Chapter Text
Taekwondo practice was merciless.
With the district tournament looming, the coach had turned from instructor to drillmaster, unyielding, his voice a metronome that beat into their bones. Repetition carved its will into every limb. Hyeontak obeyed because he was nothing if not diligent. But he was just a boy. His muscles ached. His breath was shallow. And hunger gnawed.
Outside, night had bled into the sky. The streets were emptying. Home was thirty minutes away on foot. So, the glow of the convenience store pulled him in.
Just eggs, he swore. Not the banana milk, not the siren-song of Shin Ramyun.
Just eggs.
He paid, sat, peeled back the shell and had just bitten into the first when the door’s bell jingled. A low voice followed, smooth as smoke.
“A pack of cigarettes…and a lighter.”
A pause. Casual. Measured. Like he was tasting the words. Not hesitation but something more like curiosity dressed in ease.
Hyeontak glanced up. And choked, coughing violently. The boy was a vision but something about him felt unfinished almost like he hadn’t grown into his body or his role in the world yet, but had already decided he didn’t care. He was magnetic in that careless way.
The red uniform he wore was slightly too large, the blazer hanging from his frame like a borrowed identity. But red adored him. It clung to him like heat. Hyeontak imagined girls trailing after him with hearts in their eyes.
Then, their eyes met.
“Takes talent to nearly die on an egg,” the boy remarked, dryly amused.
He turned to the cashier without missing a beat, “Get him a drink, yeah? Idiot’s about to meet his end mid-snack.”
And just like that, the spell cracked, sharp and sudden. Hyeontak stopped choking, not from comfort but bitter disappointment.
Surely, the oesophagus’ ability to function wasn’t so delicate as to be undone by one beautiful face paired with such an infuriating mouth. Surely.
The second time Hyeontak met Geum Seongje, they fought.
Well, Seongje fought and Hyeontak received.
Three boys from Ganghak had approached him that day, and Seongje stood at their center like something untouchable.
“Baku’s friend?” Seongje had asked.
A nod was all it took before the first punch landed.
Hyeontak fought back, of course mostly reflex garnished with a sprinkle of courage. He landed a few hits but Seongje was different. Not stronger, exactly. Just faster. Meaner. The other guys did not have to do anything. He was enough.
Maybe skinny boys learned to fight because the world taught them to. Maybe cruelty was their second inheritance.
After what felt like hours in the dirt and dust, Seongje grabbed Hyeontak by the hoodie collar, eyes gleaming like streetlights in the rain.
“Tell Baku to contact Baekjin. Or hyung will do to you again what he’s done today. Okay?”
Hyeontak, jaw pulsing with pain, looked him up and down. Too stubborn for his own good. His mother had always said so. “Bold of you to call yourself hyung in that jacket three sizes too big. Your mom tell you to wear your brother’s old clothes this winter?”
Seongje smiled like a wolf entertained.
“You’ve got guts, huh?” he said. “All bloodied and still yapping. No wonder Baku keeps you around like some lost puppy.”
Then came another blow.
White pain bloomed behind Hyeontak’s eyes. Seongje let go, adjusted the crease on his shoulders with a gentleness so mockingly tender, it almost felt familial.
“But guts alone don’t win fights,” he murmured. “You need force to match your fire.”
A hand ruffled his hair like an older brother might(if older brothers smelled of cigarette smoke and danger).
Seongje walked away in that leisurely place, the way only boys who believe time bows to them can afford to do.
Since that day, Hyeontak had not known peace.
He saw Seongje almost every week. Sometimes twice. And more often than not, fists followed. The worst part? The bastard gave him tips mid-beating.
“This how you fight in those pretty competitions, Gotak” he’d say, ducking a kick, catching a wrist. “In real life, it’s not about looking cool. It’s about hurting.”
They fought behind the school one Thursday.
It wasn’t planned. It never was. Hyeontak had been heading to the back gate when Seongje appeared like a curse.
“Still limping?” he asked, eyeing Hyeontak’s ankle.
“Still breathing?” Hyeontak shot back.
It didn’t take much. A glare. A shove. And they were at it again.
No rules. No timers. Just fists and instinct.
Hyeontak landed a good hit, a clean one to Seongje’s ribs. For a second, he saw the boy wince. Then, Seongje grinned. “There we go. Knew you had teeth.”
Hyeontak hated how his heart lurched at that grin. He hated how alive he felt mid-swing, hated the burn in his lungs and the pulse in his throat and how everything narrowed to Seongje’s mouth curling into that wolfish smirk. He’s a trained fighter, for god’s sake. Why should an idiot gangster’s approval bring him so much satisfaction?
Seongje swept his legs out from under him. Hyeontak hit the ground, hard.
Seongje left upon receiving a phonecall. Hyeontak stared at the sky for a while, breath catching.
He told himself he hated the guy.
He did hate him.
But when he closed his eyes that night, it was that grin, feral and half-bloodied, that came back to him.
This happens way too often now, more than Hyeontak is comfortable with. There, Seongje isn’t sharp-edged. He is soft, even kind. His smile isnt a smirk. Rather, a gummy and boyish one. He offers
Hyeontak a cigarette, which Hyeontak always refuses. But he lights it for Seongje anyway, holding it steady just to watch Seongje lean in. They never speak in those dreams. It always just the hush of shared breath, the glow of the ember, their knees brushing.
And that’s always when he wakes up.
Every time.
Because his own mind knows better.
“Go Hyeontak,” he mutters to the ceiling. “Look past the pretty face. He’s a psychopath.”
At school, Baku frowns the moment he sees him.
“That Seongje again?” he asks, eyes narrowing. When Hyeontak shrugs, Baku pushes back his chair and stands abruptly. “Baekjin said he told him to stop.”
“You believe Baekjin now?” Hyeontak arches a brow.
Baku falters.
“I’m gonna beat that evil shit’s ass today,” Baku mutters, and Hyeontak knows he means Seongje. He never talks about Baekjin that way. The way he talks about Baekjin is soft, quiet, almost protective.
“You’re not my prince,” Hyeontak says, trying to sound amused. “I can defend myself. Taekwondo champ and all, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Baku mutters. “But Seongje’s not normal. You don’t counter crazy with medals. You counter it with more crazy.”
Hyeontak snorts. “That explains why you want to fight him.”
Before Baku can retort, the bell rings. The teacher walks in.
Hyeontak turns toward the window, watching the world blur past the glass and there it is again, his thoughts looping back to that stupidly handsome face.
Surprisingly, Hyeontak doesn’t see Seongje for two whole weeks. Fourteen days.
A small miracle. His hormones, like good soldiers, retreat into disciplined ranks. His dreams quiet. His gaze steadies. His tournament comes and Hyeontak wins nothing but gold.
In fact, he even finds himself charmed by a girl a friend of Baku’s date, Jisoo. She is, thankfully, lovely: soft-spoken, warm-eyed, the kind of girl who giggles at bad jokes and flinches adorably when startled by a breeze.
They meet again, this time alone. Their first separate date. Group dynamics and couple dynamics, Hyeontak has learned, are entirely different ecosystems. Hyeontak had learned that lesson the hard way in middle school
But Jisoo is easy to talk to. She’s playful. She teases his terrible bottle-fishing technique with a grin and blushes when he offers to walk her home. She protests it’s too far but Hyeontak insists. Chivalry is not dead, only in decline. He walks beside her like the gentleman his coach insists he can be.
Their conversation flickers, awkward but innocent:
“Do you have a pet?”
“How long have you and Humin been friends?”
“Is Eunjang really as terrifying as people say?”
And then, just ahead, a flash of red. A coat, familiar in shape and posture. A slouch that’s too deliberate to be careless.
Hyeontak sees Seongje before he wants to, and Seongje, with awful precision, meets his eye right away. He tries to ignore him. Really, he does. But Seongje won’t allow such things. He steps forward, eyes gleaming like they’ve caught a secret he isn’t ready to share.
“Well, look who it is.” Seongje plants himself in their path like a crooked milestone. Jisoo glances between them, confused.
Hyeontak groans. “Seongje, I don’t have time for this.” He grabs Jisoo’s wrist and tries to move past.
“Oh?” A hand lands heavy on his shoulder, not violent but too firm to dismiss. “Picking a girl over your old friend who just wants to talk?”
The touch burns. He tries to shrug it off, but Seongje holds fast.
“I have to drop her off,” Hyeontak says. His voice is steady but tight.
Seongje smirks. It’s always a smirk, but this one is curved with something more feral.
“I’m sure…” His eyes turn to Jisoo with a tilt of the chin, deliberate, slow, assessing.
“Jisoo,” she offers politely, unsure.
“..Junseo-ssi will be fine walking alone for a few minutes.”
His smile is sharp and crooked, the kind of expression that sounds like a door clicking shut behind you in an unfamiliar room. Hyeontak knows what it means.
Jisoo says, “It’s okay, Hyeontakkie. You can catch up with your friend. I’ll get going.”
“Hyeontakkie?” Seongje repeats. The name curls on his tongue . He’s savoring it like a rare vintage, foreign sweet. It’s the first time he’s used Hyeontak’s real name. Not Gotak, not Baku’s dog, not Baku Two.
And then, like a stage actor suddenly struck by insight: “Ahh, a date. I see. Don’t let me interrupt. Friends shouldn’t get in the way of romance.” He bows his head, mock-polite. “We’ll talk some other time.”
The theatre works. Jisoo, sweet and trusting, thanks him with a small smile and takes Hyeontak’s hand again, pulling him away.
“I’ll see you around, Hyeontakkie,” Seongje calls after them, tone syrupy-smooth and utterly unreadable. It’s strange. Everything about Seongje is always strange. But this? This is worse. This is deliberate.
They walk in silence.
Outside her apartment complex, Jisoo looks up at him “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he lies. “Practice was hard today.”
“I told you I’d be fine walking alone,” she says gently, not accusing, just observant.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe he should’ve let her walk alone. Then he wouldn’t feel this sick, this burning in his chest.
“No,” he says with a smile. “I wanted to.”
She nods. “Okay.” She steps forward quickly and kisses his cheek. Just a peck. A soft surprise. She giggles.
“Call me when you get home, okay?”
She disappears behind the complex gates, leaving warmth on his cheek and cold everywhere else.
He turns back toward the station, unsure of where the disorientation starts; somewhere between Seongje’s voice and her kiss, his name in Seongje’s mouth and her lips on his skin.
He doesn’t get far.
In a blink, he’s pulled sideways into a narrow alley. Cold brick against his back. A sharp sting blooms on his cheek.
Seongje.
He slaps Hyeontak again. And again.
Same cheek. Same spot where Jisoo’s lips had just been. The hits aren’t hard enough to injure but they humiliate, sharp and stinging like vinegar in a wound.
Hyeontak struggles. But Seongje pins him like he’s done this a hundred times. One arm across his chest. Elbow digging in. Fingers gripping the other with surgical calculation.
“Thought I’d have to knock your teeth in today, Gotak,” Seongje whispers, far too close.
Hyeontak shoves him back — barely.
“What the fuck is your problem?” He lunges. His fist connects with Seongje’s jaw, a small victory. Not as satisfying as it should be.
Seongje laughs. Loud. Joyful. Unhinged.
“You’ve been practicing,” he says, ducking a kick with ease.
Hyeontak grabs his collar, forces him still. Their faces are close. Too close. He has to tilt his head up, which he hates.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” he snarls. “I heard your boss told you to back off. Are you being a bad dog? Master not feeding you well?”
Seongje’s eyes glint amusement, not offence.
“I must be going too easy on you,” he says softly. “If you’ve got time to play prince charming.” That’s when Hyeontak punches him square on the nose.
Seongje flinches. Not from pain. From surprise. And then, of course, he counterattacks.
Hyeontak ends up on the ground. Again. Bleeding from god knows where. Seongje beside him, lighting a cigarette like the scene around him is a slow Sunday afternoon.
Hyeontak’s phone rings. A delicate chime in the wreckage.
Seongje gets to it first. His eyes skim the screen.
A flicker, brief but present, when he sees the name:
Jisoo ♡
Then, a slow smile stretches across his face. One that never means anything good.
“Seriously?” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone. “With a heart?”
He swipes to answer. “Hello. Hyeontak’s phone.”
A pause. His voice turns smooth. Polite in that unnerving way sugar can coat poison. “Ah, Junseo-ssi? This is Seongje. We were just hanging out. Catching up.”
A pause.
“Gotak’s in the shower right now.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then, casually:
“Mm. Your number wasn’t saved. I’ll tell him to add it”
He lets it settle.
“Right. I’ll let him know you called.”
Hyeontak throws his water bottle at him. It hits. Square on the head.
Seongje blinks, then grins. As if pleased to be struck. As if Hyeontak’s anger were some kind of gift. He tosses the phone back. It arcs lazily and lands with a painful thud in Hyeontak’s sore palm.
“You never lose the fight in you, do you?” Seongje seems like he’s studying Hyeontak. Eyes flicking from the bruises to the cheek still faintly pink from a girl’s kiss and his own slaps right after, to the hand clutching the phone. And he says, quieter now, “You need to practice harder.”
He lights a fresh cigarette. Takes a drag. Exhales. “Not for your competitions. And definitely not for dates.” A smirk. “For me.”
It isn’t teasing. Not fully. It’s something colder. A warning, maybe. Or a claim. Not affection but something darker wearing its clothes.
He stubs out the cigarette on the alley wall and walks away without looking back.Hyeontak, bloodied and breathless, leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes.
There is ash in the air. Smoke in his lungs. And Seongje, somehow always Seongje, in his head.