soft thud. His eyes flicked over Hyuntak and in his eyes Hyuntak could see him remembering him half naked in the same room. He wasn't smoking this time, thank God, but the absence of smoke didn’t make Seongje any less… present. He filled the tiny laundry room.
Hyuntak straightened up, uncrossing his arms to look less like he was bracing for a fight."Yes." he said, aiming for nonchalance but sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than Seongje. He gestured at the washing machine, its timer now ticking down to one minute, though Hyuntak knew damn well it’d take at least five."I will be done in a minute."
Seongje’s smile twitched wider like he was biting back a laugh."Take your time. I hope you didn't leave anything in there again." He stepped closer, leaving the basket behind him like he forgot that was why he was here."What was it, a wallet? Or something more… sentimental?"
Hyuntak’s stomach flipped. How the hell did he—? No, he was fishing. Had to be. Hyuntak wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of being right.
"None of your business," Hyuntak said, turning to face the machine, pretending to be fascinated by the final spin cycle. The machine groaned, the liar, dragging out its last minute. He could feel Seongje’s eyes on him, they were moving up and down then stopped on his side profile.
"You’re jumpy tonight," Seongje said, his voice closer now, like he’d taken another step while Hyuntak wasn’t looking.
Hyuntak whipped around, ready to fire back but Seongje was right there—too close. His dark hair fell into his eyes behind his glasses and he tilted his head slightly.
He was a beautiful man. It was making Hyuntak so damn uncomfortable.
"I’m not jumpy," Hyuntak said, hating how his voice hitched."I’m just trying to do my laundry in peace without your… your circus next door interrupting my night."
Seongje raised an eyebrow. "Circus, huh?"
Hyuntak snorted, crossing his arms again and decided not to say anything. He kept his eyes on the machine. Time was frozen.
Seongje came even closer and was now crowding him back to the wall like he did that day. His eyes didn’t leave Hyuntak but trying to catch his eyes Seongje tilted his head and ducked down a little to the right like he was searching for Hyuntak's eyes."Continue," Seongje said, his voice low, teasing, like he was poking at something fragile just to see if it’d break."What was it about my circus?"
Hyuntak swallowed hard, trying to summon whatever shred of composure he had left. His pulse was ridiculous and Seongje had a different look in his eyes now which created this thing thundering in his throat like it wanted to run away first and leave him behind to deal with the consequences.
"Just—" he started, gesturing vaguely with his hand as if that could somehow make words appear but his hand made contact with Seongje's shoulder so in a sudden move he pulled them back."The noise. The laughing. Every week. It’s—It’s annoying."
He tried to be reasonable and look at Seongje's eyes without faltering. He wasn’t insane, he was just a guy asking his neighbor to stop making so much noise at night. It was normal, he was normal. There was nothing he should be feeling sorry about, it was him, Seongje who should be feeling sorry.
But Seongje didn’t look even remotely offended. In fact, he had lost nothing from his mood maybe his mood had just got better.
"Annoying," he repeated softly, tasting the word. Then, after a pause:"You always listen?"
Hyuntak blinked."What?"
Seongje tilted his head again, like a cat toying with something it already caught."You said every week. Sounds like you’ve been keeping track."
Hyuntak’s jaw went slack for half a second before he caught it, his face heating so fast it could’ve powered the damn laundry room."I don’t— I mean, I live next door," he snapped."It’s impossible not to hear. Our walls are thin as fuck. You’d know that if you ever shut up long enough to notice."
Seongje chuckled now and his eyebrows raised even higher if that is possible like Hyuntak had amused him witn this. He leaned one hand against the wall next to Hyuntak’s head. The move was invasive.
"Guess I should apologize, then." he said, voice dipping lower."Didn’t mean to keep you up."
"You didn’t— You don’t—" Hyuntak was floundering, searching for footing in the mess of air between them."You wouldn't keep me up if you tried. I sleep fine."
Seongje’s smile spread slow, deliberate."You sure about that?"
Hyuntak blinked."About what?"
"Sleeping fine. It felt as if you might have a problem with your bed." Seongje straightened a little but didn’t step back. His arm was still braced against the wall beside Hyuntak’s head, trapping him in that small space between a wall and a man who clearly enjoyed watching him squirm.
"I don't, I have a great bed and I am great at bed —at sleep." Hyuntak said, but the pause ruined it. He really needed to stop talking."I sleep. Fine."
"Mm." Seongje nodded, as if agreeing with him just to watch him dig his own grave deeper."Guess you just like listening to me, then."
Hyuntak froze."You— You’re so full of yourself."
"Probably," Seongje said easily."But I’m not wrong, am I?"
Hyuntak wanted to punch the smirk off his face. This man had gotten under his skin somehow quicker than Baku did and he was Hyuntak's best friend who knew Gotak like the back of his hand."You know, some of us actually have work in the morning, not just a queue of guys waiting to laugh at your terrible joke hour."
"Terrible joke?" Seongje repeated, grinning."Now that’s harsh. Be more gentle with me, kitty."
"You tell the same damn story every night!" Hyuntak snapped, forgetting all pretense of calm at the face of the new name Seongje had given him."It isn't even funny. It doesn't even have a good flow. You are terrible at telling jokes. And— and they laugh like you are so funny. You’re not that funny."
"Ouch, sweetheart." Seongje said.
The word gave a electric shock to Hyuntak once more and his breath stuttered in his throat, his skin prickling."Don’t—call me that."
Seongje laughed quietly, stepping closer again, his voice dropping low enough that it rolled through the tiny room."You think those guys were laughing at my story, Go Hyuntak?"
"What?"
"They weren’t. They just really want to keep me talking."
Hyuntak stared at him."Oh, my God, do you hear yourself?"
"Sure." Seongje tilted his head, eyes half-lidded."You hear me too."
Hyuntak’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The machine beeped and it was the loudest, most blessed sound he’d ever heard.
The cycle was over. He would never wash his clothes ever again.
Hyuntak pushed Seongje with the new found strength in his muscles. The move startled Seongje enough that his arm dropped to his side, the sound of Hyuntak’s flip-flops slapping against the tile echoing in the small room as he all but lunged for the washing machine. He bent down to yank open the machine, focusing on the warm rush of air that hit him as he pulled his clothes free and loaded them to the basket in front of the machine. Focus on the clothes, he told himself. On not dying of humiliation. On not looking like you want him to—
"Need a hand?"
"No." Way too fast.
Seongje laughed again, soft this time, the kind of laugh that felt like it was meant just for him."Didn’t think so."
After loading them all to the basket Hyuntak went straight to the door, almost collapsing with the laundry basket that belonged to Seongje which he left in front of the door when he first came in. Inside of it, was a only one big blanket.
Trying to leave the room he stepped around the basket now but before leaving completely Seongje's voice came again.
"Hey, Hyuntak."
He stopped. Half-turned.
Seongje leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that same stupid almost-smile curling on his lips."You ever want to watch the show up close, you only have to knock. I would kick whoever is inside for your audience."
. . .
It was a week later and the universe clearly hadn’t forgiven Hyuntak yet.
He’d finally managed to not think about Seongje for a whole forty-eight hours—well, except maybe when folding laundry, brushing his teeth, making coffee, or hearing the faint scrape of Seongje’s door opening. But that didn’t count. Those were passive thoughts. Background noise.
Today, though, he had company. Which meant distractions.
Sieun, Suho, Baku and Juntae were sprawled across his tiny living room. Suho was sitting with Sieun on his lap on winged chair that was a gift to Hyuntak from his aunties back in his childhood neighboorhood. They were cuddling and making conversation with Juntae who was trying really hard to sync his bluetooth speaker with Hyuntak TV because he thought the TV had a very low volume for its kind. And Baku—Gogo's best friend, platonic love of his life—was drinking a suspiciously red cup of juice while balancing it right next to Hyuntak’s stack of sports magazines.
"Baku—"Hyuntak started, pointing warningly. He loved those magazines and had collected them over the years month by month.
"I got it baby, relax,"Baku said, waving him off. "I have excellent control.”
He did not, in fact, have excellent control. Because just five minutes later Baku’s hand wobbled, the red liquid arced beautifully through the air, landing squarely on Baku’s favorite work t-shirt. His eyes widened, panic spreading across his face.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Baku groaned, patting at the stain uselessly. "This is my only shirt for tomorrow! I… I can’t go in like this! Gogooo!”
Hyuntak exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t even be angry; it was ridiculous. "It is okay at least you didn't ruin something unwashable,"he muttered. "Go to the laundry room on the hallway. It is not cherry juice at least maybe it can come out.”
Baku, clutching his stained shirt to his chest, looked like a kicked puppy. "I’ll be right back!”
Hyuntak watched him dart out the door, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. The laundry room. Where Seongje seemed to have a sixth sense for appearing. He tried to shake it off, focusing on cleaning up the small splash of juice that had hit his floor.
In the laundry room, Baku, now shirtless, was wrestling with the washer’s controls. He’d managed to get his shirt inside and the detergent poured. He muttered to himself "Just start already"as he jabbed at the buttons.
The creak of the door made him jump. He turned to see a man leaning against the doorframe—tall, with dark, messy hair, glasses and an intense gaze. The man wasn’t holding laundry just looking at Baku with a frown.
"Uh, hi?"Baku said, instinctively crossing his arms over his bare chest, feeling suddenly very exposed. His nipples were showing for god's sake.
Seongje’s eyes swept over him, from his face down to his torso, then back up. His expression was unreadable other than his eyebrows and his voice was cool when he spoke. "Who are you?”
"I’m Baku. Hyuntak's friend."Baku explained, thumbing back toward Hyuntak’s apartment. He offered a friendly, slightly awkward smile.
At the name ‘Hyuntak,’ something shifted in Seongje’s posture. A subtle tension coiled in his shoulders. "Hyuntak’s friend,"he repeated, the words flat.
"Yeah! Best friends, actually,"Baku chirped, completely oblivious to the landmine he’d just stepped on. "I spilled juice all over myself but this is my only clean work t-shirt I can't take others because I will stay over here and go to work from here tomorrow. So yeah Gotak is saving my ass as usual.”
Baku stopped with the realization he was quite literally oversharing.
Seongje didn’t move from the doorway but also didn't say anything. His presence seemed to fill the entire room, becoming heavier, more oppressive.
Baku, feeling the silence stretch, turned back to him. "So, you live around here too?”
"Yeah."Seongje said finally. He tilted his head, eyes flicking toward the washer Baku was wrestling with. "Need help?”
"Nah, I got it." Baku said and saving his some face the machine started working. Like showing off his work Baku looked between machine and back to Seongje as if to say Look at this miracle!
What he didn't realize was that Seongje’s jaw was tightened almost imperceptibly. He was looking at Baku, but it was as if he was seeing something else entirely—the image of this shirtless, comfortable, handsome man in Hyuntak’s space, using his things, being the recipient of his help. The ‘sweetheart’ he’d tossed at a flustered, towel-clad Hyuntak felt hollow now. Watching the same man for months, trying to catch him at different times of the day and finally doing it on a day where he was half-naked and struggling felt hollow. This was a different kind of closeness. A real one.
His best friend. Gotak.
The words burned in Seongje’s mind like acid. Hyuntak had a life, one that didn’t include him, not even as a neighboor. A life that included a shirtless Baku, in Hyuntak’s living room. Spilling juices, washing his t-shirt with Hyuntak's detergent.
His detergent that smelled like lemon and the citrus. Baku could even take a shower maybe, Hyuntak would let his best friend Baku to take a shower, like the Gotak he is.
And Baku would smell like Hyuntak's shampoo. He would smell vanilla.
"You’re in his apartment right now?"Seongje asked, his voice dangerously low.
"Yeah, Gotak is hosting our friend group."Baku said, finally picking up on the weird vibe. He gestured vaguely. "Sieun, Suho, Juntae… it’s a whole thing.”
The confirmation was a physical blow Seongje hadn't been expecting. The whole gang. A life he wasn't a part of. A life where Hyuntak had a shirtless best friend who called him ‘Gogo’ and looked at him with fond, familiar eyes.
A hot, acidic feeling coiled in Seongje’s stomach. It was ugly and unfamiliar. It made him want to put his teeth inside something and shake them real hard just to stop this need to bite.
He had spent the last week replaying the image of a furious, blushing Hyuntak trapped against the wall, the way his breath hitched when Seongje got too close. He’d thought of it as a game, a fascinating puzzle to solve. But this… this was a variable he hadn’t accounted for. This was a claim he hadn't realized was already staked.
Every movement in Baku’s relaxed, unaware demeanor was a reminder of his exclusion.
Without another word, Seongje pushed off the doorframe.
"Tell Hyuntak I said hello,"Seongje said. His eyes gave Baku one last, sweeping, dismissive look before he turned and walked away.
Baku stood alone, shirtless and bewildered. "What the hell was that about?"he muttered to the empty room.