Archive of Our Own

I. Hair

May ends, June begins, and summer rolls in with a heat wave that leaves Wonwoo sick for two days.

Soonyoung naturally comes visit, stringing along his herd of rowdy junior dancers to leech off Wonwoo's endless supply of ice-cold Coke right after their rehearsal. "I need that for recovery," Wonwoo protests as the fridge cabinet that was once a block of red becomes half white.

He has always been the more soft-spoken of the two, complaint going unheard as the kids lounge about his living room, the collective click and fizz of can tabs being pulled syncing to the pop song playing on the radio. Soonyoung looks just the slightest bit apologetic, flashing Wonwoo a grin as he offers him his can of Coke, already opened with caramel pooling at one side of the rim where his lips were. Wonwoo waves him off, easy, and Soonyoung shrugs.

The kids line themselves before the fan which is on full blast, mouths hanging open dumbly in sheer bliss as they lift their shirts to Soonyoung's dismay. Wonwoo watches him frown, nag at his juniors to move away from the fan because it's mine now. The breeze pushes Soonyoung's bangs off his face, brows funny looking because Wonwoo doesn't see them often these days. Soonyoung brings a hand to wipe the nape of his neck, fingers coming off with a film of sweat on top.

Seating himself on the couch right behind Soonyoung, Wonwoo can make out clearly the short hairs on his nape, a dark brown that's almost black now that it's wet.

Despite being so weak to the heat, Wonwoo admits he likes summer. It's the only time of the year where Soonyoung makes an effort to keep his hair clean and short, just the way Wonwoo likes it. He's tried rationalizing the preference for a while, but whatever argument he comes out with is invalid and half-hearted, because if Wonwoo were to be honest with himself, there's no argument in the first place. There's no rationale. It could just be him liking it because it's so fleeting, something he gets to see so little of. He knows better, though, gaze following where Soonyoung's hair becomes finer, downy and pointed towards the center where they become barely visible hairs on his still pale neck. Wonwoo knows it will tan by August.

"What?" Soonyoung asks, not bothering to turn around as he continues sipping at his Coke. Wonwoo didn't realize that his finger has been tickling the back of Soonyoung's neck this whole time, playing with the hairs there and stroking them upward.

There's the option to lift his finger off, settle. But Soonyoung's hair is soft, and Wonwoo doesn't want to stop even though his face is aflame and one of the kids are looking at him weird. Besides, stopping all of a sudden would officially make the whole thing awkward, what with Soonyoung's head an inch away from his lap, would be in his lap if he were to just lean back.

There's the rationale. Wonwoo honestly should stop trying to find one and justify himself whenever Soonyoung's involved, because it's getting more frequent, the gazing and spacing out and touching; he's tired of finding excuses for himself.

"Nothing," Wonwoo says, easy, like always. "My mom set aside cake for you, by the way."

Soonyoung leans back, head in Wonwoo's lap. His grin is cruelly oblivious. "Cool."

II. Ears

Soonyoung remembers, when they were just fifteen, and Wonwoo came to school one day with tiny studs in his lobes. It was pretty shocking to see, this feeling being mutual between him and his other classmates, because Wonwoo was the model student. Neat hair, neat uniform, neat notes, but not studs of all things.

"Why didn't you tell me you were getting piercings?" he whispered, fixated on the shiny silver on Wonwoo's still red lobes. "Image change, maybe?"

"I just wanted to try," Wonwoo replied quickly, eyes on the whiteboard as their teacher prattled on about trigonometry.

That was probably the first time Soonyoung noticed Wonwoo's ears, became conscious of them. In class, he feels like it's always been him looking at Wonwoo, forced to observe his side profile because the whiteboard will always be more interesting than Soonyoung. Three years of high school, and Soonyoung learns more about how Wonwoo's helix is the smoothest he's seen, not crooked like his, or anyone else's for that matter than the trigonometric identity of secant squared plus cosecant squared equals to one. Two parallel lines curved too perfectly. He's memorized the length of Wonwoo's ear by heart; just a bit longer than most, the gap between its conch and antitragus noticeable when he stares long enough, which is often. His fingers know how soft Wonwoo's ears are, easy to pinch and pull whenever he feels the need to, which is often.

"Did it hurt?" he asked once after watching Wonwoo clean up his piercings. He had gotten used to them about one month after the revelation.

"Um, no?" Wonwoo used to twist his studs more, but stopped after that one nasty infection that lasted throughout their finals. "But it aches after. Kinda like a bruise."

Fast forward four years, and Wonwoo's piercings are no more, left to become nothing but the smallest of dents in his lobes. It's a typical Friday evening where Wonwoo breaks out the bit of alcohol he can without his parents noticing, having gone out for their weekly date. On the couch, Soonyoung skips through channel after channel, stopping at an international one that's playing some French movie with English subtitles. They don't understand a word, but it's a pretty movie, warm colors clouding their eyes further as the warmth of liquor steadily spreads throughout their systems.

"I'm just gonna," Soonyoung doesn't bother to finish his sentence before lolling his head to the side, cheek ending up on Wonwoo's uncomfortably bony shoulder. Wonwoo hums, leaning slightly into Soonyoung as well. His ear grazes Soonyoung's lip for a fraction of a second, just barely touching it, but it's there and Soonyoung has never felt the need to kiss something so strongly before.

He doesn't, however, doesn't kiss the back of Wonwoo's ear. He stays put, eyes carefully tracing the line of Wonwoo's helix until the curve breaks, not so perfect after all, lobe awkwardly pushed forward in the quirkiest of designs with its small dent where silver studs used to be. Soonyoung repeats this a few times, absentmindedly mapping everything out when he can probably draw a perfect biological diagram of Wonwoo's ear already.

A kissing scene comes up, and Wonwoo flinches, ears turning pink and god.

Soonyoung wants to at least trace it all over again with his lips.

III. Knees

Wonwoo's mouth is pressed into a tight line, face dark as he burns holes into the floor. "I tried to warn you."

There are nurses shouting for people to clear out the way, a bloody mess of a body getting wheeled past them into the ER. Soonyoung is still sniffling, face so wet with sweat and tears and there's gross snot dripping down his mouth and chin. When he talks, it's like he's underwater. "I know."

Soonyoung's knee is a tattered mess, out of shape and swollen with blood as his breathing gets ragged from little whines. His eyes are shut, face scrunching up from the pain, but he's smiling somehow. It's a really wry smile that Wonwoo doesn't know what to do about, how to feel towards. There's just the tinge of anger marring his thoughts, and he makes that a channel lest he starts crying too.

"I'm sorry," Soonyoung manages to choke out after a while. Wonwoo doesn't say anything.

Being done with secondary education doesn't mean being done with dancing; Wonwoo has had nothing to do for the past three months but watch as Soonyoung practically moves into his dance studio, bathes in his own sweat, inhales the lead of his pencil scratching furiously into his floorplan notebook every night. It was fun and exciting at first, seeing him so happy and so in love with every squeak his sneakers make against the faux wooden flooring, watching the soles get worn down, canvas tearing where he curves his foot for that one particularly hard part of the routine. It was fun watching Soonyoung finally be in his element twenty-fours a day, seven days a week, that Wonwoo finally got sick of it, sick of the scent of salicylate patches and tape barely disguised by one too many bottles of sugary sports drinks.

"You're not doing that," Wonwoo protested coldly when Soonyoung shows him the final choreography. It was late, and the junior dancers had left the studio hours before.

"Gee," Soonyoung panted, sliding down one of the mirror walls as he stared at his own feet. "Thanks. Great support there."

Wonwoo strode over to one corner, picked up Soonyoung's notebook and lowered himself just enough to still be able to glare over the other. "This last move," he said, pointing to a scribble that he had needed one month to decipher at first. "Change it. No questions."

Consecutive high jumps with numerous knee movements to follow; it was mind-blowing to watch, yes, and Wonwoo wouldn't say that he wasn't impressed. It's probably Soonyoung's finest choreography to date, but Wonwoo was quick to catch onto the bruises that never fade away, the way Soonyoung's face flinches for the briefest of seconds whenever he drops down onto his knees before jumping all the way up, fancy footwork in between. It's art, but it bears too high a price, something Wonwoo can't willingly pay for.

"You're gonna hurt yourself, seriously." Soonyoung hugged his battered knees close, resting his head on them as he tried to catch his breath.

"This showcase is our debut," he reasoned, words punctuated by his wheezing and Wonwoo wanted nothing more than wipe his sweat away, change his clothes, tuck him into bed after taping up his knees. They've always been smooth, compared to Wonwoo's knobby ones that look weird whenever he wears shorts. He noticed how different they had become in three months, covered in bad bruises that were slightly raised, the once tanned skin hardened and a smatter of purples with spots of weak greens on putrid yellows.

His complaints went ignored, and Wonwoo never came into the practice room after that, tension building between them in silence as he waited for Soonyoung to finish in the studio's lobby.

The showcase was a nightmare, with Wonwoo standing by, dread running in his veins while the crowd roared for more. The final chorus, the beat drop, and Soonyoung went down perfectly—he was beautiful, in every sense of the word, knees hidden behind pleather pants and pain masked by his heavy stage makeup. But everything was muted for Wonwoo until he heard a sickening snap from Soonyoung's knees, the twitching of his smile that nothing can hide because Wonwoo had known all along, had feared the dread that plagued him for weeks, had prayed so hard that it wouldn't happen.

But it did happen, and now they're here in a hospital waiting room, Soonyoung's clammy hand clasped tightly in his.

"What if I can't dance anymore?" Soonyoung sobs, tears faintly gray from his eyeliner. "Wonwoo, what do I do?"

"Don't say that," Wonwoo snaps, because the sniffling and crying is driving him absolutely insane; his heart thunders against his ribs, has been doing so since the showcase where Soonyoung immediately collapsed onto him offstage. The whimpers he made when Wonwoo helped him out of the skintight pleather pants will be haunting him for the rest of his life, how helpless Soonyoung looked for the first time ever, hanging onto Wonwoo like he no longer has legs. "You're gonna be fine, okay? It'll be quick. You'll go in, you'll get rehab, whatever. You'll be dancing again."

A bitter laughter, still wet, sticky with phlegm and way too many tears. "I should've listened to you."

"Yeah," Wonwoo admits, because his mind is blank but so loud at the same time and he can't process anything anymore. "You should've. I cared. I still care."

Surgery and nine to ten months of rehab, the doctor prescribes in the end. Soonyoung breaks down wailing into his hands. Wonwoo holds him, rubs circles around his shoulders while muttering it's okay over and over into his hair until the nurses take him away into his room. Soonyoung's parents come by later in the evening for a few hours only because they have work, a bag of necessities passed over to Wonwoo who posts himself by Soonyoung's bedside for the whole night, like a guard dog.

Papers are signed, and the surgery is scheduled for the following morning. Soonyoung lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. His knee isn't swollen anymore, drained earlier by the doctor, and it's propped up on a pillow which Wonwoo was told to watch over.

"I'm stupid, aren't I?" Soonyoung asks, voice small and raspy from crying so much.

"You are," Wonwoo replies, just as quiet. He has a book in his hands, flipping its pages slowly when he's barely reading the words, eyes scanning over fine print tiredly. "You should sleep."

"I won't be able to dance anymore."

There is an overwhelming desire to hit something, quickly replaced by a desire to hit himself because he couldn't stop Soonyoung. "I would murder the doctor if he dares to fuck up the operation," he jokes dryly, but it gets a tiny chuckle out of Soonyoung. "Honestly, I won't let that happen, okay?"

"Okay."

"Sleep now," Wonwoo whispers, "you want the lights out?"

"No, it's fine like this." Soonyoung finally turns his head around to look at Wonwoo, and it's nothing short of heartbreaking. Wonwoo has never seen Soonyoung so worn, not even after that one time he had practiced for fifteen hours straight. "You're staying, yeah? I'm really sorry, but just, please stay tonight?"

"Yeah." Wonwoo closes his book, switches off the lights before folding his arms on Soonyoung's bed. He rests his head on them, wondering if Soonyoung is still looking at him. "I'm not leaving."

And that's how Wonwoo voluntarily signs himself to a life of being Kwon Soonyoung's dog, waiting out the ninety minutes with Soonyoung's parents and staying overnight again after a quick shower in one of the hospital's bathroom stalls. He also goes the extra mile just to make sure Soonyoung's knee heals faster, often letting him forego his crutches for piggyback rides on Wonwoo when they get to the hospital for Soonyoung's physiotherapy. Of course, Wonwoo waits those out too.

"Thank you," Soonyoung whispers into Wonwoo's hair as wiry arms hold onto his legs the best they can, hands sweating but gripping tightly onto his thighs. "For sticking around, caring, all that."

"Gross." Wonwoo is a wheezing mess in dire need of a back rub, but he's smiling genuinely for the first time in what feels like forever. "But you're welcome."

IV. Hands

As a dancer, Soonyoung takes on the body as a whole. The hands are simply hands, and while he does finger tutting from time to time, he's never given them much thought, other than how he'll suffer because he won't be able to reach for things or beat off without them.

Of course, there are standards Soonyoung is aware of; hands people generally like. Hands his mother would be jealous of and the girls in his dance team yearn to hold in theirs. Long, slim digits with somewhat pronounced knuckles, clean and short nails, just the slightest bit of veins. Calloused, but not too much that it feels like you're holding a pumice stone, just enough to know that you are capable of labor. He knows that people like slimmer wrists, but maybe not ones as thin as Wonwoo's, small enough for Soonyoung to wrap his thumb and pinky fingers around. When did this become a deal about Wonwoo, anyway?

"Hey, gimme your hands," Soonyoung quips, extending his arm out and wiggling his fingers.

Wonwoo does as he's told, a blank look on his face as he blindly lets his hand hover over Soonyoung's. "What for?" he asks, though it's so rhetoric sounding Soonyoung nearly dismisses it. Also, why ask if he's already given Soonyoung his hands?

"My mom sent me some weird article about the importance of manicure," he drawls, "and I just wanna see how horrible your nails are compared to mine." It's half-true, what he said, except he already knows what Wonwoo's nails look like, and they're fine. Excuses; he's getting better at finding them over the past few years, as if he actually needs validation to touch his best friend's hand.

It's a pretty cold day for spring, and Soonyoung sees the chapped skin around Wonwoo's nails, cuticles peeling off to become hangnail, red where it almost exposes the flesh underneath. Wonwoo's never done much for his appearances but trim his hair, cut his nails, and wear contacts on a night out. His hands are dry, but pretty smooth from lacking palm lines, callouses mostly on his fingertips from playing the guitar.

Again, it's not like Soonyoung minds hands a lot. But turning Wonwoo's hands over and back in his own makes him do things like thinking, for example, and with thinking comes odd, somewhat intrusive thoughts. These thoughts come non-chronologically, snippets of a hand that's warm in the winters and always a bit sweaty in the summers on his shoulder, a hand that's been curled into a fist to sock him in the shoulder playfully one too many times, a hand that's been sending small bouts of electricity up his arms from the slightest brush, knuckles barely touching when they walk together to their dorm room.

"So," Wonwoo clears his throat, snapping Soonyoung out of his little trip. "My nails."

"Yeah, you have nice hands," he slips, quickly removing himself from Wonwoo's hands to cover his mouth. He's bumbling, "I mean, nails. They're okay. They're nice."

Wonwoo fortunately laughs it off, plays it cool with how he's chuckling, hands unconsciously going up to cover his smile. Soonyoung joins in eventually, trying to ignore how red Wonwoo's face is compared to the pallor of his palms.

V. Feet

After the incident with Soonyoung's knee, Wonwoo's developed some sort of Achilles heel for whenever Soonyoung so much as complains about his body hurting or utters the softest ouch.

He knows that Soonyoung knows, and Soonyoung knows that he knows that Soonyoung is a bit of a dick for taking advantage for it, more than once by now.

"Wonwoo," he calls out after practice, draping his sweaty self all over Wonwoo's back. It feels disgusting, the heat of Soonyoung's body mixed with the cold of sweat, but Wonwoo can feel Soonyoung's heart still racing in his chest, its beat carried all the way to Wonwoo's spine despite being so off-sync with his own. "Rub my feet for me. They hurt."

"You know this is coercion, right," Wonwoo says dryly, but puts down his book anyway, feel his back cold and damp when Soonyoung parts away to lean against the wall, legs stretched out before him. He's grinning ear to ear, toes curling and uncurling as he waits for Wonwoo to scoot over closer.

There must be something wrong with him, Wonwoo muses, because no sane man would just take his best friend's sweaty foot reeking of wet socks and worn sneakers in one hand to start massaging it, thumbs pressing into the hollow at the bottom of Soonyoung's foot. There must be something decidedly wrong with him, who's just taking it all in stride, not even half-assing the job because Soonyoung giggles just a bit before letting his head loll back, a lazy smile on his face as he sighs in relief.

Copying hazy childhood memories onto the weak muscles of his fingers, Wonwoo distantly remembers how his mother did it for her parents, pressing hard against what feels like knots (in feet? Wonwoo doesn't take biology) before soothing over the area with a light rub. He inches up, working on the ball of Soonyoung's feet before pinching his heel, massaging over tendons and ligaments he won't ever be able to name, but is grateful for their existence every day. Ten bony toes and he touches them carefully, so carefully before gripping Soonyoung's ankle, stretching his foot up and down before carefully twisting it around.

"This is an act of pure love, honestly," Soonyoung comments, watching as Wonwoo moves on to the other foot. It burns where Soonyoung is staring, and Wonwoo is struggling to remember how a foot rub actually works, pressing into the same spot for longer than he should.

"You bet," Wonwoo scoffs, not looking Soonyoung in the eye. "Good luck finding someone as nice as me."

There's a slight pause, a sharp inhale before Soonyoung responds. "Doubt I ever will."

Wonwoo is grateful that Soonyoung is so far away and not draped over him right now, can't tell that his heart is running a marathon from his ribs up to his throat.

VI. Teeth

It's pretty bright out for one in the morning, moonlit rooftop smelling of dust and rain from earlier in the afternoon. Soonyoung and Wonwoo lie side by side, the thrum of alcohol settling comfortably in their veins quiet and warm in contrast to the steaming heat of the party still in full swing downstairs. The sky is a flat wash of navy blue, absolutely starless with no clouds in sight. There's no breeze either. The air is humid and stagnant, clinging like a film on their already sticky skin, drenched in an unholy mixture of sweat and alcohol.

"Do you think we sweat out nicotine?" Wonwoo mumbles slowly, the smoke puffing out along with the syllables. Soonyoung scrunches his nose in disdain, at both the question and the fumes of stale reds.

"This is why you're a lit major and not biochem, thank god," he remarks, rolling his eyes while Wonwoo laughs. Soonyoung has been hearing this laughter a lot more lately, a lower, rumbly sort of chuckle that's just a tad bit breathier than the tinkling one he's gotten used to over their ten years of being friends. But it isn't unwelcome. In fact, he's troubled because he really likes it a lot more than he should be.

"We shouldn't have taken those free brownies."

Soonyoung finds himself transfixed by a wide grin, teeth so bright, straight and perfectly aligned against one another in two immaculate rows before parting for the cigarette filter, disappearing behind lips.

There are many things to like about Wonwoo. Soonyoung thought it was natural, to be capable of praising Wonwoo that much because naturally, one would know best how to flatter their best friend, even if it's only in their head. He doesn't remember when he started collecting excuses to justify himself for thinking about Wonwoo, building up a whole system of different reasons for different scenarios as if he's a criminal on the loose. He wonders when he made a villain out of himself, on the run from his own feelings, feelings he never even noticed creep up on him before until a couple of years ago, feelings that do nothing but fester inside him until now—

"Soon-ah," Wonwoo calls out, patting his cheek several times. "You okay? You look out of it."

Even now, they don't stop festering, taking over whatever space his brain has left because Wonwoo is hovering right over him, looming but so close and Soonyoung can smell the ashes, the tequila shots, the mint drops. He must be making a funny face right now, because Wonwoo is laughing so hard he's snorting in some places, breath too warm against Soonyoung's already heated face.

"You've been thinking aloud, just saying."

Oh. "Oh."

White teeth. White teeth that's straight and flawless, like reams and reams of office grade A4 paper. White teeth that he distinctly remembers being crooked with an overbite years ago, white teeth that were once yellow. White teeth that were once covered in steel like his were too because their parents are anal about it and Wonwoo's brother had already started modelling. White teeth that will probably turn yellow again pretty soon if Wonwoo doesn't drop his smoking habit. White teeth that are capable of ripping Soonyoung apart because he would let them.

"Why are your teeth so shiny?" he ends up slurring instead, squinting at Wonwoo's smile. It sends Wonwoo into another giggling fit, arms shaking so hard they give out and he collapses onto Soonyoung, cheek convulsing against Soonyoung's heart and tickling him. "Seriously, they're shining so much right now. Like, wow. Are you wearing your retainers or something?"

"We threw our retainers together to spite our dear mothers," he replies, words broken up from too much giggling, "if you can recall."

The sound of paper sizzling is apparent now, smoke in his face as Wonwoo's laughter dies down along with the cigarette he stubs out on the concrete next to Soonyoung's ear. He rolls off Soonyoung, one of his outstretched arms now a pillow for Wonwoo's head. To be frank, it's uncomfortable as hell and Soonyoung can't feel his fingers anymore, but there's something inside his poor, baked excuse of a mind telling him to shut up, to stop talking for a second because it needs time. Time for what, he doesn't know. But it's something important, something that's been waiting for a long time, longer than Soonyoung ever imagined himself letting it wait.

The sky stretched above them is navy all over, but Soonyoung sees himself inside a practice room with mirror walls, steaming hot despite the air conditioner running. Bags line the baseboard; shoes squeak noisily as his juniors dance his choreography in flawless formation. But there's one bag he distinctly remembers, knows who it belongs to by a single glance. The owner isn't there, isn't in the room watching him as he should be. It was all Soonyoung's fault, he knows, because he placed it there, tied that string around both their front teeth like his mother would when he had loose baby tooth as a child. It's crueler and surer that way, because pinkies can be cut off so easily, too visible and hardly as vulnerable as their teenaged gums. It would've been a tug-of-war, if it weren't for the fact that he's been pulling so much and he knows Wonwoo must've been tired, string loose on his end as the other stops pulling to stand still, teeth hurting and lips cut from tension.

It's been a year since he completed his rehabilitation, footwork rusty and the practice room suffocating as he struggles to remember how his joints work. There's a corner in the practice room that's always a complete disarray of papers, of dog-eared pages that form books too hard for Soonyoung to read. He's probably been pulling a lot ever since, stretching the string thin and taut without him realizing, without both of them realizing.

Wonwoo is still so close to him, breathing uneven because he's probably talking about something, looking up to engage in eye contact from time to time. Soonyoung wonders if Wonwoo's string is still fine, if his teeth are all still intact because Soonyoung can taste the blood in his mouth, a flood of copper and something more bitter gushing out of hollow gums, begging to be spat out.

"Hey, are you listening to me?" Wonwoo complains, almost pouting. "You're staring, y'know. I'm not Binnie, nor am I Yooa, so snap out of it."

A buzz of noise blocks out whatever Wonwoo is saying, making everything sound like underwater gurgling and Soonyoung doesn't know how to put it into words. There's something heavy, just at the tip of his tongue. Something he's said to past girlfriends, sometimes out of sincerity, mostly out of obligation, occasionally an observatory statement. But there's gleaming white teeth before him, still intact, thank god, because it means it's just Soonyoung; he can only hope, can only wish that Wonwoo's fine standing there, wherever he is, that he doesn't have hot blood threatening to spill out of his mouth onto the floor Soonyoung is too far away from to clean up after.

Selfish, but he just doesn't want to be the villain.

"You're pretty," Soonyoung breathes out, still staring, some sick courage only intoxication can grant him because he's looking at Wonwoo dead in the eyes. If his arms didn't feel so heavy and gone, he would probably reach up to brush Wonwoo's hair too. He repeats it, clearer this time, like a verdict he wants to impose onto the world. "So pretty, god."

Wonwoo stills, teeth hidden by lips again as he sits up, but thankfully not moving away from Soonyoung. He lights up another stale cigarette, meaning to pass the last one to Soonyoung before realizing that it's the lucky he had turned over two days ago.

"Here," he offers, a voice that when Soonyoung hears makes him feel like crying. "Make a wish."

"Okay."

Soonyoung's wish is a simple one. Don't leave me.

VII. Neck

Wonwoo was typing up his last essay of the week when Soonyoung stumbles back into their dorm room reeking of ten different cigarette brands and distilled alcohol. It's only a Thursday, he thinks, dashing out of his seat to meet Soonyoung halfway, arms out to catch him when he trips up on his own feet. Soonyoung has at least five pounds on him, and while it isn't much of a difference, Wonwoo is nothing but skin and bones compared to the deadweight bringing him down to his knees. It takes all the strength his scrawny arms can muster to lift Soonyoung slightly, making sure his knees don't receive the full impact of the fall.

"Hey," he calls out, patting Soonyoung's cheek repeatedly. "Hey, Soon-ah."

Soonyoung is wobbly, but conscious. He has clammy hands clutching weakly at Wonwoo's arms, eyes barely open and Wonwoo can't meet them because his lashes are in the way. His face is completely flushed, red all the way to the tips of his ears, his neck. But there are darker splotches dotted along his throat, angry burgundy that's almost too purple and Wonwoo can't tear his eyes away from them. "Wonwoo," Soonyoung sniffles, all quivering lips and there are ugly tears tracks on his face. "Wonwoo," he calls again, lowering his head before the sobs wrack his whole frame, hands slowly sliding off Wonwoo's arms.

"Let's get you to bed first, okay?"

Whether Soonyoung is actually nodding or just crying, Wonwoo doesn't know. He hoists Soonyoung up, taking one of his limp arms to circle around Wonwoo's shoulder. The two-meter journey to Soonyoung's bed feels like a mile, and Wonwoo practically throws his body onto the messy sheets. Soonyoung's sobs have died down somewhat, leaving him to whine and tremble, one hand going up to rub his eyes and wipe his nose.

It's a helpless feeling of deja vu, bordering between heartbreak and sheer isolation because Wonwoo doesn't really know what to do, having only seen Soonyoung break down like this once, the day he tore his ligaments two years ago. He feels like a horrible friend, the worst friend, like he's one of those perverts who get off watching others drown in misery. "I'll go get you water," he mutters before turning away from Soonyoung, only to be stopped by a painful tug on his wrist.

"Don't leave," Soonyoung pleas, almost unintelligible. Wonwoo hisses at the violent pulling of his wrist, Soonyoung's hands having come up to scratch at his arms, beseeching. "Please, please, don't leave me."

He easily takes hold of both Soonyoung's hands, keeping them still in his. Two years, and Wonwoo doesn't know if he's grown any more mature since then, if he's become more than a silent guard dog. "You know I won't."

He supposes that it should be really disgusting, really gross to be where he is right now, hands covered in Soonyoung's snot and tears while said boy breaks out wailing under him. Shirt rucked up to expose his stomach, Wonwoo sees a tiny bruise where Soonyoung's jeans slip low. It's such an ugly affair, he thinks, with the splotch of red on Soonyoung's neck like some disease. Wonwoo wants to cover it, cover Soonyoung entirely so the world can't see him in his sorry state, can't see him when he's not quite whole.

More tugging. "Lie with me. S'cold."

Wonwoo offers Soonyoung a weak grin before complying wordlessly, like the guard dog he believes himself to be, obedient and trained. Shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, he spaces out at a dark spot on the ceiling which will probably leak by next week, waiting for Soonyoung to say something, tell him to move, to speak, to turn off the lights or draw the blinds.

What Wonwoo doesn't expect is Soonyoung clambering onto him, breath fanning over his face smelling of ashes and cheap vodka. He then lowers his arms, draping himself over Wonwoo. Soonyoung's lips are sharp against his jugular, denim-clad legs tangled with and scratching Wonwoo's bare calves. Wonwoo can feel his own pulse echoed off Soonyoung's lips, the cacophony of both their heartbeats bouncing off each other's chests and it's hot, it's overwhelmingly hot and sticky and Wonwoo's throat seizes up.

"Don't avoid me," Soonyoung whispers, straight into his ear.

If this were anyone else, even if it's his brother, his mother, his father—Wonwoo would've thrown them off him, would've punched them before they could get on him, would've shooed them out of his room because he was studying, he was occupied, he's a sad excuse of a human being who's somehow been conditioned throughout the course of his twenty years on earth to answer to one person and that one person only. As it is, he's loyal guard dog Jeon Wonwoo, serving Kwon Soonyoung who has been drunk for three nights this week alone.

"I won't avoid you."

There is a problem, a problem he can't sniff out because maybe he hasn't been trained enough, hasn't trained himself enough, isn't as close to Soonyoung as he thought he was. There is a problem not only with Soonyoung, but with himself too. There must be, because he feels like dying, like his entire ribcage is getting disassembled bone by bone and someone is out there to rip his heart out of his chest, all this from Soonyoung's staccato exhales against the skin of his neck. He's always had a sensitive neck, always wary of it being touched because it's a threat, it's the most vulnerable part of his already weak body, and Wonwoo wonders who deserved to see Soonyoung's neck like that, deserved to see it bare and presented before them for the taking, who on this goddamned planet deserved to leave a mark so hideous on his neck that Wonwoo can only imagine how much it must've hurt.

"I'm so sorry, I tried but I can't—please, don't hate me for this."

For Wonwoo, the answer to those questions have been set in stone since longer than he has realized. So he doesn't move, not even an inch away, doesn't flinch the slightest as Soonyoung's tears slide down the skin of his throat to circle it halfway to the nape. The trail it leaves is icy, cutting his neck. He knows where his loyalty lies, and so he lies down there, arms loosely wrapped around Soonyoung's waist as he lies his being down bare, stripped of everything, jugular right there for Soonyoung to bite into, rip, chew, spit out, kill.

"I can never hate you."

Whatever Soonyoung has to say, he's ready. This is all he can do, the only thing he knows to do instead of sitting like a fool every time, waiting it out and watching, standing by, like he's so cold when he's not. All the warmth he has with nowhere to go. There are a million thoughts going through his brain right now, and it's probably short-circuiting, Wonwoo's throat closing up and breathing becoming increasingly difficult as seconds pass by like years.

"I love you," Soonyoung confesses, a tone of voice Wonwoo has never heard from him in his whole life, words he's never thought of receiving from his best friend. It's foreign, but it's Soonyoung, and nothing really falls into place. Problems are there, problems he still doesn't know of, but he feels weightless, feels his entire existence dissolve into thin air and there are tears prickling the corners of his eyes when Soonyoung speaks again. "I'm so sorry."

It's a foreign command, those three words. But the thing about dogs is that when they love you, they'll listen, and they'll learn fast. They learn eagerly because they just want to please you, they love you so much, and god, how did Wonwoo miss this? How did he miss out on how he's been loving so blindly all this time, been a fool tracing after Soonyoung's footsteps even when they've been washed away by waves, by rain, by his own sweat and tears and Wonwoo can't believe it. Can't believe that he's been carrying Soonyoung on his back for a whole year and then some, been rubbing his feet like his personal masseuse voluntarily, like he's glad to do it, like he's the one quietly begging Soonyoung to not leave him.

The breathing against his neck evens out, Soonyoung fast asleep in his arms, exhausted. Wonwoo carefully rolls them both to lay on their sides, his arms still embracing Soonyoung. It's a foreign command, those three words, and so he leans in, leans closer to press a tentative kiss against Soonyoung's hickey. He does it again, and another time, firmer and with more confidence. Each kiss is his conviction, his salutation. There's a steady pulse beating against his lips when he presses there for long enough, and Wonwoo mouths the words into the warmth of Soonyoung's neck.

I love you too.

VIII. Eyes

When Soonyoung wakes, it's to acid flooding his entire system—his legs are fuzzy, barely there and so heavy when he hasn't done so much as flex them, trying to feel his toes. His arms are no better, losing sensation in the fingers as he rubs the sleep away from his eyes on autopilot. His face feels disgusting; sticky and crusty, eyes hurting at the corners overflowing with gunk. There's dried drool on the corners of his mouth, which happens to feel like he ate a bag of sand, flavored like shit. It's all so very disgusting, and Soonyoung hasn't even opened his eyes completely, hasn't fully woken up.

His head is not attached to his body, or at least his brain isn't connected right, processing the ceiling slower than he likes and it's still dark, so he can't tell what time it is. His neck isn't heeding his call, stiff and aching so badly he can't turn around to check the clock by his bed.

The thing is, he wasn't that drunk. Soonyoung can remember with perfect clarity how his feet stumbled, how he tripped into Wonwoo's arms that were much too lanky to be able to carry him. He can recall with detail how gross it must've been to deal with his messy excuse of a being, to touch so much snot directly without even flinching, without pulling a face. But above all, he remembers empty promises made to simply comfort a friend—correction, ex-friend, now, maybe. He remembers confessing, because he's dumb like that, because his tongue won't listen to his brain with the veil of alcohol in between them, muddling everything up. He remembers falling asleep on top of Wonwoo, and now his bed is lacking exactly that one specific person which can only mean one thing.

"Way to go, Kwon," he mutters to himself, voice raspy and cracking from how much his throat hurts, abused from smoke and tar. He drapes an arm over his eyes, but they're dry now. He's not going to cry anymore. He doesn't think he can. There's something about crying that screams being alive, and Soonyoung is more than just a little bit dead inside.

He remembers how mortified Wonwoo had looked, eyes cold for the longest of seconds before he averts his gaze, looking a hundred shades of disappointed and Soonyoung just wanted to die, still wants to die, he shouldn't have stayed for so long, he should've gotten himself another roommate like what his mother had suggested, because it looks like you have no friends other than Wonwoo, and I'm concerned, dear, and she's right. She isn't completely, but she is in a way. Because indeed, if Soonyoung were to get totally personal about it, Wonwoo might as well be his only friend. He knows it isn't healthy, but things just turned out as such, and now he's alone and if he remembers correctly, that's not a condition humans are capable of surviving under.

He grouses, lifting his wreck of a body up to confirm his fears. The bed opposite his own is clean, neatly made, and he doesn't see Wonwoo's laptop on his desk. He pads over to their tiny cubicle of a bathroom and washes his face, brushes his teeth. At least Wonwoo's toiletries were still there. Maybe it's pathetic how hard he's clinging, as if the thought of Wonwoo not rushing to run half the globe away from him brought about by the boy's still there toiletries is reassuring.

The towel he grabs is Wonwoo's, and he realizes this mistake halfway through patting his face dry. They use the same shower gel, the same shampoo, except Soonyoung needs conditioner while Wonwoo doesn't, and he has cologne while Wonwoo relies on nothing but deodorant. He's still intoxicated enough to steal Wonwoo's deodorant before leaving, but he's also trying to sober up, so he lets the thought die.

Wonwoo's shoes are still there, but his slippers are gone. Maybe he was in a hurry after all, Soonyoung muses bitterly, in a hurry to get away from me. Laces pose a challenge when one's fingers have melted into jello the previous night, so Soonyoung shoves them into the tongue of his sneakers, jams his feet into the tattered canvas like he would with sandals.

A couple of his floormates greet him good morning, seemingly not minding the distressed state of his clothes, and he responds half-heartedly, eyes busy patrolling for any signs of tousled black hair, straight white teeth, skinny wrists and ankles. He briskly walks off the remaining alcohol in his system, rounding the corner that leads to the communal laundry room.

The communal rooms are all open spaces with transparent glass walls, and so Soonyoung naturally glances about, spotting tousled black hair, skinny wrists and ankles, and just a sliver of white teeth because Wonwoo's mouth is hanging open dumbly as he types away furiously on his laptop beside a row of washing machines in full spin. He must've been obvious, or Wonwoo isn't really that focused, because the boy looks up from his screen to stare at Soonyoung, wide-eyed.

Wonwoo's mouth is starting to form a word, starting to say something, but Soonyoung breaks into a run before he can find out what it is. It's hard to walk let alone run properly in his shoes, worn in the shabbiest manner and the laces are peeking out, threatening to trip him over to an untimely death, only for his body to be discovered by the one person he wants to be discovered by the least.

Now the thing is, Soonyoung is a dancer, one with a history of torn ligaments and only one year out of rehab, which means he can't stress his knees out. This, added to the fact that Wonwoo has been part of their school's track team for the longest time and once upon a summer had set the school's record for fastest 100-meter dash, means that it's a losing battle. It took approximately fifteen seconds for Soonyoung to get caught by a hand grabbing the back of his shirt.

They're wheezing hard, both of them, stumbling over to lean against the corridor wall. Someone peeks out of their door inquisitively, scrunching his brows at them, and Soonyoung sees Wonwoo wave him an okay sign from the corner of his eye.

"Let go of me," Soonyoung pants, not bothering to look behind him. He doesn't think he'll ever be ready to properly face Wonwoo again, not if he's going to deal with the same disappointment and dejection from last night, not if Wonwoo's not even going to look back at him, gaze averted downward because it's gross. Soonyoung is gross, and this is all so gross.

"That's not what you said last night," comes the airy chuckle from behind him. "I'm gonna loosen my grip here, because it's tiring. Promise you won't run away?"

So he's petulant. "No."

"Soonyoung."

And just really weak when it comes to Wonwoo. He can envision it, smile curving ever so slightly to the right, eyes squinted with small shadows underneath from his lashes. Soonyoung wants to lobotomize himself, sprinting his life away moments ago but now he wants so badly to turn around and see Wonwoo. "I won't, okay?" he surrenders, slumping down the wall on his side as he feels Wonwoo pull his hand away. "I'm tired anyways."

Wonwoo follows suit. Soonyoung can hear his shirt scuffing against the wall, sliding down, some sort of static tingle at the small of his back that's feeling Wonwoo's body heat. It's driving him insane, wracked by a sensation more discontenting than butterflies.

"What are you tired of?" comes Wonwoo's voice, low but warm and Soonyoung can tell, he can so easily tell what Wonwoo would look like if he were to turn around right now. "Tired of me?" Wonwoo tries to joke, but Soonyoung knows that the lilt in his words is a defense mechanism. This is when he would flit about, eyes busy and erratic as he'd blink repeatedly. Occasionally he'd into Soonyoung's, but not for long before he'd look away, and Soonyoung's brain has managed to somehow organize Wonwoo's expressions like this. God. He knows Wonwoo too well for his own good.  

Too bad he doesn't know if Wonwoo would ever want him, would still be around him after this whole mess. Soonyoung has wanted for more than a while, longed for more than his entirety can cope with, distractedly comparing Wonwoo's voice to black coffee in a mug because he needs a wakeup slap to the face. Staring into the mug works just as well, face mirrored back pathetically to remind him that he fucked up. He's fucked up the best thing he's ever had in his whole life, and he's never going to get it again because it's his own fault for not holding on properly, his own fault for falling off the edge into the dark, dark pools of endless black he's grown too used to seeing, has grown calling them his best friend but that part of him will have to go soon. Soonyoung is drowning and there's no saving him.

"Soonyoung, look at me."

Gentle hands guide his shoulders, and Soonyoung finally turns around, face to face with what was once a bit of home, now a bit like death. He takes in a sharp breath before looking up to meet Wonwoo's gaze properly, and it's something unfamiliar, a bit surprising.

"...have you not slept at all recently?" Soonyoung asks, shaky and digressing as he observes more lines than what he remembers. They're starker, bleeding a dark gray along the red lining Wonwoo's bottom lashes. His eyelids have become uneven, the right folded double while his left remains the way it's always been, a sign that he's been rubbing them too much. The shadows drag his once sharp eyes down, worn and weary with a dull sheen where they used to be cold and glinting, but they're steadily looking ahead. Unwavering.

"I've been up later waiting for you to come back," Wonwoo explains. "I know it's guilt-tripping, but you have issues, okay? Issues I have no idea about and if you want me to get rid of these," he points to his newly obtained eye bags, "you will tell me."

"No, Wonwoo, drop it," Soonyoung begs, mustering all the strength he can to keep his voice from cracking. "It's. You'll hate me, okay? You already do."

Wonwoo drops his jaw slightly, and it would be comical if Soonyoung isn't pissing himself out of fear and nerves. "You don't remember anything from last night, do you?"

"I do remember," he snaps. "That's why I've been trying to run away." He states it like it's obvious, like it's the weather.

Wonwoo sighs, "You know you've been sounding like a broken record?" He runs his fingers through the bird's nest he dubs as hair before letting his hand rest on his nape, scratching the skin there. Eyes downcast, he looks just as tired as Soonyoung feels. "If you remember, you won't be running away, trust me."

"I know you're disgusted by all this, so just drop it, Wonwoo." He's running the same lap for the umpteenth time, and Soonyoung's legs are exhausted, they're done for. He just wants to collapse mid-track and puke his guts out, let everything come to a halt. "I remember you looking away, you looked so disappointed and how do you think that makes me feel?"

"Not everything is about you," Wonwoo mumbles plaintively, just shy of accusing. "I was disappointed at myself."

Now it's Soonyoung's turn to look bewildered, his ears hot because it's embarrassing, this is all so embarrassing and he just wants to catch the next bus back to his parents' home. Run away, run away, run away. Instead, he blurts out, "Why?"

"Because," Wonwoo starts, pausing, trying to start again only to pause again, tongue darting across his lips quickly as he scratches his neck even more. There's a sigh. "I've never realized that I'm actually in love with you. Have been, for a while now."

"Pardon?" Soonyoung is staring, staring so openly and dumbly and he must look so goddamned ugly right now, puffy and haggard and hungover still. But he can't believe it. He wasn't paying attention. He didn't hear properly. Wonwoo didn't actually say those words, he didn't. If he did, it would mean so many things, too many for Soonyoung to comprehend in his current state. For Wonwoo to actually say those words would mean the rearrangement of space and time as they speak, because it would mean acknowledgement, some sort of absolution for Soonyoung to finally place him officially as the center of his everything, changing the decade-long status quo of almost and don't go there.

But Wonwoo crosses the almost and goes there, inching closer, breathing instant coffee into Soonyoung's face and it's so endearingly familiar his knees twitch from anticipation.

"What I'm trying to say is, I love you."

At that moment, the universe rewrites itself on Wonwoo's irises. It's all black.

IX. Lips

The Thursday sunset bleeds light into their room, blinds left open because Wonwoo depends on it as an alarm. It wakes Soonyoung up, green and red imprinted in his vision as he tries to rub the sleep away.

"Morning," Wonwoo greets from his side, nose buried in yet another book as he flexes his arm, currently serving as Soonyoung's pillow. Fingers fold the bottom corner of the page deftly from muscle memory, and he lets the book rest, covering the lower half of his face. Glancing at Soonyoung, he drawls, like he's just woken up as well. "Good nap?"

"I guess." His head is clear, albeit a little sleep-clouded, but his limbs are still heavy. "What time is it?"

"Wildcats," Wonwoo deadpans, earning an exasperated groan followed by a weak shove at his shoulder. The book ends up on the floor, but no one is offended. "Kidding," Wonwoo laughs, "it's five in the afternoon."

"Did we just skip a whole day of class?"

Wonwoo hums. "M'fraid so. Don't worry, I checked and none of today's lectures are compulsory. You have almost no classes on Thursdays anyway."

"You actually bothered checking?" Soonyoung gasps in awe. "God, I love you."

The words slipped out of his mouth, but it's there. It takes a few long seconds for it to sink in both their heads, reminding them that there are no more secrets left to hide, no more thoughts of exploding veins, or who exactly is the villain suffocating the other to death, or if they need to run through their endless lists of excuses to justify an accidental touch.

"Yeah," Wonwoo smiles. Soonyoung watches it practically bloom, growing wider but it's so relaxed. He sees teeth and there it is, the hand that would always come up to cover the stretch of pink lips. "Yeah, I love you too."

"Hey." Soonyoung takes Wonwoo's hand, moves it away from his face. Once that's out of the way, he reaches over, tentative and with the slightest hint of trepidation, finger tracing the curve of Wonwoo's helix. All the things he's wanted to do, desires that bubbled up only for him to blow off with his excuses, the once constant battle of rationalizing against himself. But now, they don't matter to him. He can run his fingers along Wonwoo's jaw and caress the top of his cheek, close to his sideburn—it's perfectly okay.

Wonwoo takes it all in, humming in response without so much as batting an eyelash, the only sign of him feeling anything being the pink tinting his cheeks. Soonyoung stops his finger on Wonwoo's cupid's bow like a question, and he takes that as his cue, turning over to his side while pulling Soonyoung in. Foreheads knocking, and it's like pressing a lit torch into an open flame, heated all over. Wonwoo lets his gaze stray, landing on Soonyoung's lips, almost pouty as they're parted, chapped slightly at the corner. He leans in, covering them with his own with an audible sigh. It's so chaste, but Wonwoo's heart is threatening to give out and stop beating altogether from the sheer amount of relief, engulfed by satisfaction.

He presses firmly for a second longer, parting for a quick breath before Soonyoung chases after him like he's chasing air, mouth open and he kisses like he's hungry, taking Wonwoo's bottom lip in between his teeth and letting go just to breathe in his exhale. A tug-of-war except no one is hurt, no one is going to spit blood onto the floor, it's just Wonwoo gladly losing to Soonyoung who pulls him closer, impossibly close because they're already flushed against each other and there's nowhere left for him to go.

Opening and closing their eyes forms a time-lapse, the room slowly sinking into violet as the sun sets between the blinds. There's no way of telling which limb belongs to who, legs tangled in rumpled sheets. Not even they know who's breathing in, who's breathing out. The bed is a mess of skin and lips melding into one another, teeth clacking together sloppily because neither of them care enough about finesse at this point. In the dark, it becomes all too easy to get lost in one another, an easy leap down the rabbit hole.

"M'not leaving you," Wonwoo gasps in between kisses, "ever."

Soonyoung laughs, smiling against Wonwoo's lips and it tickles him.

"I know you won't."