Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They’re a nice group of guys. Jongho’s friends, that is. 

Wooyoung knows them. Kinda, but not really. He knows they all play baseball except for like two of them. He knows their last names better than their first, the number they wear on their back, and their positions on the field. But he doesn’t actually know them.

Jongho still wanted Wooyoung to be a part of his birthday party, though. They're roommates after all and it would be quite rude to have a birthday party at your apartment while your roommate was home but not to include said roommate. 

So Wooyoung is included. Which is really nice.

Especially since he and Jongho have really only known each other since the last week of August, when move-in began and classes started. And it's only October twelfth now, so that’s not saying a lot.

Their university-sponsored student housing, a cramped two bedroom apartment, is not very spacious, but it does the job for the party. It’s not like Jongho and Wooyoung chose to live here, though. Heck, they didn’t even choose to live together. A series of unfortunate events—like Wooyoung being waitlisted for a one bedroom and Jongho’s planned roommate dropping out their senior year—brought them randomly together. 

It's not really a party, either. It’s just like… friends hanging out. Just Jongho’s closest friends eating, drinking, and playing video games. 

Wooyoung is introduced to them all, of course. 

Yunho and Mingi sit on the floor in front of the television, loudly playing video games. Yeosang and Seonghwa are on the couch in deep conversation over something, talking with their hands; how they can hear each other over the gaming beats Wooyoung. Hongjoong and Jongho are talking as well, less serious though, standing by one of the windows on the same wall as the television and constantly reaching for the bottles of soju gathered on the coffee table. 

Park Seonghwa is Wooyoung’s favorite of Jongho’s friends, so far. He knew of them before tonight—everyone on campus does. Fifth year fashion student dating fifth year music student Kim Hongjoong. They’re like Wooyoung. Out of the closest and unafraid. It's nice. How they’re best friends with half an entire baseball team, though? That terrifies Wooyoung.

Wooyoung escapes the cramped and chaotic living room for now, though, needing to bake Jongho’s birthday brownies—as requested. So he’s in the kitchen, sitting on the counter next to the sink, feet dangling, nowhere near touching the ground. He closes his eyes briefly and leans back so his head rests against the cabinets. The hood of his maroon hoodie is up over his head, the Korea University tiger logo proudly on his chest.

Wooyoung loves a party, but these are relative strangers in his house. Strangers that he has consistently watched on a baseball diamond from afar the past three years, not strangers that regularly take shots in his living room. 

Plastic bags rustling get Wooyoung to open his eyes only to see a boy walk into the kitchen from the entryway swallowed by a knee-length black peacoat. Not swallowed in a bad way, like it doesn’t look bad on him! It actually fits him quite well—too well, one might say. The boy’s hair is soft and fluffy over his forehead. It makes him not-so-intimidating. 

The rustling culprits are the liquor store plastic bags in one hand, and three gift bags in the other. This isn’t a friend that Wooyoung has been introduced to yet. But Wooyoung knows him. He thinks he knows him.

He isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to be right, though. But he thinks he would know those eyes anywhere. 

“Can I put this stuff somewhere?” the stranger says, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth as he looks around the kitchen.

“Uh,” Wooyoung stutters. “The table is fine.”

The stranger sighs in relief and waddles over to the table to unload. Wooyoung slides off the counter to help, the glass bottles in the bags clinking together dangerously. 

“I’m sorry, but how’d you get in?” Wooyoung asks, curiosity and apprehension raising his tone. He sorts the soju and stares at the guy from the corner of his eyes.

The stranger chuckles as he starts to unwrap himself, freeing his face and then his shoulders of the winter wear. He sets his coat on the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes to himself, but smiles, endeared. It’s not really that cold out. Bit overkill, he thinks, but whatever.

“I tried texting and calling Jongho, but he didn’t answer. I even tried knocking but apparently no one heard.” Another victory cry comes from whoever is seated in front of the television, proving his point. “I let myself in. It was unlocked. I’m definitely late and—” 

He finally stops mumbling and looks up at Wooyoung with wide eyes and it’s the first time Wooyoung can actually look at the guy’s face. And it must be the first time the other guy actually looks at Wooyoung too because they just stare at each other. Like idiots. 

“Sorry, you must be Jongho’s roommate. That was so rude of me. I’m—”

“San,” Wooyoung whispers. A little in awe. A little panicked. “You’re the…”

“I’m the…?” San trails off, his own eyes wide with panic.

“The baseball guy.”

Fuck.

It is Choi San. 

Just the guy Wooyoung’s been crushing on since freshman year. Third basemen. MVP three years in a row. Number 26. Wooyoung’s birthday, his favorite number. His favorite player. Choi San.

Wooyoung looks at Choi San. He’s never seen him from this close before.

Which… sounds really fucking weird, Wooyoung realizes, but it’s true. He’s always watched San from a distance, whether he’s at-bat, manning third, or running the bases. A whole stadium has kept Wooyoung away. But he was right, he did know it was him just by the eyes. He’s spent many hours seeing his portrait on the giant video screen in the stadium.

God Wooyoung feels so fucking stupid. Of course Jongho is friends with Choi San.

San almost laughs, but he sounds like he’s in pain instead. “You know who I am? But you’re—”

“I’m Jongho’s roommate.” That’s a stupid thing to say. Of course San knows he’s—

“—Wooyoung?”

Oh. He knows his name? In shock, Wooyoung just nods. 

San inhales so deeply, it’s like his first time tasting oxygen. Wooyoung can relate. He’s feeling lightheaded, too.  

“Wooyoung,” San whispers. “I love your photography.” He speaks so quietly, Wooyoung would’ve missed it if the other guys didn’t lull their commentary and shittalking for that one specific split second. 

He swallows down the butterflies in his throat. He doesn’t want to open his mouth and have them all fly out. “R-really?”

San nods. His tongue must be numb, swollen, because he opens his mouth repeatedly, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s acting like Wooyoung is the campus-wide famous athlete, not himself. Wooyoung is baffled.

Wooyoung and San just stand deserted, floating in the middle of the kitchen on chipped tiles, everything around them kinda ceasing to exist. They just stare at each other, but neither feels particularly awkward or uncomfortable. It’s the weirdest meeting of two not-really-strangers, not-really-mutual-friends ever.

The oven timer goes off. It echoes in Wooyoung’s skull, bouncing off the walls of the empty space between his ears, where his brain should be.

San breaks the eye contact to find the source of the noise, like it frightened him. Like it made him remember where he is.

Someone walks into the kitchen. Wooyoung looks away from San to the doorway, Jongho the intruder. San and Wooyoung’s universe ceases to exist, they are back in reality. 

Wooyoung and San simultaneously take a step apart, not really noticing how close they were standing. Not weirdly close, but not a normal distance, either. 

Jongho doesn’t seem to notice though, which is nice. Or he doesn’t find a need to comment on it. He just looks at San in surprise.

“When did you get here?” Jongho nearly exclaims. Wooyoung looks at San while his roommate speaks.

San looks at the clock on the stove and looks back at Wooyoung. It’s so brief, Wooyoung wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn't tracking every movement. San looks at Jongho and shrugs. Wooyoung can feel the linger of his gaze, though.

“Maybe five minutes ago? I tried calling and texting, but I had to let myself in.” He looks back at Wooyoung. “I hope that was okay?” Back at Jongho. 

Jongho sees the soju on the table, the ones Wooyoung pulled out of the bags San brought, and smiles his wide gummy smile. He grabs enough bottles to fit in his arms. “Of course! Come say hi to the others!” He wanders back off to the living room, not even looking behind him to see if San is following.

San looks at Wooyoung, his eyes so soft and so kind. He’s so disarming, so charming. So genuine. “Will you be joining us?”

Wooyoung bites his lip. He wasn’t going to. But. “Sure. After I take the brownies out. I’ll come in.”

San smiles. Why he is so shy confuses Wooyoung. “I’ll save you a seat.”

And then he’s gone. 

Wooyoung doesn’t really know what to fucking do with himself. He feels like he just met a celebrity. Except instead of a movie star, it was a college baseball dude-bro who isn’t a dude-bro at all. He stares into space and contemplates if he just dreamed that entire interaction up, like some vivid hallucination. But he knows that’s wrong because San’s stuff is still at his shitty tiny kitchen table, piled on a shitty wooden kitchen chair, and he can hear his voice filtering in from the next room. 

And he’s saving Wooyoung a spot in there. 

The oven makes a sound and Wooyoung remembers the brownies. He almost forgot. He shakes himself out, his fingers tingling and his limbs a bit out of sync with the rest of himself. He almost forgets, but he reaches for his oven mitts. There are cats on them, a gift from his younger brother. 

He takes the brownies out and sets them on a wire rack to rest. He’ll cover them in icing once they cool and then stick candles across the top. Hopefully no one will notice the extra crunchy corners from how long they were left in the oven while Wooyoung swooned over San. 

He goes back to the living room, something he wasn’t planning on doing until it was asked of him, and finds the spot San saved him. It’s right next to where San is sitting on the ground, a pillow already in place as a cushion for him.

Wooyoung sits, everyone talking around him, not acknowledging him. But that’s okay because the blush coloring San’s cheeks is enough.

The next time Wooyoung and San see each other is by complete coincidence. 

It’s been almost three weeks since Jongho’s birthday party—the first and last time Wooyoung’s seen San. (He’s definitely not counting, or anything.)

The library is packed for a Monday. He’s never seen it so busy at the start of the week. But then the flash of orange and black streamers in the lobby catches his eyes. Bats! Literally. Pumpkins, black cats, ghosts. It’s the day before Halloween, everyone cramming homework and revisions so they can party carefree the next night. 

In a sea of laptop screens, open textbooks, and heads bowed down, Wooyoung spots a singular empty table in the distance. It’s small, it’s perfect, a modest square with just two chairs—one for him, and one for his bag, or his feet if he’s feeling like stretching out. It’s right in the corner by a window, shelves of children's books on either side to create a little private nook. 

His footsteps are muffled by the carpet as he quickly, yet respectfully, shuffles his way to the table shoved into the corner. He keeps his head down, hoping his low profile doesn’t give away his destination to any other table-seekers. He can’t let anyone beat him to his prize. 

Wooyoung thinks he’s in the homestretch, rounding the corner of a long table, ready to stake his claim, until he walks into a solid wall.

A very warm solid wall. A solid wall with a black t-shirt, black sweatpants, and a black baseball hat… that is now on the ground. 

“Shit— Sorry—”

“I’m so sorry—”

The solid wall bends down to pick up his hat.

“San?”

San’s backpack, hanging off just one shoulder, slips off as he fumbles again, probably realizing who he bumped into, this time apparently forgetting how to put his own hat back on his head.

“Wooyoung?” San’s voice cracks, but the smile on his face is large and stunning. Also, he’s blushing. So Wooyoung is blushing, too. 

“Sorry, I was trying to get here before anyone else. I didn’t see you coming.” Wooyoung points at his heart’s desire. (The table, not the man.)

San’s shoulders deflate. He runs his hand through his hair, fluffing it before pulling the hat back over it. “Ah. I was also making a b-line for the table.” 

Wooyoung looks at the table, looks at San. It’s small, but they could make it work. Wooyoung doesn’t know what San needs to do, but he only needs his laptop. And he guesses his bag and feet can stay on the ground, not needing a chair completely to themselves.

Wooyoung bites his lip, suddenly unsure and a little insecure. “Wanna share?” he offers, voice weak, shoulders lifted with his question. 

San starts nodding halfway through his proposition. Flowers bloom at the bottom of Wooyoung’s diaphragm, his breathing feeling ticklish. He clears his throat to get rid of the feeling. 

So they sit together in silence across from each other. Wooyoung on his laptop editing his recent batch of photos, and San watching a video on his ipad, taking notes. 

Wooyoung really tries to mind his own business, he really does. 

But Wooyoung sinks down into his chair and looks at San, really looks at him. He looks at him under the warmth of the library lights, with the blue light of his screen illuminating the shadows cast by the tilt of his head. His tongue is peeking out from between his lips, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Wooyoung wonders what he’s studying. 

Wooyoung has never really been in San’s presence before. He never really had the chance to. And now, suddenly, he’s right beside him twice in the same month. If this trend keeps up, Wooyoung is excited to find out what more he’ll learn about San. Or…scared to find out what he’ll learn about himself.

There was Jongho’s birthday party. San drank enough to show off flushed cheeks, looking pretty in pink, but was still kind and sweet, trying to include Wooyoung in the conversation as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the ground. San even stayed later to help Wooyoung and Jongho clean up when the others left for the evening. 

“Since I was late, you know,” he said to the roommates when asked why he wanted to take out the trash.

And now here San is, in the library, sharing a tiny table with Wooyoung, a relative stranger, chewing on his lip and handwriting his notes. Not typing, nor transcribing, but actually handwriting with highlighters and different colored ink pens.

It’s so… humanizing.

To Wooyoung, San has always been the baseball boy. Intimidating team captain. Proud MVP. The player he, and the entire school population, would swoon over during warm ups. The player he would cheer the loudest for when he came up to bat. The player who seemed so untouchable on and off the baseball diamond.

But San has flower stickers on his ipad. His backpack has acrylic Haikyu keychains dangling from the zippers. His phone is facedown on the table, a Mokoko popsocket stuck to the back. He doesn’t even have airpods, he still has the old corded ones, so beloved that the white is more gray now. 

Wooyoung has yet to feel intimidated by the man in front of him. And that’s dangerous.

San pauses his video and looks up at Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, heart literally beating out of his chest, flicks his eyes back to his laptop and fast as humanly possible, hoping that San didn’t catch him staring. He silently berates himself for being such an obvious fool. 

“Wooyoung-ah?” he hears San ask. Wooyoung’s headphones, unlike San’s, are fancy over-the-ear kind. But he hasn’t had any music playing the entire hour they’ve been together, the gentle bustling hum of the library and San’s breathing enough to keep his mind occupied. 

Wooyoung keeps his eyes locked on his screen, though, on the completely unedited photo open in lightroom, trying to give off an air of nonchalance, even if the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He just pretends like he doesn’t hear San. He even queues up something random on Spotify, just in case San asks. 

San ducks his head right behind Wooyoung’s laptop screen, right in his line of sight, and gives a little wave. 

Wooyoung has to bite his lip to stop his face from breaking out into a huge giddy grin. He hides it surprisingly well, too. He slips his headphones off and hangs them around his neck.

“Wooyoung?” San asks, less confident, less familiar, now that he knows Wooyoung is definitely listening to him. He tilts his head patiently, waiting for the rest of what San wants to say, but it seems like the baseball player backtracks awkwardly in his mind at the last possible moment, stuttering out a completely different question than he probably originally planned. “H-how long do you plan on staying for?”

Wooyoung deflates, but shrugs in reply. 

“I dunno.” He looks at the digital clock in the corner of his laptop. 10:24 PM. He looks at the analog clock on the wall in the far distance. It’s two minutes fast, placed too high on the wall to care to fix. “Probably however long it takes me to finish editing all my photos.” 

He has twenty photos to sort through and edit. He’ll need much longer than however long he actually wants to spend in the library, but San doesn’t need to know that. 

San nods thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything else, even though it looks like he wants to. He just leans back in his chair, stuffs his headphones back in and continues his notes. He starts with a pink inked pen this time. 

They sit opposite each other until San has finished his video lecture and his notetaking. He slowly starts putting away his things, but hesitates. Like he doesn’t really want to leave.

Wooyoung understands.

So he closes his laptop, despite only having edited three and a half photos. 

They stand up at the same time, Wooyoung’s tote bag over his shoulder, San shrugging his backpack on.

As they stand outside the library, bodies facing opposite directions for their walk back to their own respective apartments, Wooyoung thinks San would offer to walk him home, if they were in an alternate universe. But they’re not, so they just whisper goodbyes to each other.

The night sky is clear as Wooyoung walks home, not a single cloud in the sky, a waning gibbous lighting the path when the streetlights are too few and far between. 

Wooyoung thinks about a lot of things as he walks home.

Wooyoung’s only class of the day was cancelled—both a blessing and a curse. He still had to wake up at a bright and early six in the morning to discover the notification, but then he was able to stay in his warm and toasty bed until his stomach growled loud enough. 

November is already too cold for Wooyoung’s liking. The first snow hasn’t happened quite yet, even though everyone in the country is just waiting to hit the play button on EXO’s song. Despite the seasonal delight and great opportunity for his photography, Wooyoung despises the winter, the cold, and the snow. He can never seem to bundle up in enough layers.

The apartment is warm, warm enough for bare feet on the scuffed hardwood laminate that runs throughout the room, but not warm enough to go without pants, unfortunately. Wooyoung prefers just an oversized shirt, but he drags sweatpants up each leg for warmth and practicality.  

Jongho’s bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway from his own door, is closed. There are baseball posters, pictures, and stickers decorating it. Wooyoung likes looking at them when he can. It’s like small pieces of his roommate’s personality on display. There’s photos of young Jongho in little league jerseys holding a mitt too big for his hand, posters of pros ripped out of magazines, and a signed group photos from every team Jongho’s been on.

The narrow hallway leads to a split, where the kitchen is on the right and the living room is on the left, the two rooms separated by a random ass wall in the dead center of the apartment. Wooyoung sometimes wonders if all student housing is laid out this… charmingly.

Wooyoung makes the couch his best friend. He sits on it, normally, like a couch, while he watches a movie. He lays on his back, maybe rolling onto his side, to take a twenty minute nap—his own snores waking him up. He lays on his stomach while reading an article for class on his phone. And now he’s damn near hanging upside down, head off the edge, all the blood rushing to it, feet in the air leaning on the same wall the back of the couch is up against, as he occupies himself with short funny videos across any possible app that can hold his attention span. Don’t ask him how long he’s been trapped like this.

Wooyoung’s body jerks, the familiar but jarring noise of a key turning in the old lock of the front door turning him back to right-side-up. He leans all the way against the cushions, face almost pressed against the wall as he spies down the sliver of hallway where the entrance way is.

Jongho walks in and locks the door behind him. Despite the frigid outdoors, there’s sweat stuck to his hairline, and his gray t-shirt is absolutely drenched along the neckline and armpits. He drops his bag on the ground, kicking off his shoes as well. He hangs up his unused jacket. 

Wooyoung isn’t ogling his rippling muscles. Not at all. He’s worried that the young man probably hasn’t eaten in a while, probably starved. He’s just worried that his sweetheart roommate was probably freezing out there in the arctic temperatures. He’s just—

“You’re staring,” Jongho says, monotone, back still to Wooyoung as he bends down to fish things out of his bag.

Wooyoung wants to cry out in outrage. He is not starring! How dare Jongho accuse him of such a lecherous activity. They’re not even in the same room, technically! He throws himself down onto the couch and stares up at the ceiling instead.

“Oh? You’re home?” he says instead, feigning apathy.

Jongo finally enters the living room and looks at Wooyoung. He stares down at him from above the couch, peeking over the armrest, one eyebrow raised. “ You’re home?”

Wooyoung shrugs, his shoulders against the couch cushions. “Yeah, class was cancelled for the day.”

“Did you eat yet?”

“Not really.” He doesn’t count that single granola bar at eight in the morning as a meal. 

Jongho takes a quick shower. Early morning workouts are going to become even more prevalent for him now, the baseball team finally starting their conditioning. Just small gym sessions here and there, but Jongho says the rookies need it. Or something. Wooyoung just pulls himself off the couch. 

Once in the kitchen together, they’re moving harmoniously alongside each other. For never having known each other before the semester started, they work surprisingly well together. They are never in each other's way, they share the space, and banter with lighthearted wit. When Wooyoung drops something on the ground, he just pouts and waits for Jongho to pick it up. He’s a catcher! He needs to work on his squats and Wooyoung is just looking out for him.

When choosing their lunches, Wooyoung goes for reheated fried rice—the take out kind, not the homecooked kind. Jongho opts for a bowl of cereal—the bland kind, not the sugary kind. They sit across from each other at the table, the silence actually comforting. It’s what Wooyoung likes about Jongho so much. Unlike Wooyoung, he doesn’t need to fill the space with constant conversation. But he also doesn’t hate it, when Wooyoung’s in the mood. Most importantly, they can coexist without interacting. 

“San wants to know when your next showcase is,” Jongho says casually around a spoonful of cereal, very casual, very bored. Very out of nowhere.

Wooyoung almost chokes on his rice, having to cough to make sure the tiny grains don't slip down his windpipe. 

What the fuck?

He stares at his roommate, but he doesn’t offer anymore information.

“San?” He clears his throat. “Choi San?”

Jongho looks up from scrolling on his phone staring at Wooyoung incredulously, eyebrow raised, lips downward. For all intents and purposes—a stank face. “Yeah. Who else?”

Well. There is no one else, really. Just one Choi San. 

“Why does San want to know?”

“I don’t know,” Jongho says, exasperated, eyes back to his phone, continuing scrolling. “He just asked if I knew. I don’t know. So I’m asking you.”

Wooyoung stares at this rice as if it has all the answers to his questions. Why does San want to know? Why is he asking Jongho? Does he want to go? Has he seen Wooyoung’s photos before? 

“I— The final for this semester will be on exhibit during finals week, I think? It’ll probably stay up until the next semester begins.”

Wooyoung swallows, suddenly not very hungry anymore the more he simply thinks about San purposefully coming to the arts building—all the way across campus from where San probably frequents—to see photography. His photography, too. 

Photography has always been Wooyoung’s safe space. He can hide himself behind the lens, capture the world as he sees it, and not have to step foot into the frame unless he wants to. He loves photographing what he loves and then showing everyone else in the world the beauty of what he loves. It’s an extremely vulnerable art to him. He’s not just pointing and camera and shooting it. He’s setting it up detail by painstaking detail. 

And San wants to see all of this? Wooyoung’s crush, going on four years now, purposefully seeking out his art? What’s the catch?

Does there have to be a catch?

It should scare him. It should make him feel nervous.

But really… It kind of excites him. It makes him feel blushy and nervous in that kind of way. Wooyoung really does love showing off his art. San gets to show off his art—sport, almost the same thing—all the time, to tons of spectators. Wooyoung included in that. Wooyoung feels giddy at the thought of the roles reversed. 

Wooyoung should slap himself. San isn’t… He’s no more than an acquaintance to Wooyoung. Maybe he has a whole different reason for wanting to go to the exhibition. 

“Well if you find anything else out, let me know and I’ll pass it on.”

Wooyoung stares at this rice, again, as if it has all the answers to his questions (it still doesn’t), numbly processing what Jongho says. He spirals into the maelstrom of endless questions. He eventually reaches a useless conclusion once Jongho has left the kitchen to get ready for his afternoon classes and his rice goes cold. 

Baseball Captain Choi San has no reason to involve himself in Jung Wooyoung’s life. Everything so far has just been funny coincidences. 

Right?

Wooyoung is up before the sun, a few weeks later. 

It snowed overnight and the cold has settled into his bones, at this point. There’s no use in fighting it. So Wooyoung steps into big clunky boots with three layers of socks around his toes and grabs his camera.

He heads to the park that’s near campus. Close enough to local businesses so he can duck inside for warmth, if necessary, but also close enough to the dorms so he can crawl back into bed quickly if it all becomes too much.

Wooyoung takes photos of everything covered in the light dusting of snow. The trees, the fountains, the statues, the playground. All of it is untouched, aside from the wildlife footprints and the shoveled running path. 

It’s quiet and early and it lets Wooyoung think. 

November has been a busy month, but December is only four days away. And then, once December is through and the semester is over, winter break will begin. But for Wooyoung, he will start his winter classes. They’re nothing too terrible, which is nice, and the workload isn’t too bad, either. It’s just something to keep him occupied so he doesn’t have to leave campus and visit home. 

Plus, Jongho is staying on campus over the break—actually, the entire baseball team will be, for conditioning. Jongho’s been having his friends over a lot recently. They’re your friends now too, Wooyoung, as his roommate says. So at least Wooyoung will have some company. 

Past winter break, Wooyoung is excited for what the spring will bring. The baseball season is looking like a promising one, if last year’s success is anything to go by. Plus, the spring will bring with it more exhibitions for Wooyoung’s photography, including the final showcase needed to graduate. He’s been brainstorming his possible final project topic every night before bed. 

As Wooyoung wanders the park, he spots a beautiful bird in the distance, perched on the back of a snow-dusted bench. He squats down to find the angle he wants, and brings the viewfinder to his eye, squinting to see through it. 

He holds his breath as he steadies his hands. His fingers are ungloved so he can have more control over the shutter and settings, but then they’re more susceptible to the cold, so their reaction time is slower. 

Wooyoung snaps the photo, the bird perfectly in focus, lucky that the shutter sound doesn’t scare it off. The background is a blend of unfocused, yet still recognizable shapes. He stands back to full height, trying from a different angle. He holds the camera back to his face, going in for another shot. 

He’s studying his subject through the viewfinder, in his own little world, and then his world spins.

The camera falls out of Wooyoung’s hands, the strap around his neck luckily catching it, saving it from its demise. Wooyoung’s feet slip, almost cartoon-style, as he loses his balance, the snow stuck in his treads not giving his shoes much of a chance. The body that collided with him tries its best to hold on to him, so he doesn’t fall over.

Luckily, they both stay upright. 

Wooyoung has some choice words for this stranger. For example: why are you out here so fricken early? And: there’s a whole sidewalk here and you just so happened to run into me?

Wooyoung is about to give them a piece of his mind, but then he finds himself looking at the one boy he’s begged himself to forget about. 

It’s the boy he can’t seem to avoid ever since he spawned in his apartment that one night in October. It’s the boy he is actually hoping to actively avoid, but Jongho just seems to bring him up all the damn time! 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—” San sucks a breath in, his labored breathing going silent as he holds his breath. His eyebrows furrow in concentration, searching the face in front of him. “Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung doesn’t blame San for not recognizing him right away. When the camera is against his face, his eye squinting into the viewfinder, there’s not a single centimeter of exposed skin, except for his fingertips, really. His nails are painted black and quickly chipping, although San wouldn’t really know that detail anyway. 

Wooyoung is wrapped up in a chunky gray and black patterned scarf. It’s around his neck a few times, up and around the gray baseball hat that’s seen better day on the top of his head. He’s practically unrecognizable, especially since his coat is a big, round, black puffer coat. 

Wooyoung bites his lip, trying not to break out into a stupid grin. Out of all the people to bodyslam into him in the park at 6 AM it had to be Choi San? How stupid. He kinda loves it. 

He unwraps the scarf from his face, so San can at least see that it’s him. His brain yells at his face to put the smile away, but it doesn’t really work because by the time all the fabric is pulled away, his smile is sweet and soft and is aimed directly at the Team Captain.

“Oh my—Wooyoung, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” San puts his hands out to hold Wooyoung by the shoulder, his face screwed up in concern. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I promise I’m not hurt. Are you okay? Were you running?”

San retracts his hands, keeping them to himself, but not really sure what to do with them. Wooyoung watches, endeared, as San struggles to tuck them into the pockets he obviously does not have in his running shorts. 

San shrugs. “Yeah, I usually run most days. It’s great to get all the pent up energy out. And stay in shape. The season is coming up.” 

Wooyoung nods, pretending like he’s thinking, when his head is actually empty.

He looks around the park. 

First his apartment, then the library, now out here at the buttcrack of morning. “We gotta stop meeting like this.”

“Like what?” 

“Face to face, in random ass places, where neither of us know the other will be there and yet we just have to end up together.”

“Do you not like running into each other?”

Wooyoung blushes, stumbles over his words. “I mean. I’m not complaining.”

San laughs in Wooyoung’s face. He doesn’t hold back, like it literally jumped out of his chest before he could control it. “You were literally just complaining?”

Wooyoung bites his lip. This is his favorite game. “You can’t prove it.” 

“Prove it? I! You!” San sighs and gestures, knowing he is fighting a losing battle. “Well are we gonna stand here all day like idiots? You look like you’re one gust of wind away from turning into an icicle.” 

Are you flirting with me? is the question Wooyoung wants to ask next, their fiery back and forth actually warming him up from the inside out as each quip gets thrown around. He sticks with a safer response instead.

“Well, I would be on my way, but it looks like someone is actually in my way.” 

San hums, voice getting quieter and quieter, less confident and more shy, as he keeps talking. “That’s a shame. Maybe… that someone was just… trying to come up with a way to get you to go the… same way.” 

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, tilts his head. “Oh?” 

San shrugs. “That way,” he nods in the direction that Wooyoung’s back is facing, “is the direction of a really nice coffee shop. Maybe it’ll do you good to warm up. Y'know, impending icicle and all.” 

Wooyoung chuckles. “Ah, I’ve been there before.”

San screws his mouth up, defeated, unsure where to take the conversation next. The gears turn in his head. A little too slowly, though.

Wooyoung, of course, is just teasing, and only lets San suffer in silence for a few seconds. “I thought sugary coffees weren’t good for baseball boys.”

San shrugs. “I like their teas.” 

“Well, let’s go warm up. If anyone is going to turn into an icicle, it’s going to be you. Who wears shorts anyway? It’s November!”

Wooyoung turns on his heels and starts walking to the coffee shop San mentioned, the one that the photographer is a frequent patron of. He doesn’t even wait to check if San is trailing behind him, he just knows.

“I have leggings underneath the shorts!” San whines after Wooyoung, trying to catch up.

San eventually matches Wooyoung’s pace and they’re shoulder to shoulder. They talk about why San’s wearing shorts—it gets his blood flowing or something stupid. They talk about the photos Wooyoung was taking—for fun, to capture the innocence of the untouched early mornings. They talk about almost anything and everything and the conversation is so easy and so comfortable, Wooyoung can’t even imagine any awkwardness ever existed between them. 

With their tea and coffee order rung up on the register, San pays for them both, much to Wooyoung’s disappointment. 

When they overstay their welcome past the one hour mark, Wooyoung gets up and pays for some pastries, much to San’s disappointment. 

At least they tucked themselves away into the corner, because they stayed for two hours, chatting and laughing. Time passing by them so quickly, it was like they were the axis around which the Earth spins. 

San finally has to jog away, Mingi calling him three times before he even realizes his phone is vibrating with a call. Something about a group project and a presentation.

Wooyoung doesn’t mind the excuses, just waves him off with a gentle smile and a thank you for the coffee. He has San leave all his trash and dirty dishes behind, a promise he’ll return them to the counter when he himself leaves. 

He sits for a few minutes, the spinning of the world around him finally slowing down. He places his mind and body back into reality, coming back to the world he left. He steps out from the center of the universe and just becomes a nobody, again.

Being around San is like a high. It’s such a thrill. It’s a rush that makes Wooyoung feel giddy and lightheaded and he’s always known San has had something magnetic about him, but feeling it so up close and personal for so long is addicting. 

Wooyoung stares at their empty cups next to each other, sitting on little white saucers. San’s damp, discarded tea bag is on the corner of the table, on a pile of napkins. There are crumbs on San’s plate, half a pastry leftover on Wooyoung’s. It tells a story. Wooyoung wants to reread it again and again. 

He takes out his camera and takes a photo. He doesn’t even review it, knowing it’s perfect. It’ll do. 

“Was? Was that a date?” 

No response. Just silence, and chewing. A spoon hitting the side of a bowl. 

“Like we just… sat there. For a while. I’m not even sure how long. He bought my coffee. But I bought his food?”

A deep sigh. Not from the kitchen, but from himself, laying starfished on the rug in the living room. Puffer coat still on, but boots and the three layers of socks discarded by the front door. 

“Do I want it to be a date? Does he want it to be a date?”

He laughs at himself.

“Does he even like guys?”

His eyebrows scrunch together.

“He can’t like guys.” Can he?

He bites his lip. Gnaws on it, chews on it. 

“He has to know I like guys. I think everyone on campus knows I like guys.”

Wooyoung gets a chuckle for that one. It makes the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. So Jongho is listening to his whining. 

“He can’t like guys, he—” plays baseball. Is the captain. The MVP. A bunch of other things that would give San away. Wooyoung isn’t going to out anyone, no matter the state of his own mental crisis.

Wooyoung blindly reaches for the couch and pulls the first pillow he feels off of it, slapping it over his face so he can scream into it. 

“He what?” Jongho asks, standing directly above Wooyoung. His sudden appearance actually scares Wooyoung, making him flinch and let out another scream. He pulls the pillow away to scowl up at his roommate.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are you on the floor?” 

“Why can’t you mind your business?” 

“What are you complaining about?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“You literally would not be sulking in the living room of our apartment, knowing I’m home, knowing I’m listening to you, if you didn’t want me to be nosy and ask you questions.”

Wooyoung puts the pillow back over his face. He knows Jongho is right, he does want the attention. But he doesn’t actually want to talk about it. Well, he does want to talk about it. But he can’t talk about it to Jongho specifically. But who else does he have to unload his woes onto? 

Too many ‘buts.’ It frustrates him. 

Jongho steps over Wooyoung’s body to reach the couch, sitting down.

“Who can’t like guys?” 

“Jongho—” Wooyoung warns, voice slightly muffled by the pillow. It’s still on his face, but his arms are back by his side on the floor.

He can hear the shrug in his roommate's voice. “Do you want to talk about it or not?”

Ugh. Right back to this endless loop. 

“I… ran into this guy this morning. He invited me for coffee, and then bought it.”

“Okay.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

Wooyoung pulls the pillow away from his face, an angry pout creasing his face. 

Jongho sighs, locking his phone and turning his full attention to the situation lying on the carpet. “Do you like him?”

Wooyoung nods. He has for… a while.

“Did it feel like a date? Did you want it to be a date?”

He shrugs. It both felt like a date and not like a date. Which is where it’s confusing. If San had the intention of a date, it definitely fulfilled that. If that thought never even crossed his mind, Wooyoung wouldn’t blame him because it also just felt like spending time with a friend. But they’re not really friends either. Maybe just acquaintances.

“My head hurts,” Wooyoung groans, covering his eyes with his palms and pushing on them until colors and lights burst and pop behind his lids. 

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask him? I can’t do that!” Wooyoung sits up, dumbfounded.

“And why not?”

Wooyoung sits in the silence following Jongho’s question.

Why can’t he ask?

Well. San’s the captain of the Korea University baseball team, on top of being a star student. San has a lot on his plate, a lot of expectations and responsibilities. San doesn’t have a lot of spare time, he’s busy. 

Everything Wooyoung comes up with just sounds like an excuse. And that’s what they are—excuses. He literally could just… ask. 

Fuck. Why does Jongho have to be right?

Wooyoung looks at Jongho, shoulders slumped, head bowed in defeat. 

“But what if it all backfires? What if it wasn’t a date? What if he’s—” a deep sigh. “What if he doesn’t like me like that?”

Jongho gets up from the couch, ruffling Wooyoung’s hair as he goes past. He walks to the entryway, slipping on a pair of sneakers. 

“Talking has never hurt anyone. I think you’ll be surprised by what he says.” Jongho slips out of the door, his keys jingling in the lock behind him. His words hang in the air, stagnant. 

Wooyoung lays back down on the floor, staring at the stucco ceiling. 

His phone vibrates in his back pocket. He wants to ignore it, but then it vibrates again. He pulls it out to see two texts from his roommate—not even five minutes after he’s left Wooyoung alone to suffer. His face automatically unlocks his phone, taking him straight to the messages.

hojong

oh, i forgot to mention but san wanted me to ask u if you were planning on staying on campus for winter break. i told him u were takin classes

hojong

and i told him when ur final exhibition is

This time Wooyoung yells without the pillow muffling it. 

“Thank you, professor,” Wooyoung nods. “It means a lot.”

Wooyoung rubs his hands on the back of his thighs, trying to rid his palms of his sweat, but he just feels perpetually clammy from the nerves. 

His professors and classmates have only had glowing reviews for his final project so far, but the night is still young. 

Wooyoung is dressed smart with black wide leg trousers, a slightly textured black shirt tucked in, and a well tailored black blazer to top it all off. His boots are shiny and heeled; they give him confidence and make him feel taller, like he has authority to actually talk about the photographs he’s standing in front of.

Which… he does. He’s literally standing in front of his own photos. Blown up and huge, poster-sized and framed on the walls behind him. 

The main rotunda of the Korea University Fine Arts and Design building is decorated to the nines, the main hall and all the branches off of it displaying all kinds of art from photography to oil paintings to mixed media pieces. 

The tile floors shine, freshly waxed for the event. They reflect the flood lighting setup for the exhibition, necessary to show off the art. The lights kinda hurt Wooyoung’s eyes, but that’s probably just because he’s nervous and is kinda forgetting to blink.

More small talk is had with friends, family, and other students walking around, but then Wooyoung perks up. He sees Jongho enter the rotunda, snow on his shoulders, Seonghwa and Hongjoong trailing behind him. Despite the cold breeze sneaking in with them, seeing his friends warms Wooyoung’s cheeks and his chest.

And then he sees San. 

San, dressed so handsomely in a tight white collared shirt, cuffs rolled up, and black pressed trousers, is trailing behind his friends, head ducked low. He has a face mask on, not unlike some other students, parents, or faculty wandering around the exhibit. Wooyoung damns the disposable thing, because it hides the deep dimple and the blinding smile he’s sure San sends his way as they make eye contact across the room.

Wooyoung’s heart speeds up, extremely happy to see San, but also extremely scared to see San. 

Wooyoung knew San wanted to come. He asked Jongho weeks ago about the exhibit. Jongho told Wooyoung that he asked about the exhibit. He didn’t necessarily try to avoid telling San, the baseball player just never asked the photographer himself. It was all through Jongho. And Wooyoung knows Jongho surely did not hesitate to pass on the information.

Wooyoung looks over his shoulder at his photos hanging on the wall, four larger than life, and a few smaller ones to compliment it. His gut suddenly tells him to feel insecure, like it’s not enough, but his brain tells him otherwise. He’s extremely proud of his work, and he’s been talking about them all night to his professors and the other guests. There’s no reason to doubt himself now. 

The theme of this semester’s final exhibit is the Inside Self and whatever that means to the artist.

For Wooyoung it’s been his solitude. His loneliness. Not an inherently bad thing, but one that’s been haunting him for years.

His photos are voids with haze and fog over the lens. Each frame is empty, no subject, just the setting—a street, a windowsill, his empty kitchen at midnight. The photos should be scary, moody, but they are fully edited to be bright and with blues and greens, oranges and yellows. 

Just as he intended, the bright colors but dark theme subvert the viewer’s expectations.

These were the photos Wooyoung was editing when he and San sat in the library together. One of the photos on the wall Wooyoung had taken that morning he ran into San in the park, snow stuck in his treads.

It seems like San has seeped himself into every tiny crack in Wooyoung’s walls. He’s always been everywhere, but now it’s… personal, special, quiet and welcomed. 

And he likes it a lot. 

The group of four beeline straight for Wooyoung, Jongho the first to grab him into a hug. It shocks the photographer a little, his roommate not really the most physically affectionate. Wooyoung happily sinks into it, though. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Jongho whispers. He pulls away quickly, though, and takes one look over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Damn, I never thought a boys college dorm kitchen could look so fucking artsy.” He leans in closer, pushing the photographer to the side. “Is that my sock in the frame, hyung? Gross! You could’ve cleaned up before immortalizing it on film!” 

Wooyoung laughs and pushes Jongho away, whining for him to shut up and enjoy the art. 

Seonghwa congratulates Wooyoung on the exhibition, Hongjoong nodding along with his partner. They ask Wooyoung to do his normal spiel for them, the little speech he’s been telling everyone that walks up to him, curious about his interpretation of the topic. 

Seonghwa and Hongjoong listen intently, their eyes on the photos as Wooyoung explains them. Jongho definitely tunes him out, but still stares in wonder at the photos, having heard the exact speech multiple times throughout the apartment over the past month. 

And San.

San kinda stands behind the three of them, not too far away, but just behind Seonghwa’s shoulders, in the back of the group. 

As Wooyoung talks, he tries his best to spend an equal amount of time looking at each member of his audience, but his eyes always find San. And each time they do, it’s even harder and harder to look away. Because San isn’t really looking at the photos, he’s looking at Wooyoung. 

All Wooyoung can see of San are his eyes, his mask covering everything else. And his eyes are intense. He’s listening to every word that comes out of Wooyoung’s mouth, transfixed. When Wooyoung references a specific element of a photo, San’s eyes jump to that, but then he’s right back to the speaker, hanging onto every possible word like he needs them to survive.

Wooyoung starts sweating again, nervous as he stumbles through his artistic process and his inspiration and all that stuff. He’s starting to run out of steam, his speech ending and rambling taking over. He feels like he has to keep talking, he has to keep San’s attention on him. 

It’s like Wooyoung is up to bat and the entire stadium is waiting on him for a game winning hit. But his entire audience is San. Just San. 

“You should’ve photographed Joongie for your series, Young-ah. He’s always in that damn studio alone,” Seonghwa jokes, their partner flushing an embarrassed pink, tripping over his words to say something. “He knows isolation all too well.”

Wooyoung just laughs, San even chuckles.

“I think the person Wooyoung should be photographing is actually S—”

“Oh, wait, Joongie,” Seonghwa gasps, cutting Jongho off loudly and pointing across the rotunda. “Is that Minjae? The freshman you’re mentoring? You can finally introduce us!”

Hongjoong looks back and forth between Seonghwa and Jongho, then off in the distance at Minjae, the whiplash throwing him off. “Uh, yeah? He—”

Seonghwa grabs Hongjoong and Jongho by the hands, pulling them away. “Excellent photography, Young-ah! It’s truly beautiful, you’ll have to show me more one day,” they gush over their shoulder.

“But—” Jongho yelps from the force.

“C’mon Jjongie, come meet Minjae with me! Sannie, keep Wooyoung company, please?” Seonghwa bats their eyelashes and is gone mere seconds later, leaving just Wooyoung and San together. Alone. 

Wooyoung smiles at San, small, quick, shy. He bows his head and steps out of the way, motioning at his photos on the wall, assuming San wants a closer look.

Wooyoung thinks he imagines the pink color dusting the tops of San’s ears, and maybe the tiny sliver of the tops of his cheeks that he can see over his mask too. 

San takes the cue and steps forward for a closer look. He tilts his head as he observes, his eyes roaming the details. His weight shifts from foot to foot. San is just simply looking, taking it all in. And Wooyoung is helpless just to watch him. He tries not to stare, he really does. But he can’t not look at San looking at his work, even if it makes him nervous and sweaty?

He discreetly wipes his palms on the back of his pants again. 

Wooyoung wants to know what San’s thinking. 

It’s so nerve wracking. His photos are a literal, physical representation of his feelings just out there, in the open, blown up huge on the wall. And here’s this guy that he’s liked for literal years, has had such an unrealistic crush on, seeing such a vulnerable part of him. 

San stares at these vulnerable, raw pieces of Wooyoung. His eyes flick over each photo, they widen and narrow, they reflect the colors and the lights. Wooyoung watches San analyze and think about each and every aspect of the photos. 

And maybe Wooyoung’s starting to feel a little dizzy with the attention, especially when San finally turns to look at him.

The baseball player is speechless. The best he can do is just mumble in awe, failing at putting together sentences. He points at the smallest photo, a simple four by six at the bottom of the display, at the bottom right hand corner. “This is my favorite.”

Wooyoung swallows. It’s his favorite, too. It’s his most intimate photo, the location not personal, but the meaning behind it. 

It’s the parking lot of their university’s baseball stadium, taken at night, after a victory. Wooyoung can’t even remember how long he sat in the lot and waited for it to empty, the floodlights still on but all signs of life gone. Wooyoung liked it so much because it wasn’t obvious that the baseball stadium was behind the photographer’s back. But of course San was able to pay close enough attention to tell. Of course. 

The photo is edited so that both the contrast and the blackpoint are low, revealing the details in the shadows. The colors are balanced so the warmth takes over, the orange streetlights adding an almost vintage and hazy feel to the photo. 

Wooyoung’s critiques on this photo from his classmates was that the editing was too extreme, that he was hitting the nail on the head too hard. But he loves it. It looks exactly how he feels. 

Wooyoung knows why this is San’s favorite, but he has to ask him anyway. He expects an ‘it’s pretty’ or an ‘I like the colors’. Wooyoung should know by now that San never does what is expected of him. 

Silence passes as San finds the right words.

“I feel it the most.” 

Wooyoung just blinks at him, the words echoing in his empty head, his heart ping-ponging in his chest. 

“It’s the stadium. I know you edited the photo, but the sky is brighter than it should be, meaning the stadium lights are still on. The painted lines of the parking lot are a familiar faded white—I know them well, I park my own car just on the other side by the staff entrance. In the distance, you can see some of the other university buildings. I stare at them a lot from the stadium, especially after a game. I stand in front of the closed stadium, after everyone has left—kinda just like you have—and I wonder how many people in those buildings watched our games. It helps the isolation of the come-down from the victory not feel as bitter.”

Wooyoung’s jaw is on the floor. He’s speechless, he’s floored, he’s near goddamn tears. He’s never felt so fucking seen. Fuck being vulnerable—San just fileted his chest open and crawled his way inside, reading Wooyoung like a fucking book. 

San pulls down his facemask, revealing the most sickening, sweetest, infuriating smile ever. 

Wooyoung wishes he could kiss him. Right here. Right now. 

Wooyoung just stands there, though, slack jawed, and the only thing that he can think to say is “you never told me you were a creative writing major.” The only thing that he can think to do is deflect with humor. 

San hides his face, laughing all shy and shit. “No. No. Still business. You just inspire me, that's all.” 

Wooyoung desperately wishes San never pulled that mask down. The blush on San’s cheeks is so vibrant and so pretty he wishes he never knew what its exact shade is. Wooyoung will be chasing that color for the rest of his life now. 

“I know it’s not as fascinating as baseball but it’s what I’m passionate about…” Wooyoung trails off, the blush on his own cheeks a perfect compliment to the other boy’s. 

“Shut up,” San whines. “This is so much more fascinating than baseball. Thank you for sharing.” San delivers his words straight to Wooyoung, sparkles in his eyes. He turns to look back at the photos, back to studying them. Wooyoung hopes he’s not looking for more things to wax poetic about. He doesn’t think he’d survive another soliloquy. 

He looks away from San because he needs a break, a moment to breathe and relax, maybe to stop his hands from shaking so bad. He looks for their friends, to see if they’ve found Minjae, or to see whose project they are exploring at the moment. 

Wooyoung finds Seonghwa and Jongho shoulder to shoulder, looking straight at him—them, whispering, discussing. Plotting? Their eyes widen as they notice Wooyoung’s attention and they shuffle to look in the other direction, still bowed in towards each other. Wooyoung tries to find Hongjoong, but he’s nowhere near them! He’s still talking to Minjae and his friends, actually. 

Wooyoung has a sneaking suspicion that his roommate and San’s roommate are getting up to something. He’s not looking forward to the outcome of whatever is going on, whatever it may be. 

The photographer thinks he’s in the clear, San hopefully ready to move on, with new people arriving to ask Wooyoung the same questions over and over again. But of course it’s Jongho and Seonghwa that come right back to San and Wooyoung, shit eating grins on their faces. Wooyoung treads with caution.

“Oh San-hyung, aren’t the photos wonderful?” Jongho sighs.

San nods, earnest and sweet. His mask is back up over his face, but his eyes don’t fail in translating his kindness. “They’re amazing. I’m so jealous you get to be surrounded by them all the time, Jjong.” He turns to Wooyoung. “Thank you for letting me come. Jongho said you wanted me here and I’m so glad I had the opportunity. I’ve always loved your photography, Wooyoungie.”

“Jongho—?” Wooyoung gapes, unsure if he heard San correct, but Jongho steps on his foot, rudely but discreetly, cutting him off. Sneaky fucking roommate.

“And you’re both wearing black and white tonight,” Seonghwa comments, changing the subject. “Matching! Quite the couple outfit.”

Wooyoung nearly chokes on air. A coughing fit shakes his entire body as he tries to regain any kind of normalcy. San’s eyes almost jump out of his skull. Wooyoung thanks the blessed facemask, hiding San’s probably disgusted grimace.

He wants to scream what the fuck, Seonghwa? What the hell does a couple outfit mean to a couple of… acquaintances? 

From the center of the rotunda, a ringing echoes, Wooyoung’s mentor and favorite professional raising a champagne flute. He gathers around the entire crowd ready to make a speech, cutting off personal conversations and any presentations. Wooyoung knows this will be quite a few minutes long as he hands out awards earned by the students throughout the semester, as well as congratulating the seniors on their final fall semester exhibit. 

Wooyoung steels himself for the formalities to come, but not before one last look at San, who is already looking at him, his neck red and his fingernails picking at his cuticles, and Seonghwa, who shoots him a wink and a lovely smile to soothe it over.

It’s going to be a long night. 

“Hey do you mind if I use the tv?” 

Wooyoung looks up from his laptop, the syllabuses for his winter classes open in a few different tabs. He’s marking important dates like quizzes and finals.

“No, no, go ahead,” he waves at Jongho. He doesn’t need to necessarily focus on anything, anyway. If he did, he has his headphones at his side. 

The apartment is warm and cozy, all the blankets piled on the couch, Wooyoung piled under them. If he didn’t need to use his hands, he would only be a head sprouting from the top. 

“What are you gonna watch?”

Jongho has a notebook and pen with him, making Wooyoung curious as to what he will be getting up to. He pushes a blank dvd into the hand-me-down player hooked up to their flatscreen and joins Wooyoung on the couch. 

“Coach wants us to review game footage from the last few years. Specifically our best games and our worst losses. It’ll be painful, but helpful. Gotta prepare for the new season, just a few months away. Spring Training starts even sooner.”

Wooyoung hums to himself. He’s very familiar with all the games Jongho probably has burned onto the disc, having witnessed them in person, just like the players, but from the stands instead. 

Wooyoung tries his best to ignore his roommate, but he very quickly runs out of events and appointments to put on his calendar and fake tasks to take care of.

He looks at Jongho, the way his head bounces between tv screen and notebook, his hand scribbling fast. 

Wooyoung watches a Jongho from a year ago hit a home run on the screen, his roommate’s hand pausing mid-sentence, a smile taking over his face as he watches. Wooyoung smiles to himself, too. That’s one of his favorite moments from last season. Jongho isn’t a known hitter on their team, the catcher more famous for how fast he can throw out a base-stealing runner, but his three-run home run broke their tie in the eighth inning, setting the Tigers up for victory. 

“That was your most successful batting game,” Wooyoung comments. 

Jongho turns to look at his roommate, eyebrows furrowed. 

Wooyoung shrugs. “They kept putting in right-handers to pitch—you know, to throw off our big hitters at the top of the batting order, but they would forget you were the left-handed sleeper agent at the bottom of the lineup. You’re most successful against righties.” 

“Yeah…” Jongho agrees slowly.

Wooyoung keeps staring at the tv, ignoring Jongho’s stare. The footage switches to a different game making Wooyoung’s heart leap in his chest—San is up to bat. He looks angry. Jongho would normally fast forward through this kind of stuff, only focusing on his own notes, but he doesn’t move to change it, still staring at the photographer. 

“I remember this game.” San was pissed. He kept striking out, every at-bat, swinging for the fences. Yeosang and Yunho were consistently making it on base, but San was just stuck, unable to bring the runners home. It frustrated him more than it should have. “We lost, zero to three. We could not drive home any runs, constantly stranding our men on the bases. But it’s okay, the next game I think we won with a lead of ten earned runs.”

San hit two home runs that game. One of them, the ball landed in the section Wooyoung was sitting in. 

The footage switches again, focusing on the pitcher. Wooyoung has to look away. He doesn’t want to think of what-if’s and what-could-have-been. He looks back at Jongho, wanting to ask him to fast forward to the next thing he needs to review, but Jongho is still staring at him like he has five heads.

“What?”

“What? What! What the hell was that, Wooyoung?”

“What do you mean?” 

“How the hell do you remember what the score was for a game two years ago?”

Wooyoung shrugs.

“No, no, no,” Jongho chastises. “Don’t deflect.”

“I like baseball.”

“I think that’s a little bit more than I like baseball. And I know you like baseball, but knowing statistics and batting order and probably way more than that? That’s not just liking baseball, hyung.” 

Wooyoung chews on the inside of his cheek. He likes baseball, loves it. He grew up watching and playing. It meant everything to him until it hurt him.

The footage switches to Yunho batting, the first baseman hitting a line drive up the first base line. Wooyoung looks away from Jongho. “Good things happen when you make contact with two men on base and no outs. Yunho is really good at staying alive. He needs to keep that up going into the new season.” 

Jongho just laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t stand you. You owe me an explanation. Damn.” 

The livingroom falls back into silence, Jongho watching and taking notes on his batting and catching, as well as analyzing his teammates. Wooyoung actually quite enjoys watching Jongho work; he really enjoys watching the old games as well. 

After an hour or so, Jongho pauses the disc and stands to stretch. He grabs his phone, which has been vibrating on the coffee table. Wooyoung watches as his roommate’s bored face stretches into something giddy, sinister, mischievous. He looks at his phone and looks at Wooyoung, back and forth. He taps out some words and sticks it in his pocket, resuming his stretches with some extravagant noises.

Wooyoung raises his eyebrow. “So… what was that all about?”

“You have a lot on your plate for it being winter break, yeah?” 

Wooyoung nods, slowly. “Yeah, but taking classes over the break is better than going home.”

“Would you maybe wanna catch lunch one day this week? Minus all the studying stuff. A nice little break to have before sinking into all the papers and presentations and quizzes? Maybe we can discuss the whole baseball knowledge thing too.” Jongho raises his eyebrow mischievously with the last sentence.

Wooyoung narrows his eyes at Jongho. “Yeah… Lunch? I think I can do that.” 

“Perfect. How about Thursday?” Jongho offers up.

“I can do Thursday.” 

They spend the rest of the evening existing together in comfortable silence, Wooyoung eventually napping to the ambience of baseball, pitches landing in mitts and bats hitting balls. Jongho orders them fried chicken for dinner, too. 

The bells above the glass door chime as Wooyoung pushes his way into the cafe. The glass door shuts behind him with a silent, but physical thud. A few snow flurries follow him inside, melting as soon as they drift to the floor.

The campus cafe is not busy at all, which should make it easy to spot Jongho. His head usually pokes out from the crowd. Jongho says it’s because he is tall. Wooyoung says he’s just easy to spot because he just has a giant head. 

But Wooyoung doesn’t see his roommate at all. 

The tables are not full at all, the cafe is actually the emptiest Wooyoung’s ever seen before—most students already on their way home for winter break. There’s no one even in line at the counter to order, the barista behind it texting and looking bored. 

So, Jongho’s not at any table. The booths are empty and so are the stools. Wooyoung even attempts to spot his stuff placed down anywhere, a sign he might possibly be in the bathroom. 

But there is absolutely nothing. No sign of Jongho. 

Wooyoung unzips his puffer coat, finding a table in the back corner to sit at, with a view of the front door, just in case his roommate is running late. 

He stares at the door. Then he looks down at his phone. He opens his text thread with his roommate. No update.

He looks up and watches each person passing by outside the cafe. No Jongho.

He looks down at his phone. He stares at his home screen, anticipating a notification. He opens his text thread with his roommate. Nothing. He locks it.

He looks at the door. He unlocks his phone. He stares at his texts. 

Door. Phone. Texts. Door. Phone. Texts. 

He scrolls back to when they made their plans last week.

hojong

thursday, the cafe. 1pm?

Wooyoung rereads the text message about twenty times. He cross checks the dates, the times. He makes sure they all match. And they do.

At quarter past, the bells above the door chimes. 

Wooyoung is ready to chew out Jongho, accuse him of lying, of being late, of hating Wooyoung’s guts—you know, all the dramatics he can possibly muster up in a calm coffee shop without embarrassing himself too much. 

But Jongho isn’t the one to walk in through the door. 

Pushing his way into the cafe is San. A few snow flurries follow him inside, melting as soon as they drift to the floor. The glass door shuts behind him, silent. Wooyoung’s heart thuds in his ears, the butterflies tickling his stomach, his chest hurting as it expands.

Wooyoung slides down into his seat, trying to go unnoticed. He’s supposed to have lunch with Jongho! He’s already spent way, way too much time with San. More than he should be allowed to. 

San looks around the coffee shop like he’s looking for someone, too. His brow is furrowed in concentration. Wooyoung wills San’s eyes to skip over him, to not notice him sitting in the corner. Wooyoung hopes San is successful in finding his lunch date.

San’s eyes find Wooyoung’s. 

San lights up as he recognizes Wooyoung, a smile and excitement immediately replacing the frown and confusion. Wooyoung dies a little inside as San makes his way over to Wooyoung’s table for two. He’s so lovely. But he can’t distract Wooyoung.

If he sits down, where will Jongho sit? 

San doesn’t sit down, thankfully, he just stands in front of Wooyoung and the table, hands in his pockets. His cheeks are pink from the December cold. Cute. 

“Hi Youngie. Have you been here for a while? Have you seen Seonghwa-hyung?” San is so polite, so sweet. Wooyoung smiles back in greeting.

“Not for long,” Wooyoung replies with a shake of his head, “but I haven’t seen Seonghwa-ssi at all. If they were here, they left before I got here.” 

San hums, looking around the cafe again, like he’s convinced he missed Seonghwa the first time around and that he’s sure he’ll see them this time. 

“Do you possibly know were Jongho-ya might—”

Wooyoung’s phone vibrating cuts him off. He looks down at it in his hand, device lighting up with a text from Jongho. Finally.

hojong

can’t make it. sorry! I forgot I…

The notification cuts off the rest of the text, but Wooyoung could care less what the rest of the excuse is. 

Wooyoung looks up at San. He opens his mouth with the start of a sigh and disappointment, but he sees San with a similar crease between his brows, a frown tugging his dimple away. Their expressions funnily mirror each other. 

“Jongho—”

“Seonghwa—”

They speak at the same time and nervously laugh at the same time. 

Wooyoung bites his lip, he can feel his cheeks getting pink, and not just from his irritation at his roommate.

San looks so handsome, hand rubbing the back of his neck, his own flush coloring his skin red. San gestures at Wooyoung to go first.

“Jongho and I were supposed to meet for lunch,” he looks at the time on his phone, “fifteen minutes ago. He just cancelled.”

San smiles, crooked, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Seonghwa-hyung and I were going to do some studying together. Right now. They actually just texted me, too. Cancelling.”

Wooyoung laughs. He surprises himself with how bright and cheery it sounds, despite their mutual misfortune. What perfect timing—both their friends cancelling on them, with the same meeting place and the same time.

Did they do this on purpose? And if they did… then why? There’s no possible way Jongho can know about Wooyoung’s crush. He’s been very careful with that. And why would San want to spend time with Wooyoung? In such a roundabout way, too?

None of it really makes sense. Just a cosmic coincidence.

In this moment, Wooyoung notices just how comfy and dressed down San looks. His jeans are loose, not embarrassingly, but on trend. He has a very faint purple sweatshirt peeking out from his big winter jacket at the collar and sleeves. 

Wooyoung’s own cheeks turn pink, not from the December chill. 

Wooyoung surprises himself again, bypassing all shyness and insecurities as he looks up at San. “Well, I was going to leave… but we both came all this way. Do you wanna join me? I didn’t bring anything to study, but I can like… scroll some apps while you do that.” 

Wooyoung should be studying, with his winter classes happening, but this was supposed to be lunch with a friend.

San looks back behind him, over his shoulder at the rest of the cafe, almost like he wants to leave, but also like he doesn’t want to leave. He bites his lip, and Wooyoung desperately wishes he could read minds to figure out what is going on inside of his head. 

San’s answer isn’t immediate but there is something undeniable between Wooyoung and San that feels like magnets being pulled towards each other. They shake and vibrate with the raw need to be near each other, even when they don’t realize it. They just have to give in—it will take a much, much greater force than their weak wills to stop this… attraction. 

San puts his bag on the chair across from Wooyoung, starts unzipping his jacket.

“Iced americano?” San smiles shyly. 

Wooyoung tilts his head, trying to hide his own incriminating grin. He knows he’s failing because his cheeks hurt. “Yeah. How’d you remember?” 

San shrugs. “Maybe I thought it was stupid that you order iced drinks in the winter time.”

Wooyoung lets out a loud, shocked laugh. Maybe it is a good thing the cafe is empty. “The nerve of you, Choi San!” 

San just laughs and walks to the counter.

Wooyoung just stares at him as he goes, shaking his head in disbelief and laughing to himself like an idiot. An endeared, foolish idiot. 

Wooyoung ignores the premonition he has of himself in the future, lying on the carpet of the living room, again, wondering whether yet another shared tabletop and conversation in a coffee shop is considered a date or not. 

That’s a mental breakdown for Wooyoung of the future, though. Wooyoung of the present is going to enjoy the coffee San just bought him while trying to figure out what to buy San to make it even. 

(And so what if he secretly, desperately wishes this was a date.)

It’s just another winter day, but a brand new year. 

Wooyoung still hates the cold, but the first week of January is always a promising time of the year to build better habits and try new hobbies.

Which is why Wooyoung is out, walking around campus, camera in his hand. He would love to lie and say his destination is unintentional, that his feet are taking him in the direction of the sports complex out of pure coincidence. But Jongho said that the baseball team is training on the track today, starting at two, running laps now that the snow has melted away.

So Wooyoung is there an hour before the team, taking photos of the empty bleachers and the, for now, abandoned track lanes. The photos are completely intentional. They’ll work great alongside the portfolio he is planning for his final senior exhibit. 

One thing that Jung Wooyoung did not take into consideration, however, is that Team Captain Choi San would be at the track earlier than the rest of his team. Just his luck, huh? 

San stands at the opposite end of the track, closer to the bleachers and the parking lot. Wooyoung is standing at the other end that is connected to the more scenic and grassy areas that connect the track to the other sports areas with walking paths. 

Wooyoung watches from a comfortable distance. He’s used to seeing the baseball team stretching before their games, taking to the field to warm up their bodies beforehand. This is no different. Except it’s just San, the whole team isn’t here yet. And it’s just Wooyoung watching him. And he doesn’t know Wooyoung’s watching him. Definitely no difference. 

Wooyoung takes a few photos. San is perfectly framed in the distance, the photo telling a story of strength and solitude, the dedicated captain practicing, even in the winter. It reminds Wooyoung of himself when he was younger, how he would beg his dad to throw around the baseball at any point in the year, even on Christmas day when it snowed. 

Before the memories of the past can haunt him any further, Wooyoung’s feet start walking him directly to San.

He wants to talk to him, but he also doesn’t. His heart beats faster and breather gets shallower as he panics trying to figure out what to say to the player. Hey, sorry, I swear I’m not stalking you. Or, I just really admire your thighs as you stretch into that lunge.  

Wooyoung doesn’t have to worry about it, though, as San spots him first. 

He doesn’t know why or where it comes from, but a brilliant smile overtakes San the moment he sees the photographer. 

“Wooyoung? What are you doing out here?”

“Taking pictures?” Wooyoung cringes, hating that he asked it rather than saying it in his confused panic. He stops a few awkward feet away from San, holding up his camera as some kind of proof, as if he couldn’t already see it around his neck. 

“Taking pictures? Isn’t it a little cold out? Are your fingers okay?”

Wooyoung wants to refute, to ask San isn’t it a little cold out to be running on the track. He gets stuck in his own words, though, stuttering and blushing.

“It’s fine, I—”

“But you don’t like the cold.”

Wooyoung is thrown off by that comment, his mouth closing in shock as San’s words register in his head. Yeah, he doesn’t like the cold. He’s probably mentioned it to San in passing before, but it doesn’t make sense. 

“Why do you remember all these little things I tell you?” 

“Why are you always so surprised?” San’s voice is gentle. Maybe a little concerned, if you listen close enough. He steps closer to Wooyoung. Almost in touching distance, if Wooyoung were to reach out. “I just listen when you talk, Wooyoungie. It’s not hard to remember the things you say.”

Wooyoung’s heart flutters. He denies the tears welling in his eyes. What the hell Choi San?

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

Because I’ll fall in love with you. Even more.

“It’s too sweet,” he passes off instead. It’s true, too. San is admittedly too sweet. Ever since they first met, face to face, in Wooyoung’s kitchen, gentleness seems to be San’s default setting around Wooyoung. Where’s the popular player, the team captain that everyone wants a piece of? 

San chuckles, even though Wooyoung wasn’t funny. “Afraid you’ll get a cavity?”

Wooyoung shrugs in lieu of an answer.

“Well, I don’t really know how else to act around you, Wooyoung,” San whispers oh-so-quietly. Too quietly as the winter breeze almost steals his words away before they have the time to make it to Wooyoung’s ears. 

The words do make it to Wooyoung’s ears, though, and they start ringing. Loudly, cruelly, and painfully. 

Wooyoung is shy. He doesn’t have many friends around campus. High school changed him, a lot. But he is still witty and outgoing and has a sharp tongue with fast comebacks and even faster reflexes. He can stand up to flirting and teasing, and he can even dish it himself. 

But around San? All of that courage, pride, and energy just melts away somehow. He becomes putty in the presence of the pretty sports boy and it is so damn infuriating. Every night Wooyoung replays their interactions in his head. He stumbles over his words, he blushes, he giggles. For all intents and purposes, it feels like San is flirting with him and Wooyoung flirts right back. 

But as soon as he looks at himself in the mirror and vocally says out loud to his reflection, hey, Choi San is flirting with you, all of it seems fake and made up. Like he’s hallucinating it. 

But right now, Wooyoung is sure, so painfully sure, that San is flirting with him. And it throws him off balance. 

Wooyoung has a past with straight baseball players. Not one that he would love to relive anytime soon. But he is just so swept away by San. Would he be willing to live through the pain of the past just for that fantasy? The fantasy of San?

What Wooyoung needs is to be honest with himself. Even if honesty hurts the most. Even if honesty is not at all what he wants. If it’s what crushes his dreams. 

Wooyoung takes a step back from San. His hands grip his camera so much that the texture imprints itself into his skin. 

But he doesn’t really feel it because San is right. His hands are cold. Really cold.

Wooyoung pretends not to see the quick emotions that flash across San’s face. Emotions he knows all too well—hurt, sadness. Along with emotions he really can’t put a name to, not too familiar with this version of the baseball player. 

“I’m afraid that I really don’t know how to act around you either,” Wooyoung whispers back. 

San nods, so miniscule, so quick, Wooyoung almost misses it. 

It breaks his heart. It’s so stupid.

San is straight. Wooyoung is not. 

That’s it. There’s nothing more to it. 

A car pulls into the parking right, the tires crushing the gravel. It breaks Wooyoung’s trance, breaks his eye contact with San. And thank god for that because he was drowning in his eyes, the yearning pulling him under, holding him down where there was no oxygen.

Wooyoung ignores that yearning, because why would San be yearning? There’s nothing for San to yearn for, Wooyoung tells himself in deep denial. In deep ignorance. 

With a deep breath and a subtle nod of the head, Wooyoung takes his leave. Car doors start opening and in the distance and he wants to be long gone before anyone on the team can accuse him of corrupting their best player. 

Been there, done that.

It’s a few weeks later and Wooyoung gives Jongho the greenlight to host a movie night at their apartment. Wooyoung, resigned to spend the evening in his room with the door shut and locked, ends up roped into the festivities. 

Jongho takes him to the store with him, asks him to pick out his favorite snacks, his favorite brand of beer. All on his credit card. So Wooyoung definitely isn’t passing up the opportunity. 

Wooyoung ends up sitting on the couch next to Yeosang and Mingi. He feels out of place, but not too awkward, thankfully. Yeosang, known best by Wooyoung as number 78, shortstop, is really friendly. He’s outgoing in the way that Wooyoung can be outgoing—once he’s comfortable with the people and the surroundings. Wooyoung finds himself gravitating towards him a lot, and they spend the first movie in their marathon whispering and laughing to each other over stupid jokes and commentary. 

Mingi, big, tall, and intimidating on the field, is just as big, tall, and intimidating in a college apartment. But during their first movie and second movie break, he’s able to get a bag of chips from the top pantry shelf that Wooyoung just can barely reach. He doesn’t even say anything to Wooyoung. He just sees Wooyoung struggling on his tiptoes, his fingertips brushing the bag, and reaches over the photographer to grab them and bring them down without any word of acknowledgement. He just keeps on walking through the kitchen to the bathroom as Wooyoung stares after him, dumbfounded. 

Wooyoung decides that yeah. Yeah, he likes Song Mingi. 

If he likes Song Mingi, then, by default, he has to like Jeong Yunho. They’re practically joined at the hip.

Yunho gave up his spot on the couch for Wooyoung, but that didn’t mean he went too far. He just relocated to the floor, sitting by Mingi’s feet so the two best friends remain in orbit of each other. How the first baseman and the right outfielder became best friends beats Wooyoung—their positioning on the field couldn’t be anymore polar opposite. 

Hongjoong is sitting in the loveseat, pretending to be absorbed in the movie, but Wooyoung notices he’s checking his phone way too often, probably wondering where his partner is…

Just like Wooyoung is wondering where his San is. 

Not his San. Just San.

Wondering where San is. 

Seonghwa and San promised halfway through the first movie that they wouldn’t be too late, but now that the second movie is winding down and the group is doing more talking and drinking than watching, Wooyoung is still wondering where the roommates are. 

As the final credits roll, everyone disperses for bathroom breaks, refills, and snacks. Wooyoung stays in the living room, taking in the silence while he can. 

He’s having a lot of fun with the guys, it just feels so unfamiliar to be on equal ground with the team of guys he’s been admiring from afar for years. He loves it, though, and everyone else seems to be having just as good of a time as well. 

Wooyoung hears a buzzing just once. He assumes it’s someone else’s phone, his own free of any notifications. 

And then he hears another buzz. And another. And then he hears a whole string of buzzes. 

Wooyoung sees Jongho’s phone on the coffee table vibrating, the contact photo of San filling up the screen. The photo is so charming. In it, the third baseman is in his uniform, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, but he is smiling so big and so bright that it looks like his cheeks could burst. His dimple is carved deep into his cheek, his eyes are aggressive squinty half moons, and his mouth is open mid-laugh. It’s a beautiful photo. He’s jealous Choi Jongho gets to look at it every day. 

The call finally reaches voicemail, the vibrating stopping. 

Wooyoung doesn’t want to be nosy but he reads the notifications that came in before the call. 

captain mountain

We’re outside your door

captain mountain

Let us in?

captain mountain

Please?

Wooyoung bites his lip, a smile taking over his face. Looks like San and Seonghwa have finally made it. 

Wooyoung bounces up off the couch and goes to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open to find two cozy looking roomies in sweatshirts, oversized hoodies, and joggers, grocery bags in hand and tote bags on their shoulders. 

“Oh, hey Wooyoung!” Seonghwa smiles brightly as the photographer opens the door to find them and San side by side. “Thanks for getting the door! How’d you know?”

“Jongho left his phone on the table. I saw the notif, I hope that’s okay?”

San laughs, catching his breath from walking up the stairs. Damn baseball boys always choose the stairs—Seonghwa is just fine. They probably took the elevator. “Yeah, that’s great. If you didn’t see it, I swear we’d be out here all night waiting.”

“Door’s not unlocked this time.”

The callback makes both Wooyoung and San smile.

“No,” San shakes his head with a laugh. “I tried.”

Seonghwa clears their throat and pushes their way into the apartment, kicking off their shoes with a quick, “I’ll give you guys some space,” as they turn into the living room, probably hoping to find Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa’s comment leaves Wooyoung self-aware and flushed, stuttering over himself as he tries to puzzle together the implications and hidden meaning behind Seonghwa’s departure.

So it’s just him and San.

“Oh. Hi. Hey. Uh. Your friends have been wondering where you guys were.”

San smiles and tilts his head. “My friends? They’re your friends, too. And I bet they barely missed me.” A yell comes from the kitchen, San laughing in response. “See. I think they’re more concerned with their beers than my presence.”

Wooyoung rolls his lips inside mouth, biting down on them. Well. Fine. He cared about San’s presence. 

But—wait. They’re your friends, too.

Wooyoung rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, I don’t know about that, Sannie.”

“What part?” He raises his eyebrows. “The friends part?” 

Wooyoung shrugs.

San pushes his way inside the apartment with a roll of his eyes, kicking off his shoes in the entryway. “Jongho talks about you all the time and I think Yunho practically begged for you to be invited tonight. I’m pretty sure they are your friends.”

It’s a shock to Wooyoung. Yeah, he might be spending more time with his roommate than he originally expected, but his roommate’s friends? The baseball team? He’s only seen them in passing, heard of them in mentions. What does San mean Jongho talks about him all the time? 

“If he’s not careful, I think you might replace Mingi as Jongho’s favorite hyung.” 

Wooyoung tries to control his blush, the flattery burning his cheeks red hot. 

“And what about you?”

“Me? Well, I always want to see you, Wooyoung.” San smiles a devastating smile and makes his way to the kitchen where the others are setting up more drinks. They all cheer as San enters the room, various shouts and yells of when did you get here? Or fuck yeah, more beer! (That was actually just Mingi.)

Wooyoung just stands in the entryway. Like a batter stunned by a fastball in the strike zone, Wooyoung is stunned by the quickness of San’s truthfulness and how fast he just disappeared after throwing it his way. 

When they finally reconvene in the living room for movie number three, San takes Yeosang’s spot next to Wooyoung. 

At first Wooyoung is tense, all his limbs kept to himself uncomfortably. But then San spreads his legs and sinks into the couch cushions. Wooyoung relaxes too, but calculates the distance between his thigh and San’s thighs down to the millimeter. Not too close, not too far away. Does Wooyoung want to show San he’s interested? Kinda. Does he want to give into their weird magnetization? Kinda. Does he want to overstep boundaries? Not at all. 

Both San and Wooyoung pretend to pay attention to the movie, but if you asked either of them what the plot is they would be clueless—too concerned with where they are in relation to the other instead. 

As time passes, Wooyoung becomes exhausted from holding his posture so rigidly, so he breathes deeper and releases his muscles. He folds his legs under himself more comfortably, but his knee connects to San’s thigh. The touch is electric, but before Wooyoung can whisper an apology and move away, San’s hand stills him, his palm warm and fingers wrapping the curve of his skin. 

They lock eyes briefly, some silent mutual understanding passing between them. 

San doesn’t move his hand and Wooyoung doesn’t move his leg. 

By movie number four, everyone except Wooyoung and San are drunk, or are on their way to it. 

They’re rowdy, it’s hot in the living room, and San has the tiniest bit of a flush on his neck from his first beer that is definitely warm and unfinished in his right hand. Despite this, there’s a blanket over Wooyoung and San. Their legs are now completely pressed together, and San’s left hand still lays its claim on Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung swears he can feel San’s heartbeat through his fingertips. He swears that they’re in sync, their breathing, their hearts, their bodies—in time with each other. They physically exist in the same room at the same time as all their friends, but yet Wooyoung feels so, so disconnected from everything around him. Everything, and everyone, except for San. 

The evening eventually winds down, Yeosang hiding away in Jongho’s room early, the sleepiest of them all. Seonghwa and Hongjoong call a rideshare, Yunho and Mingi call dibs on Wooyoung's bed.

Wait.

On Wooyoung’s bed?

“What am I supposed to do?” Wooyoung squeaks, looking at his roommate, absolutely at a loss for words. Jongho just laughs and laughs and laughs, too drunk to give a fuck. 

Wooyoung looks at San and San has to turn his face away quickly, his teeth biting into the plush of his bottom lip to suppress his own chuckles. San’s just laughing at Wooyoung’s own expense and Wooyoung hates that he’s endeared by it. 

Wooyoung groans, his body curling inward on San, his forehead pressed against the man’s shoulder, his knees coming to rest in his lap. San’s hand never stops touching, though. He doesn’t let Wooyoung forget for even a minute that they’re connected. 

With no bed, just a couch in his near-future, Wooyoung just shuffles awkwardly around the living room, trying to clean up the mess. San pitches in until it’s all clean, and then he’s ready to leave. Exit. Go downstairs. Drive home.

San’s not drunk, he can drive home just fine. Wooyoung walks him to the door to ensure that. San’s not even tipsy. He poured more than half his can of beer down the drain as they cleaned up. But Wooyoung suggests they take the stairs under the excuse of sobering up. Truthfully, though, Wooyoung just wants to spend more time with San.

It’s dark out. It’s late. Wooyoung offers to walk San outside. Safety in numbers.

The late night crisp January air hits Wooyoung in the face, hard. Almost painful. He didn’t bring a jacket. Why would he? He was just going to walk San to the front door. And then that turned into the stairwell. And then the lobby, and then the front door of the building.

And now Wooyoung is standing next to San. Next to his car. They’re side by side, or more like face to face. There’s a cold breeze, but a warm boy. A chill wracks Wooyoung’s body, but which caused it? Unknown. 

San unzips and shrugs his hoodie off.

Wooyoung watches, confused.

Goosebumps erupt on the surface on Wooyoung’s skin as San steps impossibly closer just to wrap his black hoodie over Wooyoung’s shoulders. 

“But what about—”

“I’m warm enough,” San says, cutting Wooyoung off. His voice is so soft, volume all the way down, his words meant just for Wooyoung. “You don’t like the cold. I want you to wear it.”

Wooyoung swallows and nods dumbly. He sticks his arms through the sleeves. Before he has a chance to, San zips it up for him. 

Silence passes between them. They just… look at each other. Wooyoung has to repeatedly tell himself to not look at Choi San’s lips. Over and over again. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

He looks at the freckles on his neck. The dots by his eyes. He looks at his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his pink cheeks, but not his lips. Don’t look at his lips. 

“Are you going home?” Wooyoung asks, shaky, quiet, barely audible. “Do you want to go home?”

San shakes his head with a tiny no. “Do you wanna go for a drive? With me?”

Wooyoung nods his head with a tiny yes.

San opens the passenger door for Wooyoung before climbing into the driver's side himself. 

Wooyoung has an idea that San has no idea where he’s going to go. Wooyoung doesn’t mind the lack of direction. They are probably thinking the exact same thing… anywhere is good as long as it’s with each other. As they buckle in and the engine starts, San just drums his fingers against the wheel. Wooyoung glances at the baseball player out of the corner of his eye, catching nerves on the captain’s face. 

Wooyoung's heart flutters. He doesn’t care about the destination, the intimacy of a late night drive already charming enough. 

Wooyoung sinks into the seat, into San’s hoodie, the local station on the radio already turned down extremely low. Just background noise. The hum of the engine and the roll of the tires over asphalt lulls Wooyoung into serenity. He doesn’t want to break the silence, and it seems that neither does San. It’s comfortable and cozy, but he’s not sleepy at all. He’s wide awake. 

The clock on San’s dashboard is seven minutes slow. Wooyoung likes it. It’s almost like the physical manifestation of time slowing down when they’re together. He watches each slow, agonizing second as the orange numbers change from 4:10 to 4:11. He had no idea it was this late. Or this early. 

Wooyoung watches out the window, scenery passing in blurs of midnight blue. 

The car slows as the orange numbers creep closer and closer to 4:43. 

San pulls into a little dirt parking lot. A field of grass stretches on as far as the headlights shine in front of them, a pretty mangled chain link fence casting a shadow. Wooyoung finds himself wishing he had his camera. The scenes of the night would’ve fit perfectly into his last exhibit. But this time he doesn’t feel the loneliness in the emptiness. He feels the satisfaction of San alongside him and the warmth of his presence. 

He doesn’t want to forfeit the feeling. 

San cuts the car engine and truly plunges them into silence for the first time all night. 

San did all the work in getting them here, so Wooyoung takes the leap first.

“Do you want to look at the stars? I bet they look so beautiful from out here,” Wooyoung whispers, his hand already hovering over the door handle.

Wooyoung loves stargazing. As he grew up, his bed was placed right next to the window. When he couldn’t sleep, he would roll over and stare out at the window at the lights in the sky. It wasn’t always easy to see them with city smog, light pollution, and clouds… but when he had the chance to see them clearly, they shone as bright as his eyes. The stars have always been Wooyoung’s friend, and he loves introducing them to his important people.

And San just might join that list. 

“I would love to,” San whispers back.

They open their doors and step out of the car at the same time, their doors closing in unison.

Wooyoung looks at San over the roof of his car, biting his lip with the sudden feeling of nervousness, unsure what to do with himself now that he’s broken their bubble. 

San smiles, the reassurance intended or not, and Wooyoung realizes the bubble hasn’t been broken at all. He feels shy, giddy, bashful, euphoric… all the silly adjectives that go along with curled toes, bitten lips, fluttering heartbeats, and digging fingernails into your palms. 

San rounds the car and stops by the hood of his car, sliding himself onto its surface to sit, putting his feet on the front bumper to rest his arms on his knees. He gently pats the space next to him, the spot reserved for Wooyoung.

Recently, every empty space next to San has been specially reserved for Wooyoung.

Wooyoung climbs up and sits next to San, the distance between them almost nonexistent. San slides over just that little bit more to make that tiny gap completely disappear. 

Wooyoung’s heart beats heavy. 

The entire night has felt like one big wild fever dream. What is happening?

The touching, their legs. The car ride. Now stargazing and almost cuddling at almost 5 AM? And it’s all San. San’s initiating. San’s attention is constant. 

It’s crazy. Wooyoung doesn’t know how to explain it.

Does it even need an explanation? Probably?

Is this San’s consent? His vague way of telling Wooyoung he’s equally as interested? Is he interested? Does San even know Wooyoung is interested? It’s dizzying. Wooyoung’s brain feels like a hamster running on its wheel, eternal, exhausted, all this hard work to never reach the end, because the end doesn’t exist. 

But Wooyoung could just ask. Just say something. He has all the power to break the tension, knock over the tower of torment and just tell someone how he feels for once. Plainly. Truthfully. Vulnerably. 

“San—”

“Wooyoung—”

They say each other's names at the same time. They break down into giggles, their shoulders bumping together, their heads almost meeting in the middle; the edges of their hair touch. 

“You first,” San offers, softly.

Wooyoung takes a steadying breath. It’s all or nothing. It’s now or never. “The coffee shop.”

“Yeah?”

His heart races, his palms are sickly sweaty. The hair on the back of his neck stands up because of adrenaline. Fuck, it’s colder outside than he realized. San’s hoodie helps a lot, but the fear in his veins doesn’t. It chills him to the bone.

“Was that a date?”

Time stops. Everything fades into the background. Wooyoung can hear his heartbeat echoing in his skull. It’s like he can hear the blood rushing around. 

“Which time?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “Either. Both?”

“Did you want them to be?”

Wooyoung nods, his heart in his throat, it makes breathing difficult. 

“Good. Because I wanted them to be, too.” 

Warmth.

It’s instant and Wooyoung is flooded with it. He has a thousand things to say all at once and nothing at the same time. 

San wanted them to be dates.

They were dates.

Wooyoung lets out a deep sigh, a tiny sweet laugh trailing after it. He looks at San and he looks so beautiful in the moonlight. San is looking right back at him, the stars reflecting in his eyes. 

“You’re…?” 

San nods. “My friends know… but not the team.” He whispers that last part, looking away. Wooyoung understands. Wooyoung gets it. He knows the shame that secret carries in the sports world—the fear.

“We can figure that out later,” Wooyoung whispers back, and he means it. Right now he wants to focus on San and their revelation. 

Wooyoung gets a chill and burrows deeper into the hoodie San put him in, scooching closer to the baseball player a bit too exaggeratedly, even though they’re already touching, trying to fish for his warmth. San concedes and puts his arm around Wooyoung, pulling him in close.

San’s hand finds his way to Wooyoung’s hair where he runs his fingers through it soothingly. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

Wooyoung bites his lip and chuckles, despite the blush he knows is burning his cheeks. “What? Dent the hood of your car and stare at an empty grass field?”

San pulls at Wooyoung’s hair playfully, causing him to squeal in between his giggles. 

“Shut up,” San mumbles. “I’ve wanted to just… touch you, hold you, have you beside me like this.” 

The sincerity strikes Wooyoung in the heart. He knows exactly what San is talking about. He too yearned for a moment like this. San is warm and solid next to him, over him, around him. He feels safe and secure both in being held and holding right back. San’s touch is electrifying, not only at all the points where their bodies line, but also with his hands on him, finally in a more intimate way. 

It feels absolutely exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. It’s scary and it’s new and Wooyoung can’t believe his wildest dreams are coming true. It’s like it’s almost too good to be true. 

“...In an empty field.”

“Wooyoung!” San whines.

“Sorry! Sorry! I deflect with humor when I’m nervous, I’m sorry.” 

Even though this is something Wooyoung has dreamed about, it’s still difficult to believe that it’s happening. The humor helps when it’s difficult to really and truly sink into his feelings, but Wooyoung wants to feel everything San makes him feel. He wants San to know he feels the exact same. 

“I know it’s hard to see right now, but look over there.” San points to their right, where Wooyoung can just barely make out the chain link fence continuing down. He tries to squint his eyes, see if he can make out any other shapes. The fence almost turns into a cage, one that curls in at the top. It’s an eerily familiar shape, especially one reminiscent of childhood.

“It’s not just grass, you can kind of see the sand down there.”

Wooyoung looks again and San’s right. There is sandy dirt cutting through the grass, straight lines and organized angles. 

It’s a baseball diamond.

They’re sitting in front of a baseball diamond in the middle of nowhere at five in the morning. 

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” San whispers, Wooyoung’s head turning to look back at him as he talks. But San is looking off in the distance, his hand stilling in Wooyoung’s hair as he travels back in time. “I found this field my freshman year. I don’t think it’s abandoned, some local kids use it on the weekends. But I would come out here at night when I was lonely. Or bored. Or when I had a lot in my head and I just needed silence.”

Wooyoung turns his body to face San straight on, taking San’s hand he displaced into his own hands in his lap, his thumb stroking over his knuckles. 

“I would run the bases. In absolute circles… over and over and over again. Until my breathing was short. And then I would go again. I would swing the bat at imaginary pitches until my shoulders hurt, practicing my control, my strength, my core. I would sprint from first to second as fast as possible. Then second to third. I would practice sliding home.”

“San…” Wooyoung whispers, not really sure what to say, but wanting to remind him that he’s there, he’s listening.

“I didn’t want to play baseball in college. Well, I didn’t mind it. But I didn’t want to go to school just to play. And… being gay,” San whispers the word, voice unsteady, “I just wanted to be myself. And It was hard to find who that was in the beginning. So… this was my place.”

“Thank you for bringing me here. Sorry I was—” 

“It’s fine,” San chuckles, cutting him off. He finally turns to look at Wooyoung, eyes shining. “I like when you’re silly. I love how easily you can make me and everyone else around you laugh. You bring heart and warmth to any room you’re in. I wouldn’t want you any other way.” 

Wooyoung opens his mouth, tries to shape his mouth to say words and thoughts, but he just closes it. How can he possibly begin to tell San how much this means to him? How can he even explain how special and how important baseball and being gay, and both at the same time, is to Wooyoung? It makes his skin crawl and bones rattle with chills—and not in a bad way either. In some sort of special, monumental way. 

“Thank you.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough. And San understands. He gets it. He might not know what Wooyoung’s lived through but Wooyoung’s eyes tell a thousand untold stories and San is a great reader.

“Wooyoung,” San whispers on his next exhale.

Wooyoung can feel his breath on his face. His eyes trace San’s features—as well as he can in the moonlight. From strong brows, to soft eyelashes, from rosy cheeks, to his lips. 

He looks at San’s lips. Then back to his eyes. 

Wooyoung watches as San’s eyes drop and come back up. 

Wooyoung bites his lip. He releases it immediately. He knows what’s coming next.

“I’ve said I’ve wanted to do this for so long…”

“Yeah, dent the hood of your car—” he jokes in a whisper, even if his voice has no humor in it. His heart is absolutely hammering in his chest. 

San rolls his eyes, but ultimately ignores him. 

Their faces are getting painfully closer and closer. Wooyoung can even smell San’s breath at this point—faded beer and probably a mint he snuck at one point. 

“But there’s something else I wanna do, too.”

Wooyoung has to remind himself to breathe. 

Just like the clock in the car, time slows down. 

It’s like an out of body experience. Wooyoung watches as San’s hand meets his cheek. He feels his warm palm against his jaw. San tilts him ever so slightly to the right. 

Wooyoung’s eyes fall closed as San’s lips touch his. 

Running the bases, hitting a home run, sliding home, throwing a perfect game—the definition of adrenaline, bliss, euphoria. 

None of that compares to this kiss. 

Wooyoung’s pulse quickens, his heart works overtime, as do his lungs. He feels both hot and cold, a chill wracking his body, a sweat forming on his forehead.

He leans into the kiss, matching San’s softness and then more. 

They connect seamlessly, like they’re cruelly meant to be. They taste each other. They breathe each other. 

They touch each other. San’s hand in Wooyoung’s hair, holding their faces together. Wooyoung’s hands find San’s shoulders, his nails digging in for purchase. 

Wooyoung has to break free to breathe, though. Real oxygen, real air, not the shared stuff between him and San. He doesn’t want to, but he needs to. His chest is heaving, he doesn’t have the endurance San has. But if it’s going to be like this every time—if there will be more times—then he can learn. 

Wooyoung pulls away, gulping down air, his chin tilted up, his lips tingling. The air on his face is frigid, his raw lips and flushed cheeks free from the heat. He opens his eyes and looks at the sky, and what a sight.  

What a moment.

The stars shine above and the moon smiles down. The crickets chirp, the wind sings from them, and the train in the far distance whistles.

Wooyoung lets out a scarily shaky whine, San now on his neck, his lips and tongue claiming him. 

“S-San,” he almost cries. His heart rate has only increased. Who knew stopping a kiss would feel just as good as continuing? 

San finally releases Wooyoung, his forehead heavily resting on Wooyoung’s shoulder, a weight Wooyoung is happy to carry forever. 

Wooyoung can hear San’s equally labored breathing. He’s proud he has the same effect on the baseball player that he has on him. 

“That was—”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung agrees.

Wooyoung sits back slightly, San raises his head.

They look at each other. Their eyes so adjusted to the night time now, they see everything crystal clear. 

Messy, rumpled, wrinkled. Shiny, spitty, swollen. 

It’s impossible for them not to laugh at each other. 

Just to go right back to kissing. 

They finally slide back into San’s car as the sun teases the horizon, black sky fading to dark blue and eventual orange as day starts to break. 

Wooyoung knows he desperately needs sleep, but how can he when his entire body feels awake? His veins are electrified. San steals glances at Wooyoung—flirty, giddy. Wooyoung just stares at San—addicted, infatuated.

San’s hand is on Wooyoung’s leg as he drives this time, almost like it was during the party. This time Wooyoung returns the touch, sneaking his palm underneath so they hold hands. 

They might kiss at a red light or two.

There’s no traffic around for miles anyway. They’re the only two existing in the world at the moment.

San drives Wooyoung back home, right where it all started. With a kiss goodbye and a promise of sleeping well, San drives off into the literal sunrise, leaving Wooyoung to take himself to his apartment alone.

He can’t believe the night he had. He can’t believe the series of events. It feels surreal. Being right back home after all of that feels like a trick, like none of it actually happened. Wooyoung takes the stairs to give himself more time to process everything, but he doesn’t think his building has enough stairs to help him work through this. 

Wooyoung, with butterflies in his throat and knots in his stomach, locks the front door behind him. Everyone in the apartment is asleep. Heck, everyone in the entire building is probably asleep. He wills his breathing to be slow, purposeful, calm. He wills the tears in his eyes to stay. He’s not even sad.

In the middle of the living room, Wooyoung gently unzips the hoodie so tenderly gifted to him. He’s worn it the entire time. It’s a physical reminder of the evening, a souvenir he should’ve returned. San didn’t even ask for it back. Wooyoung didn’t want to give it back. His fingertips mold to the zipper as he slowly pulls it down, the sound echoing in his empty living room. Each click of each notch matches the volume of Wooyoung’s breathing. The moment is too soft to break, so he takes it slow.

Luckily, he can barely hear Mingi’s snoring from down the hall.

Wooyoung slips his arms out, a chill replacing the warmth of the past few hours. 

His fingers brush over the sewn on logo that was over his heart just moments ago. His thumbs tracing the stitches of the patch—a bold white K. It matches the logo that is usually front and center on the baseball team’s uniform and batting helmets.  

Wooyoung squeezes the black hoodie in his hands repeatedly, a few times over, to make sure it’s real, that the cotton is not a trick of the imagination. It’s something he’s never seen before. It’s not merchandise. It’s not a uniform. It’s something made special for San.

And San wanted Wooyoung to keep it. 

Curious, Wooyoung turns the hoodie over in his hands, his breath catching in his throat as he does so, finally discovering, with a skip of his heart, that he wore the declaration of Team Captain on his back, as he kissed the team captain, the entire last few hours. 

As if San proudly claimed him as his own. 

And he has.