Archive of Our Own ^beta

What Jaeyoung and Sangwoo had between them was all physical, no strings attached. Or so he’d thought, right up until the moment he caught sight of Sangwoo and…that girl…together.

Studying, hm? Studying what, exactly–the softness of her hands? The lustre of her hair? Jaeyoung can’t fathom Sangwoo’s boldness, taking a girl out on a date knowing what Jaeyoung plans to do to him later that night.

Does it excite him? Flaunting a public relationship with a beautiful girl, knowing he’s going to go home and let Jaeyoung touch him, fuck him, ruin him. His dirty little secret. His no-strings-attached lover. Jaeyoung twitches at the thought.

Whatever. It’s nothing.

He watches them walk down the pathway lined with glowing garden lights, towards the central area of the festival. There, Jaeyoung knows what they’ll encounter: booths of food, festival games, shops of trinkets. There’ll be other theatre students wandering around, dressed in wild and wacky costumes. There’ll be groups of friends, peers, tutors. There’ll be dozens–tens of dozens–of campus couples.

Sangwoo and Jihye will blend right in. Sangwoo is only half a head taller than Jihye; she fits like a glove at his side, and would fit right under his chin when they hug. They’re dark and pale in a similar way, like a matched set of flannel pyjamas.

The emerald green of her dress against the dark hue of his collared shirt makes a pretty sight. The colours collide, blend into one another, water-smoothed black rocks bracketing a gentle river running through a lush green clearing. The burble of water, ever present, drawing birds with twinkling song and curious four legged creatures.

Jaeyoung towers over Sangwoo; he’s broader than him, too, and he doesn’t shy away from wearing bright colours. He’s a smear of red, like blood from a bullet wound. In the picturesque landscape; he’s the thing in the water, the whistle in the trees, the thing that watches when you think you’re alone.

The edges of the image seize and blur as a ripple of heat pinches at the centre of his chest. He remembers Sangwoo’s unintentionally cruel words–abnormal. Unnatural.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in for four, holding for five, exhaling through his nose in six. Then another. What’s he thinking? He’s being ridiculous–he’s no monster, just a boy who wants. Jeez, this is the last time he lets the drama club dress him. The vampire gear is clearly getting to his head.

Sneaking another look at the two, head clearer, it’s clear that Sangwoo isn’t interested. His head hasn’t turned once, vision set straight ahead. From this distance, he can’t quite tell but he’ll make a guess that Jihye is doing most of the talking. Her hands are gesturing to and fro, pointing at stalls, touching the back of her neck, brushing hair behind her ears. Maybe Sangwoo doesn’t know he’s on a date.

Denial, enter stage right. But…really thinking about it, that makes sense, right? Jaeyoung hasn’t forgotten the previous year at the festival, when they were nothing more than strangers–Jaeyoung the ever inquisitive one, taking the role of interviewer, and Sangwoo the avoidant, harried passerby. He’d practically ran away from Jaeyoung’s mic.

No–if Sangwoo wanted to go on a date, it’d probably be somewhere like–like–a cafe. Or a library. Somewhere he could sit down and ignore the person he’s on a date with and continue on with his work. Not a loud, crowded festival where talking was a given and having fun an imperative.

Then, something happens. Something changes. The matching set of flannel pyjamas comes to a stop before stepping fully into the crowd. They turn to each other as a breeze passes, lifting Jihye’s hair into the air. She laughs, mouth twisted sweetly, and touches Sangwoo’s arm. Sangwoo’s face twitches, but he does not shake her off. Impossibly, he smiles.

Jihye fiddles with something in her pocket. Sangwoo waits patiently. She holds out her phone to take a picture. And Sangwoo lets her.

The moment passes, the matched set turns back to the crowd, and the world picks up speed again around them. Well. Common sense, exit stage left.

I want to see him. I need to see him. He’s startled by the abruptness of the thought, the weight of it–the want in it. I need him to see me. I need him to–what?

He turns to the other theatre club member posted across the pathway from him. “Doryeong! Cover for me, yeah? I’ll be 20.” He’s definitely not going to be 20.

From across the path, Doreyong pauses talking with the pretty, dark haired girl long enough to shoot him a smile and wave a hand. He’s dressed as a werewolf tonight, donned in tattered flannel and jeans. Tufts of fur peek out from between the rips in his clothes. The theatre club is nothing if not dedicated, and Jaeyoung is about to seriously live up to the name.

Jaeyoung might have a thing for bright, flashy colours, but truthfully, he hasn’t minded dark colours, lately. They’d look nice in his room. Strewn across his bed. Crumpled on his floor. They’d fit right in among the rest of his messiness. With that in mind, he steps onto the path, eyes trained on the disappearing backs of one Chu Sangwoo and Ryu Jihye.

Now, Jaeyoung is a lot of things. Handsome, funny, charming. A visual arts major, a theatre club member. A brother and son. He’s also, well–there is something very wrong with him.

It’s this fact that guides his path upon splitting away from the entrance to the central courtyard. He follows their path long enough to see where they end up. Huh. The arcade. Expected, he thinks. Then, he turns on his heel and makes his way to where he knows a squadron of visual arts majors are settled.

He finds them crowded around a row of canvases and easels. They’re offering caricature drawings, it seems. Those who aren’t currently drawing perk up when Jaeyoung rambles over, greeting him with smiles and waves.

Ah, underclassmen. So sweet, so easy to gain the favour of. Except Sangwoo, of course. He’s got to be the prickliest underclassmen in Korea.

He comes to a stop besides a group of two girls and a guy. The girls are standing closely together, the backs of their hands just brushing up against one another. They’re two years his junior, if he recalls correctly. Sana and Dahyun. The boy is three years his junior, bright-eyed and eager to please. They’ll do just fine.

“Hey, guys! What’re we up to tonight?”

Dahyun gestures to the easel setup. “Portraits and caricatures. We all got roped in. I see the theatre club got to you first, though.”

“Is it that obvious?” He asks, mock surprised. If the fake fangs, gaudy coat, and flashy cape didn’t give it away, the ‘ghost bar, theatre club’ sign clasped in his hands certainly did.

The boy cuts in now. “Definitely not, sunbae. But, shouldn’t you be way over there?”

“Ah! Yes, about that. Are you three busy right now?”

The three of them hum and haw for a time considered appropriate, looking back and forth between the short line, the crowd of artists, and at each other, before Sana bravely takes the reign. “We can take 20, surely?” The other two nod quickly. Hah, the clear signs of students slacking on their responsibilities. Terrible for constitution, great for his unfolding plan.

“Great! Think you guys can lend me a hand with something?”

One bottle of paint, a pair of slippery hands, a particularly clumsy person, and some careful timing later, Jaeyoung has got his targets exactly where he wants them.

“Hey!” Sangwoo yells, jumping to his feet. A group of three visual arts students had just lumbered past, each laden with cans of paint, to be carried to the caricature painting booth. That is, until one of the students, a girl with long blonde hair, tripped as they passed the bench occupied by one Chu Sangwoo, who was waiting for Jihye to return from the bathroom.

The can of paint cradled in her arms supposedly hadn't been closed properly, because, as she teeters forward, the lid slips free and out pours a steady stream of crimson coloured paint. Sangwoo jumps out of its way, but he’s too slow; a brilliant red stripe, like a spray of blood, now decorates the left side of his body.

“Woah,” Jaeyoung breathes out, from a safe distance, with a mask concealing his face. They’d really done it. He made a note to buy them all lunch. No–dinner, with beef.

The effect is immediate: the threats, the cries of embarrassment and apology, the promises to replace the shirt. Dahyun puts on a show. Should he try to recruit her for the theatre club? Even Sangwoo, after a tense minute of back and forth apologies and grumbled anger, has to raise his hands complacently.

He can’t hear them from here, but he can see the prominent grimace marring Sangwoo’s delicate features. He waves them off. Jaeyoung imagines he’s rejecting the offer Jaeyoung instructed them to make–there are clothes available in the drama room, just follow us, we’ll just drop these off then help you clean that mess.

Then, Jihye appears. Now, this could either go very well, or very poorly. The list of possibilities filters through his head. Jihye and Sangwoo decide to go home early, together, and have dinner somewhere more private. Jihye insists on coming with Sangwoo to whichever of the three locations Jaeyoung has identified as possible solutions for Sangwoo. Sangwoo gets so peeved he goes straight home, and Jaeyoung doesn’t get a chance to speak with him till much later in the evening.

There are too many to account for. Jaeyoung just crosses his fingers and hopes.

His attention is drawn back to the group. Jihye’s dabbing at the stain with a tissue. Jaeyoung frowns. That won’t do anything. He’d specifically instructed them to use the brightest red paint. From experience, it is very, very hard to get red paint off clothes. What a fool.

Sangwoo must think the same, because he moves out of her reach, then says something to the group. He nods to Jihye and splits off from the group, heading towards the arts building. Yes! Jaeyoung breathes a silent thanks to his daring underclassmen and begins to trail after Sangwoo, a bounce in his step.

When Jaeyoung steps into the room, the chemical tang of paint is the first thing he notices. Sangwoo is the second thing he notices, standing by the computers, one hand enclosed around the bottom of his shirt, pulling it taut away from his body while the other hand dabs furiously at the red stain with a napkin.

“Sangwoo,” he calls, letting the door fall shut with a click behind him. Sangwoo pauses, turning to face Jaeyoung. He’s never particularly expressive, not even on a good day, and ‘expressive’ for Sangwoo is more like straight-faced on any other person. If Jaeyoung hadn’t been watching like a hawk, he wouldn’t have noticed the signs of surprise–the slight widening of his eyes and his trailing gaze, up and down, once, twice.

What does Sangwoo see? Jaeyoung, in his embroidered coat and dark cape draped over his broad shoulders. A swathe of frilled fabric at the base of his throat. His hair, waxed and brushed back. No glasses. The picture perfect vampire–a lover in disguise. A killer in plain sight. And, he swallows–he’s taller than Sangwoo and broader than him, too. A few steps to close the distance and he’d encase the other with his body.

Jaeyoung has dated around a lot. He’s slept with girls, too, so he knows what they’re like: soft, and curvy, and sweet. Is that what Sangwoo likes? A girl smaller than him, lithe but curvy, soft and pliant. Like that girl–Jihye. Jaeyoung is nothing like that. Still, he hopes, with a feverish sort of desperation, that it’s enough. That he’s enough.

“Jaeyoung?” Like a siren song, Jaeyoung can’t resist. He takes a step forward, and Sangwoo takes one back, knocking into the edge of the desk. He releases his grip on his shirt, throwing the red-coated napkin into the trash can. In a moment, he’s an inch away, burning to reach out and touch.

Sangwoo watches his approach wordlessly. Along the back wall of the room, a row of windows lets in the rapidly diminishing daylight. Where Sangwoo stands, he’s doused in light, a far cry from his dark clothing. It only serves to make him paler, prettier–luminous. Despite the size of the windows, shadow cloaks the entryway; as Jaeyoung steps out of the shadow and into the light, a burst of laughter fights its way out of his chest.

“What?” Sangwoo asks, tone somewhere between confused and weary.

“Nothing. Just the–the irony is getting to me.”

Reminding Sangwoo of his silly costume has an unexpected effect; Sangwoo’s gaze falls again, and as Jaeyoung approaches, his gaze flits up and down, as though he doesn’t quite know where to look.

Upon closer inspection, his eyes are blown wide and a light flush tinges his ears red. When Jaeyoung steps even closer, the colour races over Sangwoo’s skin, colouring the tops of his cheeks pink. He wants to lick them. He’s sure he’s going red, too–he can feel his ears burning, but with Sangwoo in front of him, flushed and beautiful in the light of the setting sun, the sensation is leagues away.

“Hyung.” Sangwoo says this time. The word sends a pang of desire straight through him. “I didn’t know you would be here.” His expression changes, eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the magnificent paint stain, then back up at Jaeyoung. He can see the dots connecting in Sangwoo’s pretty head.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” He accuses, voice sharper than before. This too, sets his heart alight. He loves seeing him like this–high strung, ready to fight. He loves that he can pull such an intense reaction from the ever-calm, robotic Chu Sangwoo.

“You got me,” he teases, revelling in how Sangwoo’s expression darkens.

“Psycho. You’ll have to pay to get this shirt cleaned. I’ll email you the receipt.” Sangwoo’s mouth pulls into a flat line. Jaeyoung might’ve been discouraged, if not for the heat still staining his cheeks. The angry boy, the lovely boy, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Finally, he speaks, the words half-grumbled. “What do you want?”

Jaeyoung counts it as a success that he isn’t immediately making for the door. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“We’re–”, Sangwoo clears his throat, gaze dropping to somewhere past Jaeyoung’s shoulder, “We’re meeting up tonight.” His face burns brighter red.

“I know. Then I saw you out there, with that girl, and I couldn’t wait.”

He doesn’t understand. Jaeyoung can see it in Sangwoo’s face. He continues. “I’ve been waiting. Two weeks, for your exam period to end. So I could–so we could.” He pauses, letting out a laboured sigh. Flashes of the last time they were alone together flit through his mind; Sangwoo crowded against the door, whining into his mouth, the slick press of their mouths and tongues together. The promise he’d made to Sangwoo before the lovely boy slipped out of the door–two weeks, and I’ll take it all the way with you.

“And now you’re here tonight. I need to know–is that why you took Jihye? You didn’t think I’d see?”

Sangwoo blinks, finally meeting Jaeyoung’s gaze. He says nothing, and the silence permeates between them like curdled milk; it’s awful, and sickening, and all Jaeyoung can think is well, what now? He wonders if Sangwoo realises he’s just laid out his heart bare.

“No,” he says slowly, watching Jaeyoung. “I owed her dinner, and she said I could buy it for her tonight.”

Jaeyoung considers this. It’s blindingly obvious that Sangwoo didn’t consider their night out as a date, even clearer still that Sangwoo harbours no romantic affection for Jihye. But red hot embers are glowing inside him, and this…thing between them is new and fragile and uncertain. One stiff breeze and they’d get knocked over.

How should he approach this? He looks at Sangwoo, at his flushed face and wide eyes, hands braced on the edge of the counter behind him, pale-white with the force he’s gripping it with. A thought rushes out at him from the dark recesses of his mind. You’re scaring him, stupid. Who wouldn’t be scared? Dressed like the stereotypical villain in a horror movie, emerging from the dark with impure intent burning behind almost-black eyes.

God–what in the world is Chu Sangwoo doing to him? Has he lost his mind?

Suddenly he feels incredibly foolish. Here he is, talking in circles, carrying out convoluted plans, on his knees trying to get a boy to notice him. Where has cool, suave Jaeyoung gone? The Jaeyoung that had girls trailing after him around every corner, that could bat an eyelash and get a girl in his bed. Maybe the fumes of paint are getting to his head.

“Right.” Jaeyoung nods, retreating to the corner of the room, far from Chu Sangwoo, breathtaking, impossible. It’s not quite dark yet outside, the glow of a thousand fairy lights reflecting off of the glass, paired with the opalescent swirl of purples and pinks of the sky. It feels like the sort of night where anything is possible. It feels like the sort of night precipitating something big.

It doesn’t have to be theirs. It’s not too late to apologise, say never mind, I’ll see you later, get back to Jihye, forget how ridiculous I’ve been. Underneath all of that, though, growing under the surface of his shame and embarrassment, is need, want, desire. It feels like anger. The emotions coil up inside him, begging to burst outwards. He needs to get out of here, stat, before he does something he’ll regret.

Then, Sangwoo does something unpredictable. He steps tentatively in Jaeyoung’s direction, one foot in front of the other, hands clenched at his sides. Jaeyoung only watches, waits. The sun continues to set. In the distance, he can hear the opening chords of an old love song his mother adores. One step more, and Sangwoo is close enough to touch. To punch.

Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it were mine.

The words from a poem float suddenly to mind. He’d never really understood them before–what blood, and where had it come from, and–did they mean their own mouth? Or the blood? He gets it now: the paint coating Sangwoo’s side resembles a thicket of blood. Jaeyoung just can’t help himself–he wants to be that close.

Sangwoo blinks up at him, sunlight catching his face.

Jaeyoung’s breath hitches. On reflex, his hands reach outwards, but he pauses before making contact. He wants Sangwoo to explain himself. For once, he doesn’t want to be the one asking, the one pushing. He waits, holding his breath.

For a moment they stand there, staring at each other, as if fixed in place like a bug in amber, or people in a printed picture.

“Hyung.” That word again. Is he trying to kill Jaeyoung? It’s spoken quietly, so quiet that Jaeyoung finds himself leaning in to hear, attracted to Sangwoo like a sunflower tilting towards the sun. Sangwoo’s gaze flits down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. “I…you’re so…” Unexpectedly, Sangwoo starts and stops, starts and stops.

“What is it?”

“You’re so handsome,” Sangwoo breathes out quietly into the open air between them. The words float and spin, grow and shrink, warming him from the inside out. Then he continues, voice stronger this time. “These urges are unmanageable. Is this how you feel all the time? How do you deal with it?”

“How?” Jaeyoung ventures, fingers twitching. Handsome. Handsome. Sangwoo is seeing him properly. Seeing him not just as a man (normally, he would love his romantic interests to see him as a man, but this simple fact appears to be actively working against him in this situation), or a rival, or a business partner. He’s seeing him as an object of desire.

Sangwoo reaches for his hand. It’s colder than his own, but the skin is soft, fitting perfectly in Jaeyoung’s. It sends a thrill down his spine that stops somewhere around his stomach, and only intensifies when Sangwoo guides their conjoined hands to his chest, above his left breastbone. Under Jaeyoung’s palm, the telltale pitter-patter of Sangwoo’s heart speaks volumes to his level of unrest.

“I’m experiencing these symptoms: rapidly beating heart, flushed face, heavy breathing, tingling in the stomach, and..”

“And?”

“This ache in my chest. When I see you. And when you’re away from me. It’s worse when you’re away from me.”

A laugh bubbles up in his throat at the admission, but he tamps it down. The last thing he needs is to make Sangwoo feel embarrassed about his feelings, when he’s finally, finally coming wholly, blissfully clean.

“Sangwoo, can I…try something?”

His head dips forward, and with it that hat he so loves, concealing his eyes.

“I’m going to take your hat off in a moment, okay?”

“Why?”

Jaeyoung smiles. “I want to see your eyes.”

The other boy blinks. “What does that have to do with this?”

He reaches for the cap, electing to stay quiet. Sangwoo allows it, but he flinches as Jaeyoung’s hand strays close to his face.

“There.” The younger blinks at him now, without any barriers. Jaeyoung isn’t sure why, but the hat often feels like a cover. A barrier that separates Sangwoo from the rest of the world. If he has that hat on, his vision is limited to what’s in front of him. But Jaeyoung doesn’t just want him to consider his physical presence in front of Sangwoo. He wants Sangwoo to picture them together, all the time. In word, in commitment, in promise. “So handsome. And you don’t even know.”

“Was that it?”

“You’re so impatient, Sangwoo. No. In a minute, I’m going to kiss you. Leave now if that’s not what you want.”

Sangwoo squeezes his eyes shut, then tilts his head forward till he’s resting his head against Jaeyoung’s chest. He hears the slow exhale, and the reminder that Sangwoo is before him is enough to fray at his own control. The crisp, clean scent of Sangwoo’s shampoo wafts up and Jaeyoung breathes it in greedily.

“Sangwoo?”

The man in question makes a sound. He wants to hear it again, closer, into his mouth as they kiss, into his ear as Jaeyoung lays him down and devours him completely, has him take it all.

“The minute is over.” Jaeyoung threads a hand through the short hairs at the base of Sangwoo’s neck. His hair is soft and smooth. He tugs lightly to get Sangwoo to look up, then leans down. At the same time, Sangwoo surges up, and they connect in a feverish tangle of lips, tongue and teeth that has Jaeyoung spent, gasping into Sangwoo’s plush, welcoming mouth.

Sangwoo’s kiss is desperate and heady. He tastes like strawberries and chocolate–he must’ve shared some with Jihye. The possessive streak inside him rears its head at the thought and Jaeyoung crowds in even closer, wrapping an arm around Sangwoo’s waist and pulling him against his chest .

Dimly, he remembers the paint staining Sangwoo’s overshirt. He’s way past the point of caring.

When Jaeyoung licks at his lower lip, Sangwoo parts them willingly. He catches Sangwoo’s tongue in his mouth and sucks, breathing in the strangled moan that follows.

They break away from one another. Jaeyoung uses the moment to move to Sangwoo’s neck. He bites gently at the lobe, greedily drinking in all of Sangwoo’s needy sounds, his panting and moaning. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy for me, Sangwoo.”

“Wait,” Sangwoo rasps out. Jaeyoung stills, pulling back to look questioningly at Sangwoo. The sight he makes is so, so hot. His hair is mussed from Jaeyoung’s prodding hands, his face flushed red, chest heaving. A light red mark decorates the spot his mouth had been, right at the junction of his jaw and neck. All of it is evidence of his…urges. Jaeyoung wants to uncover them all, air them out, deal with each and every one till he’s ruined Sangwoo for his cock, his touch.

“Mhm?”

“This isn’t…it’s not helping. The urge is just stronger.”

Jaeyoung almost laughs. Sangwoo is too sweet.

“Trust me, Sangwoo. This is the best way to deal with it.”

“How? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you want more? Aren’t you thinking about continuing this, taking your clothes off, taking off mine, letting me touch you? We can stop now, but you’d think about it. I know I’ll be thinking about it all night. When we go all the way–you won’t think of it as some strange, unknowable thing.” He pauses, then continues, quieter now, “you can go leave, if you want that–i want you to want this. I won’t keep you here if you don’t.”

It aches to say, but it’s true.

“What will you think of? I want to know.” Whatever Sangwoo expects, it can’t be what Jaeyoung feels. Or maybe it’s exactly what he expects. Jaeyoung wants to tell him to forget Jihye and the rest–to be his, to only look at him, to love him, even if only for a moment.

He groans. “It’ll just scare you off.”

“No–it–it won’t. Tell me.” Well. That’s as good a confession as any.

God, Chu Sangwoo is going to be the end of him.

“Alright. I want you like this,” he says, cupping Sangwoo’s face with both hands. The feverish ache threatens to consume him whole. He tries to press the feeling into Sangwoo’s skin. “I want you to be open and honest with me. I want you without barriers. I want to have lunch with you everyday, and sit beside you while you study and I work on projects. I want you in that way.”

Jaeyoung closes his eyes. Desire is pooling inside of him, wearing him down. He touches Sangwoo’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, applying slight pressure till Sangwoo gives way, mouth parting for Jaeyoung to slip his finger in till the hilt.

Sangwoo’s lips close around his thumb perfectly. His eyebrows crinkle together, then smoothen. Hesitantly, he sucks at Jaeyoung’s thumb, cheeks hollowing out. Jaeyoung groans again. “I want you like this, too—I want to put you on your knees for me. I’d make you feel so good, baby, so good.”

The term of endearment slips out unwillingly, but Sangwoo doesn’t seem to mind. He jolts and pulls back, releasing Jaeyoung’s thumb from his mouth. He leans in for another kiss, and Jaeyoung is putty in his hands.

Fuck, Sangwoo whines when Jaeyoung’s hand on his waist tightens. He needs more. Jihye and Sangwoo together–they were cute, but Sangwoo and her are similar in size, not at all like Jaeyoung, whose stature dominates Sangwoo. He wants to make a cage using his thighs, hold Sangwoo down using his hands, fuck him until he’s a babbling mess and the only thing he can remember is Jaeyoung’s name.

Simply put, Jaeyoung wants.

He can only hope Sangwoo wants it too.

“That didn’t relieve the urges at all.” Sangwoo rests his head on Jaeyoung’s shoulder, speaking into his chest. “It just made them stronger,” he gets out, and briefly presses the lower half of his body against Jaeyoung. He almost passes out. The hard length of Sangwoo against his thigh is apparent even from a light brush. It sends his heart racing again. He feels like a teenager fooling around for the first time, desperate and needy.

“Sangwoo. Do that again and you won’t be leaving this room for a while, okay?” He’s trembling, Jaeyoung notices. “Hey, are you alright?” His tone is softer now. He wants to take care of Sangwoo, too. Wants to make sure it’s as good for him as it’ll be for himself.

“Yeah. I think–yeah. But,” Sangwoo hesitates, “ I should go. We’ve been here–someone might walk in–the booth you’re helping out at–”

Sangwoo can’t see it, but his stuttering puts a smile on Jaeyoung’s face. He’s well and truly glitching. Even Sangwoo's bidding leave doesn’t put a damper on it. Jaeyoung knows he’s needed out there, too. Such restraint, Sangwoo has. Jaeyoung is excited to have the chance to wear it down in the future.

“You’re coming to mine, later, aren’t you?”

“If you’ll have me.” Jaeyoung says, and it takes all of his strength not to tack on, I’d be there every day if I could. Morning to night, with you, next to you, all yours for the taking.

“Good.” Sangwoo nods. “Good.” He'll wait for Sangwoo to figure out his feelings. He looks fucked-out and dazed already–Jaeyoung won’t demand any more from him until he’s ready to divulge.

“Go back, now,” he says, reaching behind Sungwoo to grab the discarded cap. “Jihye must be looking for you.” He places it back on Sangwoo’s head. Sangwoo’s eyes widen, and his head jerks to the side. He’s looking at the festivities below, but Jaeyoung knows he won’t see her. His juniors should still be keeping her occupied, the glorious and loyal bastards.

He’d forgotten he’d come here with her, had he? The thought pleases Jaeyoung immensely. Because he can’t help himself, because he’s a fool for Sangwoo, because the boy is brilliant and irresistible, Jaeyoung cups his face, twists it back and leans down for one last kiss.

Sangwoo is still, then he melts into the kiss. Jaeyoung groans into his mouth and pulls away. Every fibre of his being has been set alight. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go back out there after this. He presses their foreheads together, eyes closed. Even that small point of contact is exhilarating. “Sangwoo. You’re going to kill me one day. Get out of my sight now, or I won’t let you leave.”

When he opens his eyes, he finds Sangwoo staring. Even more impossibly, a beautiful smile pulls at his lips, touching his eyes. “Alright, hyung. I’ll go now.”

Sangwoo takes a step back, then another and another. Jaeyoung’s hands slip away, and Sangwoo is walking to the door. He pauses, hand on the door handle. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.” They smile at each other from opposite ends of the room. The sun is still setting. The fairy lights are still glowing. The ghost of Sangwoo’s touch lingers still, on his face, under his palms, in his heart.

Not for the first time, Jaeyoung thinks, I could really end up loving him. The thought doesn’t scare him as much as it once would.

Then Sangwoo is turning away, opening the door and stepping out, closing it behind him. All that’s left is the click of the door, and Jaeyoung is alone in the room, left alone with his desire and all of the love in his heart.

He’s happy. He’s happy. No strings attached, his ass. He needs to get back now–he’s got a date later, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“Sangwoo! You’re back. You were gone for a while, I almost thought you left–your shirt still has paint on it. You didn’t clean it?”

“What?” Sangwoo looks down and finds that Jihye’s correct. The splatter of red paint is drying now. He still looks like he’s been stabbed. Jaeyoung, that bastard–he’d made him forget to finish cleaning his sweatshirt..

Thinking back to that room, illuminated by glowing lights, though, he can’t fight off the blush. Despite himself, he smiles. Then laughs. Jihye laughs with him, but her eyebrows are crinkled, and she looks at him without understanding.

“I couldn’t find one. I’ll just clean this later.” Make Jaeyoung buy him a new one, more like.

“If you’re sure,” Jihye says, doubtfully.

“I am. Come on, let's grab dinner. I’ve got to go home before 10.”

“Oh, really? Have you got evening plans?”

“Yes.” He says, and leaves it at that. His thoughts are occupied by images of his silly, handsome, lovely evening date.

Jihye nods, clearly expecting more. When he maintains his silence, she just smiles again. “Alright! Let’s check out the theatre club’s restaurant. I hear it’s very popular.”

As they approach, he sees a familiar, tall figure. And he laughs. Because on Jaeyoung’s coat, on the left side, a large, vertical stripe of red paint sits, matching the one on his flannel. He can hear one of Jaeyoung’s fellow members chiding him for making a mess.

Gosh, he sure has laughed a lot this evening. Chu Sangwoo has spent the vast majority of his life abiding by strict policies he set for himself, but now each of those policies are tumbling down, being dismantled by his own hand, and by Jaeyoung. On one hand it scares him. On the other, deep, deep inside himself, he’s excited to see what comes next.

It’s unpredictable. He hates it. But Jaeyoung? He can’t hate Jaeyoung.

So Jihye and him get dinner, and afterwards Sangwoo rushes home, rushes forward, hurtles himself at his future, and finds himself smiling all the way through it.