Chapter Text
I think I hate you, Jung Wooyoung.
The way you laugh and smile. The way you don't care what people think. The way you look at people like they matter, and how freely you share yourself. I can't stand the way you make me question things. The way I feel when I watch you touch people. The way you look when you dance… when the sweat rolls down your neck.
I feel more about you than I have ever felt about anyone else, and I hate that you do that to me. You have no idea the things you make me think about. Nobody can know.
I'm losing my mind, and it's your fault. I can't be the sort of man you make me. I'm not.
I don't even know what the point of writing this letter is. I just can't bear it alone anymore.
I need you to know that you are ruining my life. Ruining me. Even if you can never know who it is you are destroying, you need to answer for doing it.
Wooyoung is thrilled.
Baby's first hate mail. A momentous occasion, to be sure.
He opens the door to his apartment and sticks his head out into the hallway, looking left and right, but whoever had stuck the letter under his door is long gone. He huffs a laugh and shuffles back to his room.
"Hey, uh… bro." He shakes the nameless man sleeping dead starfish style in his bed.
"Huh? What?" He wakes, dazed.
"You gotta go."
"Now? It's the middle of the night, dude."
"Yeah, and I need my bed so I can sleep. Dude." Wooyoung tugs the blankets off of him with one hand, still holding the letter from his secret admirer in the other. "Call an uber."
The guy rolls out of his bed with a groan, gathers his clothes from the floor, and shuffles out of his apartment cursing under his breath. Wooyoung doesn't pay him any mind, instead throwing the comforter back over the sex-soiled sheets and plopping onto the bed to read over the letter again.
Reading the typed words back, Wooyoung can't help but giggle and kick his feet like a schoolgirl.
The guy writes that he thinks he hates him, but everything that comes after reads more like a compliment to Wooyoung's eyes. Backwards and full of internalized homophobia, sure. But a bad, misinformed compliment is still a compliment. All press is good press!
Wooyoung climbs off the bed and rummages through his desk drawers for some paper and a pen. It would be rude not to respond to the critics, after all. He sits down at the desk with a blank sheet of printer paper and a very gay, very flamboyant hot pink glitter gel pen, and he writes a thoughtful response to his first ever crazed fanboy.
He sprays the page with his sweetest perfume, something unbranded that reeks like fast food pancake syrup, and then neatly folds and tucks it into the sleek black envelope the original letter had arrived in. So as to be extra recognizable to the sender.
He writes 'for my secret admirer' on the front with the same glitter pen, and tapes it to his front door, glancing around just in case. He would just love to know who harbors this much pent up energy towards him. Still nobody there, but he doesn't let it kill his mood.
He sings in the shower and then changes his sheets before crashing for the night. When he wakes up at noon the next day and heads out for his afternoon classes, the letter is gone. All day, he glances around at everyone he passes, locking eyes with strangers and friends alike, but nobody seems off. All he can do now is wait and see if he gets another letter.
He really hopes he does.