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(break me out of myself)

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A day.

A week. 

No message, no call.

His phone’s been on silent since he walked out of contract negotiations just so he’d have the satisfaction of checking it whenever he wanted to, not at the beck and call of a ringtone like a dog that’s been bell-trained, and the glee of manually opening and deleting every text that pissed him off. After that day, it was usually their ex-manager. He contemplated outright blocking him once their ties were officially cut, but there was something deeply satisfying about making sure his read receipts were on before deleting the texts anyway.

It does mean that he has to check his phone manually for everything else, though. Seonghwa’s already given him shit about it, but now that they were all in Seoul and no one was worried about anyone careening off the face of the earth anymore, the nagging’s become more just Seonghwa spamming the group chat at ten in the morning, like he’s hoping he can make San’s phone heat up enough to burn through his pillow and wake him up that way. San hasn’t told him yet that his phone’s not even on vibrate, because he likes catching up on their messages like the morning paper.

But there’s nothing else. It’s absurd how quickly he falls back into old habits, checking his phone compulsively for a familiar number to pop up in the header—the way he used to once, during that irrational time he thought Wooyoung would still know how to find him without a phone number.

It’s worse now. It’s worse because he knows that Wooyoung has it and more, technically everything he needs to find him if he wants. It’s just...a matter of Wooyoung wanting to.

It takes him two days after Wooyoung walked out of his hotel room to turn his ringer back on—four to start compulsively tapping the new message button, five to make it to the last character of Wooyoung’s name in the contact header, and the end of that fifth day to make it halfway through a message too, then erase it all before he can do something stupid like actually send it.

God, why can’t he just do this right? Why can’t he just say what he wants to? It doesn’t even have to be right; he just wants to do something that’s going to feel like it’s enough, that would maybe finally let him breathe and maybe finally get rid of these dreams of Wooyoung, standing in the moonlight, asking him to stay, please stay like a fucking ghost of someone still alive.

does the radio silence mean it went really well or really went to shit? Yeosang asks.

San stares at the message for a minute, soaked from where he left mid-shower to pick up his phone. Then he scoffs. i knew it was weird that he somehow found where i was staying

After his shower, there’s another message.

ya. probably found it after a twitter search and a few pictures of you flipping off the pap

im getting a new best friend. bye

lmao have you even left your room to “get” anything at all

Apparently he’s too slow to deflect, because Yeosang tacks on, i was joking, but have you actually seen the sun recently. go outside before you forget that you’re not a vampire

Drawing in a quiet breath, San exits the message thread and opens the other one he’s left empty for the last few days.

hey. would you want to, he begins, and he stops, because if he invites him over at six in the evening then does that sound like he just wants to fuck?

Not that it would be out of the question, but—

He rubs two knuckles into his eyes hard.

God, how did they make this work before?

He picks his phone back up again. Do you want to get lunch tomorrow? sounds like a completely normal thing to ask someone, right? See, he even remembers not to make it breakfast instead, and if he phrases it like this then it’s a simple yes or no, no implications of him wanting anything else or Wooyoung being obligated to do anything else. He definitely knows he’s not in place to ask for anything else.

He’s finally about to rewrite the question when the typing symbol pops up, but from Wooyoung’s side of the thread.

What the fuck?

It’s too late by now though—his thumb comes down on the first character, and he knows Wooyoung must have seen it because a moment later, the typing symbol disappears.

Oh, fuck. “Oh, goddammit,” he breathes when he realizes too late that Wooyoung would see his typing symbol go away too, and then he’s punching in more nonsense characters just to make sure Wooyoung doesn’t see him stop too, because how would that look? How long has Wooyoung even had this thread open? Christ, did he see San typing earlier too?

His phone screen’s half-filled with gibberish when Wooyoung’s typing symbol pops up again. What the hell? San’s not done. His nails click harshly against the screen as he highlights everything and types as quickly as he can, do you want to get dinner tomorrow?


Wait, wait, fuck, no, it was supposed to be lunch, fuck—

There might be a hysteric sound taking shape in the back of his throat, only kept back by the irrational fear that Wooyoung would hear him somehow. He sees Wooyoung stop typing again, then start, then stop, and San thinks that this is what it’s like to be a door slowly being worked off of its hinges, until finally he thinks, fuck it, and starts typing again.

i didnt mean that in a weird way, he says at the same time Wooyoung says, actually are you hungry rn?


oh, Wooyoung says. A moment later: in what way would that have been weird tho

dunno, San says, even though he suspects Wooyoung knows exactly what way he’s talking about. dinner can be weird. just wanted to make sure u knew it would be normal with normal food

Who the fuck is he anymore? It’s like he doesn’t remember how to talk.

How to talk to Wooyoung, some part of him whispers.

Yeah, yeah, fuck off.

okay, Wooyoung says. well i made normal food, theres just too much of it because my roommates ditched me for a concert, so do you want to have a normal dinner now or do you want to have a normal dinner tomorrow specifically

both? San offers. what are u making

The typing symbol dances on the screen for a solid minute.

tough question? San says.

shut up, Wooyoung replies almost instantaneously. come find out


- ♮ -


It seems like a good idea until it doesn’t—all throughout the time it takes to throw on a dark, ratty denim jacket over sweats and tug on a face mask, to make a quiet exit through the smaller side entrance of the hotel, to drive the car that no one except him knows he owns to the address Hongjoong had given him weeks ago, up until he’s standing in front of Wooyoung’s door and thinking that maybe this is a really stupid idea, that maybe all of it, coming back to Seoul and coming back to find Wooyoung, was one incredibly idiotic idea. It’s definitely not the first time he’s thought it, and it seems more and more convincing every single time, but then—

But then Wooyoung opens the door, and he’s there. He’s there.

He’s there and he’s real and he’s fucking— He’s wearing an offensively green shirt hanging too big over blue plaid pajama pants, dark hair a little mussed like he’s been rifling his hands through it all night, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip that way San knows he does when he’s thinking of something that he really wants to think out loud, and San wants to kiss him as viscerally as he wanted to five days ago, five months ago, five years ago.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Wooyoung says.

He takes his lip ring between his teeth, nibbling at it absently. Wooyoung hasn’t moved yet. “So are we eating whatever you made out here, or?”

He watches Wooyoung’s gaze flick downwards for a second before meeting his again, and for a moment, it occurs to him that he might not be the only one feeling so— about it. 

Then Wooyoung finally steps back, opening the door for him. “I was just testing if you were a vampire,” he says.

“Not a vampire,” San allows, his mouth twitching, and he steps inside to prove it.

He’s seen flashes of the apartment from the few times he’d come by with Hongjoong, and that first night Jongho opened the door instead, but it’s nothing compared to seeing it in person. It’s lived-in. There’s a small kitchen to the right with green tile and hanging lights, the counters full with a coffee machine and a spice rack and a pile of mail. A few more papers hang over the fridge by alphabet magnets, and there’s a coffee maker and a blender fighting for space on the counter next to it. There’s a frying pan in the drying rack by the sink.

The dining table has four wooden chairs, with two plastic chairs that look like they’ve been haphazardly pulled up, maybe from a time the others were here—that’s that obscure cereal brand that Yunho loves so much sitting on top of the fridge, after all—and it makes his gut twist with something he can’t put a name to.

The living room is barely bigger than the kitchen, most of the space taken up by a worn maroon couch and a mismatched brown leather armchair. A low coffee table. A TV set, the shelves hopelessly tangled with controller wires. Two racks of DVDs and CDs on the wall, a dark, wooden bookcase with the second shelf starting to tilt, filled to the brim with books and albums.

Potted plants, a little wilted. A statuette of a lion on the topmost shelf. A picture of what looks like Jongho at graduation. Another picture, this one in a considerably more ornate frame, of what looks like Wooyoung covered in cake, Mingi flashing him bunny ears from right next to him.

“I know it’s a mess,” Wooyoung mutters.

San forces himself to look away from the shelf, realizing that he’d been staring. “It’s not,” he says as he shrugs his jacket off, and he’s being honest. “It’s better than my place.”

“You don’t have to be polite about it,” says Wooyoung. “Sorry it’s not like what you used to come over to.”

San mulls over that. Does Wooyoung think he only ever came over for his fancy floors? “We don’t have to whisper because your parents might overhear us, do we?”

Wooyoung frowns, looking puzzled, and shakes his head.

“Then it’s already better than your place ever was too.” San shrugs. “You wanna show me what you made now?”

“So you’re still a horrible houseguest,” he hears Wooyoung huff as he turns to the kitchen, and San smiles to himself and follows him there.

It’s nothing like what he’s used to seeing from Wooyoung, yeah, but all of this is better, better than where San had hoped Wooyoung would be. The way Wooyoung is walking around barefoot, either unaware or not caring that there’s a part of his shirt caught in the waistband of his pajamas pants, and the way the worn material of his shirt gets bunched up when he puts his hand on his hip to peer at something on the stovetop—it fills San with a strange relief to see, like good, like I’m happy you look happy, like you made it out too.

“Where do you keep your plates?” he says, draping his jacket over the back of a chair.

“Oh, no,” Wooyoung says without turning around. “I remember when you set something on fire just getting chopsticks out. Sit and I’ll bring you a plate.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that wasn’t my fault? That’s just what happens when wooden chopsticks are near a fire.”

“Yeah, and it happens a lot easier when they’re dipped straight into the fire, you pyromaniac.” Wooyoung turns around with what looks like a plate of gochujang noodles, even though he’s carrying a pair of forks, and he pauses and squints at San. “What? What’s that look for?”

“I missed you,” San says.

Wooyoung sets the plate down in front of him, then another in front of the empty seat adjacent to him, and finally he lingers with his hands on the back of the chair. San watches his jaw work. “You don’t have to say things like that. I already invited you here.”

He frowns. “Would I only say it to get you to invite me here?”

“I don’t know.” Now Wooyoung’s frowning too, like the question makes him unhappy but he’s not sure why he asked that too. “I just— I didn’t mean this in a weird way either. It’s just food. I wasn’t looking for anything from you.”

“I know, Wooyoung,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t telling you because I was looking for anything either, okay? I meant what I said, that I’m not ready for... anything more, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you or that I can’t miss you.”

“I know. Yeah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply any of that, it’s just...” Wooyoung exhales, before pulling out the chair and finally taking a seat. San watches him pick up his fork and say, all without looking at him, “It’s been a long week and I’ve been overthinking. Ignore me.”

“I was overthinking it too,” San says, because it’s all he can think to say. He wishes he was better at this. “I didn’t think it was weird, okay? And even if it was, we both knew it wouldn’t go back to normal after just a couple of days, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yep, we said that, and that was so responsible of us. Sometimes my brain just tries to eat itself, I think.” Wooyoung sighs and makes a face at his food. It’s one of those things he does that makes San want to— 

He picks up his fork too, squeezes it between his fingers tight as an outlet. “I happen to like your brain,” he says, “so don’t let it commit cannibalism yet.”

Wooyoung shudders. “Ew, let’s not talk about that when we’re eating.”

“Baby, you brought it up first.”

He practically sees the moment Wooyoung short circuits, and it would be endearing if he isn’t suddenly terrified that he went too far, but Wooyoung seems to recover, just with a faint pink stain to his cheeks. “Okay, let’s just eat then,” he mumbles.

“Eat,” San agrees, exhaling quietly in relief. “And tell me what I’m eating because this doesn’t smell familiar.” He kicks his foot under the table, reassured when Wooyoung kicks his shin back. “But if you really do want me to leave, it’s okay, just s—”

“No, you’re going to stay.” For a second, he thinks Wooyoung’s going to threaten to kill him for saying that again, but Wooyoung just sighs and his shoulders slump, and now he’s got awful posture, both elbows on the table and his chin nearly touching his plate as he watches his fork swirl around and around the noodles. “It’s spaghetti.”

“I thought you promised me normal food,” San observes, poking at it.

“Didn’t your tour have a leg in the US last year? You didn’t have any of this back there?”

“You kept up with the tour?”

Wooyoung looks up, faintly resembling a deer caught in headlights. God, he really makes San want to— 

He shoves a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, watching Wooyoung seeming to struggle with something.

“You know that Mingi’s, like, your number one fan, right?” Wooyoung finally says as he starts to eat too. “He never shuts up about your band. I feel like I’ve absorbed your astrology chart through osmosis.”

“Hongjoong-hyung said you didn’t even recognize Yunho or Yeosang, though.”

“Well, I said I knew your astrology chart, not what you looked like after five years.”

“Mm. If you say so.” The spaghetti, actually, doesn’t taste terrible. He didn’t know Wooyoung could cook. He wonders if it’s always been there or if it’s one of the things he’s missed out on, and then he’s wondering if Wooyoung ever wonders the same things about him too, and how much of an asshole it makes him to hope that he does. “The purple’s new, though,” he offers, waving his hand vaguely. “I went pink to piss off my ex-manager, but pink was gonna make it pretty hard to blend in if I was gonna come back here, so I tried to tone it down.”

“So was that something you planned out for a while, then?” Wooyoung says. “Dyeing your hair purple so you can come back here?”

There’s a “no” on the tip of San’s tongue straightaway, but he hesitates. No more running away, Wooyoung had said that morning. They hadn’t said no more lying, but maybe this is a way of standing his ground too, and he doesn’t want to just not lie, he wants to start telling the truth. “Not really,” he says then. He hesitates, and then he continues, “I was drunk and I wanted to come home, so I bought a plane ticket. Then I was sober again and I still wanted to come home, so I went and boarded the flight.”

Wooyoung glances at him. “I think that’s the only time I’ve ever heard you call Seoul ‘home,’” he muses.

It isn’t about Seoul, but San doesn’t know how to say that. “And what about you, Wooyoung-ssi? Anything you’ve been planning for a while?”

“Don’t ‘Wooyoung-ssi’ me when I’ve had your dick up my ass.”

Startled, San ends up coughing around a mouthful of pasta, and Wooyoung is immediately there clapping his back with a concerned, “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Yep,” San gets out through watery eyes, and Wooyoung says, “You shit, you’re laughing when I thought I was gonna have to do the Heimlich on you.”

“Sorry, Youngie,” San says, which somehow flusters Wooyoung more than admitting to having his dick up his ass, and there it is again, that urge to fold Wooyoung into his arms and keep him there for as long as he can. “Just can’t get over it. You’re so different now, but you’re also somehow the same.”

“I’m the same I’ve always been,” Wooyoung grumbles. “I’m just around different people now.” 

San smiles a little. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And I’m happy about that.”

Maybe he says it wrong, because Wooyoung bites his pretty lip and sneaks him a suspicious glance. “This is so weird.”

Weird? San raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You. You being all...mysterious and brooding and asking about my plans, like what? You haven’t even said anything about the ugliest thing I’m wearing,” Wooyoung says, waving his fork around and sounding exasperated. “I mean, the mystery and brooding aren’t new, but you’re being so— I don’t know, why are you being so nice to me?”

Wooyoung’s outfit is an eyesore, but it’s Wooyoung, which means San can’t really look away anyway. “I didn’t know you wanted me to be mean to you when we aren’t fucking too,” he says with a quirk of his mouth. 

“Shut up,” Wooyoung says. He’s red, and San has to clench his fork to keep himself from doing something impulsive again. “You know what I mean. You sound like you’re the older kid who got out and then came back to share your wisdom with me or whatever, and that’s weird. You’re supposed to be just as confused about everything as me, it’s not fair.”

“Well, I’m still confused about some stuff, but maybe I figured some of it out too,” he replies, purposefully as vague as possible, and he’s thoroughly amused by how worked up Wooyoung looks about this. “Does this mean you should really be calling me hyung now?”

Wooyoung groans and starts dragging his hand down his face. “You are so missing the point.”

It can’t be helped anymore. San turns in his chair and reaches for Wooyoung’s forearm, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s really missed him until he’s finally coaxed Wooyoung into his lap and every bit of him is singing in relief at the contact, how much warmer and realer Wooyoung feels when he's within the circle of San's arms. “Okay, I’m sorry, baby,” he says, petting Wooyoung’s hips until Wooyoung stops rubbing at his poor, reddening cheek like that. “I won’t ask weird things like what your plans are for the week.”

“See, that’s not a weird question at all, but that’s not what you asked me. You were, like, do I have any plans in general. I haven’t been asked anything that existential since I was a uni student.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t ask weird things that’ll put you into an existential crisis,” San soothes. Wooyoung just huffs at him, but San still feels like cardboard that’s been sopped in rainwater the way only Wooyoung can apparently make him feel, and he settles a hand over the back of Wooyoung’s neck until Wooyoung stops fidgeting. San bites back a smile. Yeah, Wooyoung’s still the same, and San wants to— “Can I ask what your plans are for the week?”

“You don’t have to ask if you can ask, you can just ask, weirdo,” Wooyoung says.

San lands a light swat on his thigh. “Is that any way to talk to your hyung?”

“Please shut up,” Wooyoung says, but he’s blushing so pretty. “I’m back to teaching at the studio again, then I think Mingi wanted me and Jongho to go out for karaoke with him, Hongjoong, and maybe Yunho this Friday? It was one of your friends, I don’t remember.”

San’s distracted by how familiar that sounds for a moment. “You mean that club they were going to?”

Wooyoung blinks, apparently just as surprised that they both know about it. “Maybe? I swear Mingi said karaoke.”

“No, it’s definitely a club.” San flattens his mouth into a line. “Yunho made the address the name of our group chat and he’s been trying to convince us all to go by telling us how fun it is to get drunk with Mingi.”

Wooyoung pauses just long enough for San to start wondering if them going to a club instead puts him off, but then he sighs, “Mingi is fun to get drunk with. So did he invite you already too? Do you want to come?”

San lingers on the implication that if he hasn’t been invited, then Wooyoung is inviting him now. He’s not opposed to it, God knows he’s been meaning to actually get to know Jongho and Mingi somewhere that isn’t just their doorway, but— “If we’re going to a club, sure,” he says. “I don’t really do well with the karaoke scene.”

Wooyoung tilts his head. For a moment, San thinks he might ask about it, what it means when San used to sing for him so often, in the quiet of his room, but thankfully Wooyoung seems to drop it for now. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention when they asked me, so you’re probably right about the club.”

“Mm.” He rubs at the material of Wooyoung’s shirt absently. He tugs out that part of it he’d seen tucked in, smoothing the hem out. “I guess my next problem is that I don’t have anything to wear.”

“What? You don’t have anything to wear?” Wooyoung makes a disbelieving noise. “What about what you were wearing last week?”

“Which last week? I don’t think the bar would take me in a towel.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “I meant that time you waited six hours for me to get off of work.”

“Four hours.”

“You’re saying that like it makes it less worse, but it really doesn’t. What was wrong with that outfit though?”

He tongues thoughtfully at his piercing again. “It’s, like, the only outfit I own for going out?”

“Oh my god. Is that why Yeosang mentioned you haven’t gone out all week?”

That fucking traitor. “I left most of my shit in my place at Incheon. Didn’t really know how long I’d be staying here, so I figured I’d just buy whatever I didn’t have.”

“Oh my god. Rich people.”

He pinches Wooyoung again just as Wooyoung starts trying to clamber out of his lap, and Wooyoung yelps and swats him on the wrist. “You were rich people too,” San reminds him with a click of his tongue.

“Yeah, and I’m working two jobs now, so now I appreciate not impulse shopping more, okay.”

San frowns. “Two jobs? I thought you were just hanging around Hongjoong’s shop because you were friends. If you need help—”

“Oh, nope,” Wooyoung says, wiggling out of his lap completely now to reach for his dirty plate. “Nope, we’re not getting into that.”

“But I’m serious, Youngie.”

“I’m serious too! It’s fine, I made that sound way more dramatic than it really was. You do need more clothes if you plan to go more than two places per week, though, so you should get on that before we go.”

“I’ll go tomorrow,” San says dismissively. He still isn’t finished with that other subject, but he’s already feeling the ache of Wooyoung’s absence, so he sighs and says, “I won’t mention rich people again either, so can you come back?”

Wooyoung puts a hand on his hip. “Ask nicely.”

San tugs him back down, swiftly taking the plate from his hands and setting it back on the table.

“You have a thing for this,” Wooyoung accuses.

“Isn’t that my line?” San says mildly, cupping his cheek. For all Wooyoung barks, sometimes he barely bites when San has him the right way, so easy for San to push around.

Like now. Wooyoung licks his lips like he does before he’s about to test him, then turns his face out of his hand. San doesn’t let him get too far before cupping his jaw again and tilting him back to face him, watching Wooyoung’s gaze flicker downwards.

San can’t even feel smug about it, because he’s been looking at his own mouth the whole night too. God, has it always been this bad? How did he spend all of that time being so close to him without losing his goddamn mind before?

“Young-ah,” he says, waiting for Wooyoung’s eyes to drift up and meet his again. “Can I kiss you?”

Wooyoung blushes. San doesn’t think he’s ever seen him blush this much, not even at their worst times years ago, and he thinks it’s going to make him go insane sooner or later if Wooyoung says no now, but like a miracle, Wooyoung mutters, “You don’t have to ask before that either, dummy.”

“What did I say about being polite when talking to your—”

Wooyoung cuts him off by yanking the front of his shirt into his hands. “Just kiss me.”

San kisses him, and in it, he exhales a breath that he thinks he’s been holding all week. Wooyoung is an even better kisser now—he’s always been San’s favorite to kiss, but there’s a new confidence to him that he doesn’t remember five years ago, cushioned by a familiar pliantness when San inevitably deepens it. The thought that Wooyoung might be better now because he’s kissed other people makes him taste vinegar, and he slides his arm around Wooyoung’s lower back and pulls him closer to kiss it all out of him.

Wooyoung doesn’t seem fazed about kissing him with a piercing either, but before his thoughts can be derailed by the implications of that, Wooyoung slides his hands into his hair and sighs into his mouth, wiping out every rational thought from his mind. San doesn’t know how he does that, how he can sound like a goddamn siren’s call in his own right without even saying a word, and if he even knows he does it. 

“This doesn’t feel like ‘normal dinner’ anymore,” he hears Wooyoung say faintly.

San draws back, nibbling at his lip ring in the absence of Wooyoung’s soft mouth. Wooyoung’s a fucking sight like this, eyes dark and lips flushed and parted. Sometimes he makes San want to just— “Do you want to stop?” he murmurs.

After a moment’s pause, Wooyoung says, “No.” His fingers smooth once more through San’s hair again, and San can feel him linger at the end, playing with the strands, and he’s so fucking— God.  

“All right,” San says. “You kiss me this time.”

He’s starting to be less afraid of the response from Wooyoung now. Wooyoung’s features remain unchanged, if not a little arch, like he’s considering saying no just for show. 

Wooyoung kisses him this time, and this time San welcomes him eagerly, wasting no time plying his mouth open. 

He thinks he’s trying to make up for what they’ve lost. Five fucking years. He’s dizzy with it, how much he’s missed out on because he was so stubborn. Wooyoung was right, he doesn’t regret leaving, he just regrets how he did. Maybe they would still be in the same place they are now, but at least he wouldn’t have this five-year cavity anymore. At least he wouldn’t have spent every show searching the faces in the crowd, wondering if he’d ever find Wooyoung there one day, because maybe he would have never felt like he lost him. 

Wooyoung lets him slide his hands up his shirt. Wooyoung lets him kiss down his jaw, down his neck, lets him leave all the marks he likes. He feels Wooyoung shiver at them, and he tries to hold him closer to make up for it, tries to splay his hands over as much of his back as he can to shield him, but Wooyoung doesn’t once say anything about it. It’s only when San’s hand skims the waistband of his pants that he whispers, “Not here, we have to go to my room.”

San carries him there, making sure he’s secure before he starts moving. Wooyoung takes his turn mouthing at his neck, but as soon as they’re in his room and San nudges the door shut behind them, he’s cradling San’s face with both hands and pressing their lips together instead.

Wooyoung holds him like he’s afraid of letting go—or he’s afraid of being let go of.

San feels cruel. Please don't give up on me, he tries to promise with every kiss, Please wait for me. I promise you I'll love you the way you deserve to be.

When he feels Wooyoung pawing at his waistband, he slows him. “Are you sure?” he murmurs.

“I’m sure,” Wooyoung says.

He lets San kiss him lower and lower. He lets San take him into his mouth, and he lets San in, opening up to him every step of the way so easily, and he lets San press him down into the mattress and swallow down his cries when San wraps a hand around him too. It’s softer-edged this time, despite the wantwantwant that always claws him up inside when he has Wooyoung like this.

When Wooyoung cums, San settles between his legs and licks at him, coaxes him open on his tongue again and cleans him out, and Wooyoung lies there and trembles from the oversensitivity but lets him do that too. And when the air’s heavy with sweat and sex and everything San wishes he could just say, Wooyoung asks, “Do you have to go?”

Do you have to go, he says, not will you stay, and San is afraid that Wooyoung would let him leave too without so much as a complaint.

“S’okay if you do,” Wooyoung murmurs, fingers dancing over his cheeks. “Just wanted to see you tomorrow, too. If you want.”

“I want to if you want to.” San catches one of his hands and squeezes. Wooyoung’s always gorgeous, but he’s especially gorgeous when he’s spread out beneath San like this, dark hair fanning out on baby blue sheets, covered in his marks. “Dinner again? I’ll take you out somewhere this time. I’ll wear the nice new clothes I’ll buy.”

“Don’t have to,” Wooyoung says sleepily, already closing his eyes. “We can go to your place instead? I’ll make you something. Maybe we can grab groceries too so you’ll have something in that fridge that isn’t alcohol and gum. Why the fuck are you refrigerating gum?”

“I’m trying to spoil you and you’re trying to cook for me,” San says, ignoring the rest. He gets a hand in his face for that.

“You can spoil me by letting me cook for you,” Wooyoung deadpans without opening his eyes. 

“I didn’t eat you out well enough if you can still argue with me,” San says, sliding a hand beneath his thigh and getting ready to push it up again, and Wooyoung’s eyes fly back open as he squeaks and hurries to clamp them shut.

“San,” he whines when San sneaks a hand down there anyway, circling two fingers over his soft, stretched rim. He shivers when San slips them in, and San can feel his thighs shaking, but he keeps them spread open for him anyway, and he’s being so good that San wants to finger him through a few more orgasms.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he huffs into Wooyoung’s neck, scraping his teeth over a particularly severe hickey he left earlier. “I've been thinking about you all week. I hate leaving you empty.”

“Then why’d you eat me out, asshole,” Wooyoung hisses.

“That’s not the only thing I could fill you up with.” San tuts, languidly pushing in a third finger with the rest, and Wooyoung mewls at it. San loves making him do that. “If you won’t let me spoil you with food, I’m buying you a plug.”

“No you’re not,” Wooyoung says, panting, arching off the bed when San brushes over his prostate. San takes one of his nipples into his mouth just to feel that wet heat clench around him. “Not without me, ah, picking it out.”

San groans, hooking his fingers harder into that abused bundle of nerves until Wooyoung cries out. “Fine with me, baby. You can pick out anything you like.”

He ends up back between Wooyoung’s thighs after all, hooking them firmly over his shoulders so Wooyoung can’t go anywhere until San tonguefucks him into a shaking second orgasm. By the time San replaces his tongue with his fingers again and crawls back up to kiss him, his cheeks are wet with tears, eyes glazed over like he’s not really seeing San anymore.

“Such a good look on you,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of his gasping mouth, trying to commit this sight into his memory. “Wanna keep you like this all the time. I’d treat you so fucking well, Youngie.”

Wooyoung fumbles for his shoulders, and San goes, bracing himself low on his forearms so Wooyoung can hide his face into his neck. He’s adorable, San thinks.

“Can you stay,” Wooyoung rasps, finally. It's how San likes him, floating far enough above his own mind to ask for what he wants without getting caught in the thornbush of overthinking.

He tries to silently run through all the things he has to do tomorrow, but it’s half-hearted when Wooyoung keeps clenching around his fingers and when he knows he’s never going to deny Wooyoung asking him to stay again. “I can do that,” he promises. 

He wants to get back between his legs, but both his wrist and his jaw are starting to ache, and he kind of hates that when Wooyoung deserves to be made to feel good all night. Maybe if Wooyoung decides to go out with him tomorrow, he thinks, they can find a solution for that together. Maybe if Wooyoung lets him borrow something from his closet too, no one will glance twice in his direction. Maybe he can have a day to himself, and maybe he can have it with Wooyoung.

He nuzzles against Wooyoung’s temple. “Baby. You wanna come with me tomorrow?”

He can still feel Wooyoung twitching around him, but he sees that his eyes have fluttered shut, lashes clumped with the remains of his tears. San bites back his sigh so he won’t wake him and kisses the backs of his eyelids, one by one, before carefully pulling his fingers out and settling him more comfortably into the pillows. San lowers himself down next to him, coaxing Wooyoung’s leg to hike over his hip so he can stroke his thigh soothingly.

He’ll ask again when Wooyoung wakes tomorrow.