When Wooyoung slammed it shut, the apartment door virtually tore itself off its hinges. He kicked his boots off; they landed with a satisfactory thud near the coffee table. Their living room had been struck by a hurricane. Everywhere takeout boxes, empty soju bottles positioned like soldiers, and the couch buried beneath what seemed like a costume store explosion.
"Jesus, you look horrible."
Still clothed to kill from his late show, Seonghwa emerged from the kitchen. With his heels and gravity-defying hair, he looked perfectly faultless at three in the morning. Which made Wooyoung feel like still more of a catastrophe.
Wooyoung face-planted on the couch, landing on something glittery that might've been a bra. Missed calls, texts from Yeosang on his phone started buzzing right away.
Yeosang: bish , where did you vanish??
Yeosang: saw you go with Mr. Choi 👀 GET ITT
Yeosang, you doing okay? You left , looking strange tho.
The lie just rolled off his fingertips.
Wooyoung: merely another workaholic affluent jerk, not worth my time.
Yeosang: NOOOO the pretty ones always disappoint
Yeosang: at least tell me he paid well.
Yeosang: But genuinely, are you certain you are okay?
*Yeah, simply weary. Crash time. love u slut*
He threw the phone aside and pressed his hands against his eyes till he saw stars. San's flavor continued to cling on his tongue,delicate in a manner that made his chest feel tight and peculiar.
Seonghwa said, descending into the armchair and starting his nightly routine of removing his false lashes,"So what really happened?" And don't feed me that "boring rich guy" crap. You have been touching your mouth for the last five minutes. "
Wooyoung's hand came to a halt halfway toward his lips. Fuck. He had not even noticed it.
"It's nothing."
"Honey, I've watched you deal with politicians, sugar daddies, and that creep who wanted you to cosplay his dead wife. Nothing gets to you." Seonghwa gently removed another lash. You don't have to tear yourself apart just to feel desired. Some of us discovered that lesson the tough route. "
The truth was that it had not sensed tearing apart. It seemed like something else altogether. Being kissed like he mattered, not like he was merely another gorgeous face to fuck and forget.
Early on, Wooyoung realized sex was only commerce. His body was money—the only item he owned that people truly desired. Each touch, moan, flutter of his lashes was computed. He had fashioned himself into a weapon. Sharp, lovely, totally in control.
San, meanwhile, had kissed him as though he were constructed of glass. Like he merited protection.
It frightened him to hell.
"I should shower," Wooyoung murmured, pulling himself from the sofa and passing a pile of wigs. "I stink of sweaty bodies and expensive cologne."
He flinched when he saw himself in the mirror in the bathroom. His hair was messed, his makeup was smudged, and something in his eyes he did not understand. Something basic.
He looked like the terrified youngster he used to be before he learnt to hide behind silk and manner.
His fingers caressed his lower lip, reminiscing how San had touched him—as though it had more significance than mere foreplay.
"Fuck," he murmured, and cranked the shower as hot as it would go.
---
San's workplace reminded him of a jail cell. Almost an hour he had been looking at the same financial statement, but the statistics could as well have been hieroglyphics. His brain kept returning to dark eyes and that brilliant mouth, the manner Wooyoung had gone soft against him before flashing back to sharp-edged resistance.
A single kiss. One goddamn kiss and the brat had destroyed his focus totally.
His thumb had found its way to Instagram, somehow his phone was on the desk. Less expensive but more flamboyant than last night's location, some clubs across town. The sort of place where lovely troublemakers might obtain extra work.
"Sir?" Standing in the doorway, his assistant looked properly concerned, which on Jung Jaehyun signified one eyebrow raised and tightly shut lips.
Jaehyun encouraged, "The Min's contract?" You were to have reviewed them an hour ago." San flipped his phone face-down, but too late. Jaehyun had surely seen enough to realize his boss was preoccupied by something utterly unprofessional.
"Is everything right? You have been...silent today."
Quiet. Sure, that was one way to put it. San had spent the morning ping-ponging between anger and confusion, trying to figure out what the hell had happened in that VIP room and why he couldn't stop thinking about it.
The youngster was trouble. Utter mayhem sealed in a beautiful package. San had worked his ass off to establish his business, his reputation. He couldn't afford to get involved with someone like that.
He had to forget Wooyoung existed.
"Clear my schedule tonight," San said suddenly.
"Sir, you have the board dinner..."
"Cancel it. I'm going home."
But even as he said it, San knew he was lying. The last thing he wanted was to sit alone in his sterile apartment with nothing but whiskey and memories that got more vivid by the hour.
"Actually," he heard himself saying, "what was that thing tonight? Hongjoong's art show?"
"The gallery opening, sir. You declined last week."
"Call him. Tell him I changed my mind."
Jaehyun's surprise was barely hidden, but he nodded. "Should I arrange transport?"
"I'll drive."
San left the office in a haze of self-hatred and anticipation. He told himself he was just being a good friend, that it had absolutely nothing to do with the desperate hope that he might see those dark eyes again.
He was getting really good at lying to himself.
---
Wooyoung anticipated the gallery opening—white walls, ostentatious art, and plenty of champagne to float a sailboat. He moved with polished grace through the throng, silver tray balanced just perfectly, professional smile glued in place.
Desperate was the catering job. Three days hence rent was due; his pride could only go so far. The pay was adequate; the job was simple; it beat sitting at home sinking in ideas he couldn't afford.
As he was replacing glasses close to some abstract sculpture, he saw a well-known face near the door. He held his breath.
San appeared to desire literally any place else. He stood stiffly next to Hongjoong, nodding at whatever animated tale his friend was narrating but evidently not hearing a word. His eyes darted over the space continuously; when they fell on Wooyoung, he froze altogether.
For one beat, their gaze crossed the crammed room. San then turned away purposefully with an empty expression.
The firing shook like a slap. Wooyoung's face was red with heat, half embarrassment, half pure fury.
So that's how it would be .
The great Choi San was too important to even acknowledge his existence.
Fine. Two could play that game.
Wooyoung grabbed a fresh bottle of champagne and started working the crowd, making sure to stay just inside San's line of sight. He laughed too loud at guests' shitty jokes, leaned in too close when taking orders, let his fingers linger when passing drinks.
Every few minutes, he caught San stealing glances, only to look away the second their eyes might meet.
The cat-and-mouse thing went on for an hour. San moved from group to group, but somehow always ended up on whichever side of the gallery Wooyoung wasn't working.
When Wooyoung hit the east wall, San found urgent business by the entrance. When Wooyoung circulated near the bar, San suddenly became fascinated by sculptures in the back corner.
It would've been funny if it wasn't so goddamn infuriating.
Finally, Wooyoung had enough. He cornered San near the champagne station, appearing at his elbow like a beautiful predator.
"Champagne?" he asked, voice honey-sweet and completely professional.
San's shoulders went rigid, but he didn't turn around. "I'm fine."
Wooyoung advanced closer, near enough that his voice would reach only to Sans ears. "Are you? Either you're on medicine or you're trying really hard to stay sober around me."
That had an impact. San clench his jaw and at last turned to confront him. Though his face was deliberately blank, Wooyoung saw in those black eyes a flicker of something risky.
I'm not sure what you're implying.
"I am stating facts; I am not suggesting anything." Wooyoung's grin could have sliced diamonds. "You've been running away from me all night like I've got the plague."
"Perhaps I just don't like being backed in by hostile people."
The words were meant to offend, and they succeeded their target. Wooyoung felt his professional mask slip for just a second, long enough for San to glimpse real pain under the demeanour.
Then the armor returned into place, more forcefully than it had before.
Taking a slow step back, Wooyoung said, "Don't worry; I won't climb into your lap this time. Wouldn't want to harm your valuable reputation."
He turned and left, chin up, back straight, without expecting a response. As he put down his tray, though, his hands were trembling and something cold settled in his breast.
San stood motionless behind him, gazing Wooyoung disappear into the crowd at the champagne station. His bourbon had the flavor of disappointment.
He told himself this was exactly what he craved—distance, limits, a return to his strictly regulated existence. But something that felt eerily like regret twisted in his stomach as he watched Wooyoung delight other visitors with that same brilliant grin.
Twenty minutes later, San left, driving home down deserted streets with Wooyoung's pain resonating in his head. He got his wish.
Why, then did winning felt so much like losing?