Chapter Text
November 1982
In a perfect world, Hongjoong would’ve been a singer. He would’ve worn all black, paired it with chrome occult jewelry and heeled boots. Would’ve put new wave on the map years before Elvis Costello ever thought to pick up a guitar.
But it wasn’t a perfect world, and money wasn’t going to invest itself. So he’d gone with plan B.
His dress shoes clicked against the uneven bricks of Acorn Street as he headed toward the Common. He pulled his Walkman from his suit jacket, rewinding the cassette. Psycho Killer played again.
Hongjoong had been listening to it on repeat all day. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but he didn’t really care.
He passed the disgusting mud pit the city generously called the Frog Pond right as the good part started. Apparently it used to be a real pond, named so because starving soldiers had resorted to scooping frogs out of it to survive during the Revolutionary War.
Could be worse, he thought.
A right onto Federal, then up to the First National Bank Building—no, the Bank of Boston Building now. They said the rebrand was to modernize, but Hongjoong knew it was because of that lawsuit. First National Bank v. Bellotti.
At the time, he didn't know banks had rights. Now he did.
“Morning, Hongjoong,” said a handsome, broad-shouldered man in a tailored gray suit as he entered the building.
“Morning, San,” he replied.
Hongjoong didn’t have any friends. But if he did, San would probably be one of them.
“Doing anything for your birthday this weekend?” San asked casually as they walked to the elevator vestibule.
Hongjoong flushed. He hadn’t expected anyone to remember.
“Probably just a quiet evening at home,” he said, pressing the button for the twenty-sixth floor.
“Isn’t it your fortieth?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, you only turn forty once,” San said. “Let me take you out.”
Hongjoong sighed. “San–”
“Two days’ notice, isn’t that what you need?” San cut in firmly. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30.” He stepped off the elevator with a wave before Hongjoong could argue.
Hongjoong grimaced. He’d been looking forward to spending the weekend drinking alone.
He continued to the other end of the hall, stepping into his corner office, a sleek glass box filled with plants that really belonged to his executive assistant, Mingi. His desk was the size of a compact car, though the synthetic mahogany was barely visible beneath stacks of thick binders, client portfolios, and financial reports.
Officially, Hongjoong was an investment banking SVP. Unofficially, he was a glorified errand boy for conglomerates, coordinating deals the way Mingi coordinated his calendar. Ironic, really. The higher he climbed, the less he seemed to actually do.
The day dragged on, as they all did. By some cruel twist of fate, his days felt eternal, while the years passed like pages in a glossy magazine. Quick, shallow, suddenly irrelevant.
And just like that, he was forty.
His youth had slipped through his fingers like sand, which had then melted into glass. Memories of his twenties in the 1960s, soft summers of love now sharp against his feet.
He was on a call when Mingi knocked on the door, holding up a small paper bag with a crooked grin. Lunch, he mouthed. Hongjoong flashed him a smile and a thumbs up, mouthing Thanks as the man on the other end of the line continued drilling into him.
Mingi was almost his friend. But he was on Hongjoong’s payroll, so he didn’t count.
Pinning the phone to his ear with his shoulder, Hongjoong opened the bag. A roast beef sandwich from his favorite deli—and a small pink parcel. He unwrapped it carefully, tuning out the man’s yells. Inside was a simple watch. Black leather band, silver face. A small card read only five words:
Happy 40th boss.
Love, Mingi
“I’m going to have to call you back,” Hongjoong said, his voice cutting through the heated rant on the other end. He replaced the phone on the hook without waiting for a response.
He read the card again.
Love, Mingi
Maybe Mingi was his friend.
Tacking the card to his dry-erase board with a magnet, Hongjoong admired it for a moment before fastening the watch around his wrist. He ate his sandwich, glancing at the watch between bites. Then he cleaned up, called the bastard back, and let the rest of the afternoon dissolve into VisiCalc spreadsheets and shouting matches.
But he didn’t mind.
He had a friend, when this morning, he had nothing.
At five sharp, he smoothed his suit and grabbed his bag. The small office next to his was dark. Mingi must’ve already left.
Hongjoong was disappointed, but not surprised. It was Friday. Mingi had friends, went on dates.
He had a life. Not just a job and a brownstone.
The walk back to Beacon Hill gave Hongjoong enough time to listen to Psycho Killer five times. He opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped through to the private garden. It was less of a garden and more of a prison yard—a barren patch of dirt and concrete with the shed where he kept his motorcycle. Not that he ever rode it.
He unlocked the back door to the brownstone, a curved bowfront unit at the end of the block. Three vaulted floors, each capped with ornate crown molding and ceilings plastered with a pattern that could’ve passed for shells or rainbows.
He’d been able to afford it only because he got lucky. It was the 1970s. No one in their right mind wanted to live in the city back then. But Hongjoong wasn’t exactly in his right mind, and the price was right, so a piece of Acorn Street became his.
Hongjoong walked over to the Dual turntable, where the vinyl of 77 already awaited him. He picked up the needle, placing it carefully on Psycho Killer.
One of the good things about living alone was the music. He cranked it up as loud as he wanted, every single time. Mingi probably couldn’t do that.
I can't seem to face up to the facts…
He opened the freezer, empty save for a single ice tray. He dropped a couple cubes in a small glass, poured whiskey over them, and sat at the kitchen island.
I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax…
He let Psycho Killer wash over him as the whiskey burned its way down, wondering how he’d ended up here—on the cusp of forty, alone in his dream house, listening to the same song and drinking the same drink as when he turned thirty-nine, and thirty-eight, and thirty-seven.
Being trapped in a corner office was nothing compared to being trapped in his body. Aging around him, though he felt the same inside.
His own mortality, the ultimate gaslighter.
He downed his whiskey in one go, setting it down with a thud before reaching for the bottle.
⟢⟡⟣
Blue November light filtered through the bay windows as Hongjoong stood before the third-floor mirror, adjusting the silk tie knotted around his neck. His dark teal suit fit well enough, though it was snugger across the chest than it used to be. He tilted his head, assessing the strands of silver that seemed to be multiplying.
At some point over the past decade, he’d stopped really looking at himself. Not that it mattered. He could still walk into any bar in the city and have a man on his knees within minutes.
That wasn’t looks. It was skill.
He was fastening his cufflinks when the doorbell rang, a 19th-century mechanical chime original to the house. Descending the stairs, he cut through the formal sitting room no one ever sat in to answer the front door no one ever knocked on.
San stood on the stoop in a smart black suit beneath a long overcoat, his dark hair neatly slicked back. He held a thin, square package wrapped in brown paper.
“You look incredible,” Hongjoong said without thinking.
San stared at him in shock for a moment before he responded, “Oh. Thank you.”
“Come in,” Hongjoong said, stepping aside.
San gave him a small, dimpled smile. He’d been inside Hongjoong’s house exactly once. Summer of 1979, for a client event after the original venue fell through at the last minute.
San slipped his shoes off and followed Hongjoong into the kitchen. He walked over to the record player, shaking his head with a smile as he saw the vinyl.
“Listening to your doomsday birthday song again?”
“It’s a good record,” Hongjoong said defensively.
San smirked. “Sure.” He lifted the package. “Got you something.”
Hongjoong blinked. “You… got me something?”
San’s ears turned pink first, then his cheeks. He handed Hongjoong the package, sealed with a heart-shaped sticker.
Hongjoong stared at it, then at San, then back at the package. He couldn’t remember the last time someone gave him a birthday present, and this year he’d gotten two.
No, that wasn’t true. He remembered exactly.
Five years ago today, November 7, 1977. It had also been from San, when they’d just started working together. He’d given Hongjoong 77 by Talking Heads, right after it was released.
Hongjoong had told him he didn’t like gifts, but that wasn’t true either. He’d liked it so much he bought the cassette version so he could listen to it on his walk to work.
If his house was burning down, he would save the record first.
Sliding a thumb beneath the pink sticker, Hongjoong peeled back the paper. Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division.
San’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “New Dawn Fades would make a good doomsday song.”
Hongjoong wasn’t sure why he did it. They’d never hugged before. But he surged forward, wrapping his arms around San’s broad frame.
“Thank you,” he said.
San stood stiffly at first, then softened, giving Hongjoong’s neck a light squeeze.
Hongjoong pulled back, coughing awkwardly as he walked to the turntable. He slid 77 into its sleeve and swapped it with Unknown Pleasures.
He retrieved his reading glasses from his pocket, the large metal frames heavy on the bridge of his nose. He leaned in, tracing the grooves until he found the last track, then set the tonearm down and turned it on.
A crackle, then: A change of speed, a change of style…
Hongjoong glanced at San. “What are you trying to say?”
A change of scene, with no regrets…
San wandered into the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. “Just that it’s a new decade,” he said, setting two glasses on the counter. “You could be anyone you want.”
“What’s wrong with who I am now?” Hongjoong asked, but he was joking. They both knew there was plenty wrong with him.
“I like you the way you are,” San said, pulling the tray from the freezer. He dropped some ice into the tumblers, pausing to refill the tray from the sink before putting it back, the angel. “But there’s always room to grow,” he added with a smile.
San grabbed the bottle from the counter, half-empty from Hongjoong’s weekend indulgence. He poured a shot into each glass, handing one to Hongjoong.
God, it felt like just yesterday he’d turned thirty. Would the next decade pass by just as fast?
Probably, if he spent it the same way.
Hongjoong lifted his drink toward San. “To a change of speed.”
“Change of speed, change of style,” San echoed, their glasses clinking softly.
They finished their drinks and headed out, walking toward the Common. Hongjoong thought he could still feel the bass of Unknown Pleasures rumbling in his body, or perhaps it was the rare thrill of having company over.
He hadn’t meant to build himself an island. He just did the things he was supposed to do, enjoyed something and did it again, liked a song and played it on repeat.
He’d lived his life like that, too.
A year ended. Hit the rewind button, play it again.
They followed the same path Hongjoong took to the office but passed Federal Street, instead continuing down Franklin until they reached the old Federal Reserve building.
“What’s in here now?” Hongjoong asked. “Beacon got it, right?”
Once a property was off the market, it was also off his radar. He fought for this one, but he couldn’t convince the higher-ups that it was worth the investment.
“Yeah,” San replied. “Le Méridien, that hotel chain Air France started.”
Airlines owned hotels. Banks could vote. Only people felt like they had no agency.
Or maybe only Hongjoong.
He followed San around the back of the hotel into a trendy cocktail lounge called The Fed. The interior was art deco, all jewel tones and geometric shapes. A square, brass-framed bar dominated the room, surrounded by leather barrel-back barstools. A massive pink column in the center of the bar housed a boxy television tuned to the Celtics-Nets.
“Figured we could watch the game,” San said, his oxfords tapping against the marble floor as he led them to the bar.
“Two whiskeys on the rocks,” Hongjoong said, holding up two fingers to the bartender.
“Hey, it’s on me,” San said sharply, slapping Hongjoong’s arm before he could grab his wallet.
“All right, next round’s mine though.”
San shook his head. “No fucking way. It’s your birthday. You’re not paying for drinks.”
Hongjoong smiled despite himself, clinking his glass against San’s. His gaze wandered over to the corner of the bar, where a mediocre-looking man was blatantly staring at him. The man flushed and looked away.
Hongjoong smirked. The game would probably be over by 9:30. Maybe he could lose San, fuck this stranger in the lobby bathroom, and still be home by eleven for a few hours of heavy drinking. The perfect birthday.
He fucked the same way he did everything else. Efficiently, all business.
The Celtics were up by five when Larry Bird drained a three-pointer, and the place stirred with cheers.
“This is the Larry Bird show,” Hongjoong remarked, sipping his drink.
“People always say that,” San said, “But basketball’s a team sport. Bird doesn’t win by himself.”
“Yeah, but he makes everyone else better,” Hongjoong countered.
San snorted. “Sure, but he’s not sinking those shots without Parish setting screens or McHale working the post.”
Hongjoong didn’t respond, making eye contact with the stranger again instead. He stuck his tongue in his cheek suggestively. Across the room, the man bit his bottom lip, fidgeting in his chair.
The game tightened in the fourth quarter, the Celtics barely hanging on as they lost their lead. Someone a few seats down grumbled, “They always play like shit in Jersey.”
But the Celtics pulled it out—just fucking barely—102 to 100. The room buzzed with relief.
Hongjoong locked eyes with the man in the corner as San scooted out his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Time for the main event,” San said brightly.
“Excuse me?” Hongjoong’s head snapped toward him. “I thought–”
“You thought ‘going out’ meant we’d be done at 9:30?” San laughed. “Fat chance. We’re going to the Combat Zone.”
Hongjoong’s face paled. San wanted to drag him to the red-light district?
“Oh, uh–” Hongjoong started, not sure how he was going to get out of it. “I’m—tired?”
“No, you’re not,” San said dismissively. “You’re coming with me.”
San grabbed him by the arm, dragging him out of the bar. Hongjoong caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face falling. Two nights ruined.
They walked toward Washington Street, Hongjoong’s mood tanking with every step. The change in the city was not gradual. They crossed an invisible boundary, and the quiet historic buildings of the Financial District abruptly gave way to neon lights and lurid signs.
Hongjoong knew it was a mistake to come as soon as they walked past the first strip club. Outside, a woman wearing a headpiece of gaudy feathers tried to entice them into the club, where some John Mellencamp song he hated was playing. With the way she was staring at San, Hongjoong wouldn’t have been surprised if he burst into flames.
But San just laughed, holding up a hand. “Not today, sweetheart.”
They turned down another street, where punk music screeched through an open doorway. There wasn’t anyone stationed outside to lure them in, just a bouncer with crossed arms who looked like a bear.
“Lost, gentlemen?” he asked dryly, eyeing them up and down.
San rolled his eyes. “This is Mingi’s boss, be nice.”
The man’s cheeks turned pink. “Got him working late?”
San laughed. “I don’t know what he told you, but Mingi never works late.”
“Well, tell him to come by next weekend then,” the bouncer said, stepping aside for them to enter.
Inside, Hongjoong’s brows shot up. No feathered women here. Instead, handsome men in tiny outfits glided through the crowd, serving drinks on silver platters. The performers were men too—different types, short and tall, thin and thick, all moving under the pulse of violet lights.
Hongjoong had a sudden realization, the color draining from his face as he turned to San, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
San pursed his lips, clearly holding back a smile. “We’ve worked together for five years.”
“But–” Hongjoong floundered. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
San sighed. “I come here every weekend, Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong stared at him blankly. Did that mean…?
San took his hand like it was nothing, pulling him through the club. The clientele mostly looked like the two of them, thirty-somethings in suits and crisp button-ups nursing martinis and Cosmopolitans.
Except he wasn’t a thirty-something anymore. San still had another year, though. He brought their average down.
Hongjoong’s cheeks warmed when San pulled out a chair for him at a table by the stage, the gesture both polite and oddly intimate. A pretty server appeared, setting down two cocktail napkins with a practiced flourish. Hongjoong would’ve called him a waif if not for the muscular arms on full display beneath a sleeveless fishnet shirt. Although it barely passed as a shirt.
“San! We missed you last night,” the server said brightly.
San chuckled. “Hi, Yeosang. You missed my tips, you mean.”
San looked so much younger than Hongjoong, despite being almost the same age. Smooth skin, black hair. Lucky bastard. Hongjoong wondered if Yeosang thought of San as thirty rather than nearly forty, if having Hongjoong with him made him look older by association.
Yeosang’s grin widened. “Where’s Mingi?”
“Depends on who’s asking,” San replied with a wink. “Two whiskeys on the rocks, please.”
The server rolled his eyes. “You know who’s asking.”
San shrugged. “I’m not his keeper.”
Yeosang muttered something under his breath but walked away without further protest.
Hongjoong leaned in. “Who’s asking?”
“The bouncer has a thing for him. Jongho.”
“The bouncer?” Hongjoong blinked in disbelief. Despite his size, Mingi was sensitive, a real sweetheart—and a math genius, the firm wouldn’t be half as successful without him. Jongho looked like he would eat him alive. Hongjoong’s expression darkened.
“Shh,” San replied, tightening his tie and pulling a pair of glasses from his pocket, as if this was the only thing worth seeing clearly. “It’s starting.”
The lights in the club dimmed, a spotlight illuminating the stage. The first performer strode out, and San’s eyes softened in a way Hongjoong had never seen before, though his hand clenched tightly around the cocktail napkin. The dancer was tall, lithe, and beautiful, though not Hongjoong’s type. His beauty was too ethereal for him, silver pins glittering through his long black hair.
But who was he kidding? He didn’t have a type. Almost every month, he went to a different bar around the city, finding a random stranger to fuck in the bathroom or at their place.
It didn’t matter what they looked like. It was transactional. He wouldn’t see them again.
“Isn’t he amazing?” San whispered reverently.
Hongjoong nodded as the dancer pulled off his gloves with his teeth, tossing them to the stage. His pale legs were visible through slits in his jeans, including two that were cut dangerously high, revealing glimpses of his plush thighs.
He was amazing. There was no denying it.
As the song waned, San stood, leaving a neat stack of bills at the dancer’s feet. The performer glanced down, their eyes locking for a charged moment. Then he slowly reached a hand toward San, cupping his cheek like a lover before disappearing behind the curtain.
Hongjoong raised a brow as San returned to his seat. “What was that?”
San shrugged, still watching the stage. “What do you think I make money for? Some people have a family to support. I’ve got Park Seonghwa. This is just the first dance, you should see what they work up to.”
Hongjoong barked out a laugh. “What does that–”
His sentence dissolved as the opening notes of Psycho Killer blasted from the speakers.
The rest of the club faded to black, the world just the stage and the spotlight on it.
A man emerged from behind the curtains, and Hongjoong realized, once again, that he had been wrong.
He did have a type.
Thick thighs straining against leather pants. A tight sleeveless shirt that showed off his arms, veins twisting down them like the lines on the cover of Unknown Pleasures. About Mingi’s age, maybe younger.
And that fucking face. Pretty eyes, but a masculine jaw, a strong nose, and a prominent brow bone.
Then David Byrne started to sing, the stranger began to dance, and all of Hongjoong’s thoughts fell away.
I can't sleep ‘cause my bed's on fire…
The stranger trailed a hand up the pole in the center of the stage, circling it slowly. He leapt onto the pole, his legs wrapping around it with ease, spinning until he hit the floor. He rose, pressing his back against it, then slowly sank down again.
All the while, he mouthed the words, as though it was his doomsday song, too.
Hongjoong’s gaze trailed lower. He thought he could see the outline of the dancer’s cock through the leather. He wondered if all the employees were queer, or just the clientele.
But he guessed it didn’t matter. He might fuck Hongjoong anyway if he could make a compelling enough pitch.
The dancer turned away, and if Hongjoong’s mouth wasn’t already hanging open, his jaw would have dropped. He had narrow hips, but his ass—Christ—his ass defied logic. By the way he arched his back, he must've known it.
The dancer faced the audience again and fell to his knees, legs spread wide. He ran a hand up his torso, grabbing his own throat while he mouthed the chorus.
Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better…
As soon as his mouth formed the first ‘f,’ his eyebrows arched as if in ecstasy, his hips grinding against the floor in slow circles. Hongjoong felt all the blood in his body rush south.
He glanced at San out of the corner of his eye. San was already staring at him, a grin spread across his face, his cheeks flushed from the whiskey.
“Happy birthday,” he teased.
“Shut up,” Hongjoong muttered. He turned back to the stage, and the dancer’s eyes were on him.
He raised an arm, pointing directly at Hongjoong as he mouthed the next part of the song.
I hate people when they’re not polite…
The dancer tugged his shirt off, tossing it aside. His chest looked soft, like it would fill Hongjoong’s small hands. But when he turned around, his muscular back told a different story, thick traps sloping into broad shoulders, a bold tattoo etched between his shoulder blades.
He grabbed the pole, climbing in fluid motions until he reached the top. He moved up and down, his thighs flexing with the effort. Hongjoong could feel the tension in his own body coiling tighter with every movement.
Then, with a final, dramatic drop, the dancer slid down the pole, landing with a thud that jiggled the soft parts of his body. Hongjoong bit his lip, imagining sinking his thumbs into the flesh above his hips. Or better yet, his teeth.
The music faded, pulling Hongjoong from his daze. “Fuck,” he muttered, fumbling for his wallet.
He grabbed a fistful of cash, heart pounding. His hand hovered over the stage, ready to toss the bills—but then the dancer started crawling toward him, slowly, on all fours.
The room narrowed to only the two of them.
When the dancer reached him, he rose onto his knees, close enough for Hongjoong to feel the heat radiating off his body. With a sly, cat-like grin, the man tugged at his leather pants.
Hongjoong held his gaze, licking his lips as he stuffed the cash into his waistband, his fingers grazing over his soft abdomen.
For a second, neither of them moved. Hongjoong tried to communicate with him telepathically.
I could make you feel so good, if you’d let me.
Then the dancer bit his lip and reached out, tapping the bottom of Hongjoong’s jaw to snap it shut.
He turned, disappearing through the curtain. Ambient sounds from the rest of the bar flooded back in as Hongjoong stumbled to his seat, his pulse racing.
“Who the hell was that?”
San laughed. “Jung Wooyoung. He’s mean—don’t get your hopes up.”
Hongjoong’s cock twitched at the word. Mean. He could work with mean.
But damn, his trousers were getting tight. If they were staying for more performances, he was going to have to deal with it.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
San sucked in his lips like he was fighting back a laugh. “Regular bathroom’s over there,” he said, nodding toward the entrance. Then he pointed next to the stage. “But the one you need’s back there, birthday boy.”
Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re implying–”
“Yeah, you do,” San laughed.
Grumbling, Hongjoong knocked back the rest of his whiskey. It burned on its way down, but it was nothing compared to the burning in his body. He slapped a twenty on the table. “Next round’s on me.”
Without another word, he walked straight to the back of the club, a small smile creeping up on him.
It seemed he’d been wrong a lot lately. He did have friends.
The door swung inward with a metallic groan. Hongjoong stepped into the bathroom, then froze.
There was already someone at the sink.
Wooyoung.
He looked up, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He was wearing a fresh shirt, oversized but cropped to show a sliver of his belly.
He was somehow even more beautiful under the flickering fluorescent lights, the texture of his makeup visible beneath his eyes, freckles peeking through his foundation. He looked older than Hongjoong had thought, or just tired.
“Well hello,” Wooyoung drawled.
Hongjoong swallowed. How long had he been staring?
“You were incredible,” Hongjoong managed, his throat dry.
“Yeah?” Wooyoung leaned against the sink, folding his arms. “Be more descriptive.”
Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
“What did you like? My dancing? The pole work?” Wooyoung's fingers drifted down the center of his chest, a thumb landing in his waistband. “Or my outfit?”
“All of it,” Hongjoong murmured, his gaze unapologetically raking down Wooyoung’s body. “You danced to my favorite song.” He took a breath, eyes gleaming. “And I think you might be my new favorite person.”
“Psycho Killer’s your favorite song?” Wooyoung arched an eyebrow. “That’s very... psycho killer of you.”
Hongjoong barely heard him, too focused on the obvious bulge pressing against Wooyoung's pants. A problem he could fix.
He took a calculated risk, stepping closer.
“Can I touch you?”
“Fuck no,” Wooyoung said flatly.
Hongjoong froze, humiliation searing through him. Oh, shit. He’d misread the situation entirely.
Then Wooyoung grinned—wicked, sharp—and shoved Hongjoong against the bathroom door.
Wooyoung kissed him hard, biting him and licking into his mouth. He tasted like peppermint, like he’d come here fully expecting to devour someone. Hongjoong’s hands instinctively sought his waist, but Wooyoung was faster. He pinned Hongjoong’s wrists above his head with surprising strength.
“I said no, yuppie scum,” Wooyoung growled against his lips.
If Hongjoong wasn’t hard already, that would’ve done it.
Holding Hongjoong captive with one hand, Wooyoung slipped the other between them, palming him through his trousers.
“Fuck,” Wooyoung hissed, fingers tightening around him. “Is this why you’re so cocky?”
Hongjoong bit back a moan, his breath ragged. “What’s your name?” he demanded, though he already knew.
“Jung Wooyoung,” he replied, not bothering to ask Hongjoong for his. His expression turned feral. “What the fuck—you work in an office all day with this thing between your legs?”
An image flashed in Hongjoong’s mind. Wooyoung on his knees under his desk, blowing him as he offered financial advice to rich assholes.
“How do you know I work in an office?”
Wooyoung let out a high-pitched laugh. “Is that a serious question?”
The sound struck a nerve, hot and piercing. Hongjoong needed to feel his skin, needed to wreck him right here.
Hongjoong wasn’t cocky because of what hung between his legs. He was cocky because of what he could do with it.
His voice lowered an octave. “Can I touch you now?”
“No,” Wooyoung said harshly. “How old are you, anyway? You look older up close.”
"It’s my birthday," he said vaguely.
“Happy birthday,” Wooyoung chirped in a strangely cheerful voice for someone who was actively trying to shove his hand down Hongjoong’s pants. “Mine’s in a few weeks, too. I’ll be twenty-seven.”
Fuck. Ten years ago, Wooyoung was still a kid, and Hongjoong was thirty—older than Wooyoung was now.
“I feel ancient,” Wooyoung added. “Twenty-seven’s when you cross over from mid-twenties to late-twenties.”
Hongjoong snorted. “I turned forty today.”
Wooyoung let out a shriek of laughter so derisive that Hongjoong nearly came right there.
“So I guess you’re not a yuppie, huh?” He finally pushed past Hongjoong’s waistband, wrapping his hand around him.
“What?” Hongjoong blinked, trying to clear the fog in his head.
“Yuppies are young professionals, right? Twenties, thirties.” Wooyoung's grin turned cruel. “You just aged out.”
Hongjoong hadn’t considered this.
How was it possible that one day he was something, and then the next he wasn’t?
Wooyoung leaned in, brushing his lips against Hongjoong's ear. “But you’ll always be yuppie scum to me.”
Hongjoong inhaled sharply through his teeth as Wooyoung flicked his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading slick down the shaft.
He surged forward, ready to pin Wooyoung against the wall and ruin him. Age had its perks. He’d fucked dozens of punks like this, maybe a hundred. There was nothing he liked more than putting a brat in his place.
But then Wooyoung pulled away. Without a backwards glance, he wiped his hand on his pants, shoved Hongjoong aside, and strode back into the club.
Hongjoong stared after him, chest heaving, every nerve on fire.
He considered chasing him down—or finding someone else to bend over the sink.
But instead, he ducked into one of the two stalls, slamming the door behind him. It would be faster this way. Quick relief, then he could get back to San.
There was a wooden chair beside the toilet, shelves above it stocked with supplies: lube, condoms, wipes, even pens and cards for exchanging numbers.
Hongjoong sat heavily, his fist wrapping around himself. His mind raced back to Wooyoung’s mean mouth, picturing it wet and stretched around him. He pictured tears streaming down his face, choking because Hongjoong was too big for him.
Hongjoong stroked himself efficiently, with fast pumps focused on the head, but it was too dry. Reaching up to the shelf for a packet of lube, his gaze snagged on the partition between stalls.
There, right at cock-height: a smooth, gleaming hole.
His hand stilled.
If he’d been in here five minutes earlier…?
The thought sent sparks through his body. He tore open the packet with his teeth, drizzling lube over himself. His hand moved faster as he imagined shoving his cock through the hole, Wooyoung waiting on the other side, smug and filthy.
You look older up close.
Asshole. He’d teach that punk a lesson, and Wooyoung would probably thank him for it after. He looked like he loved sucking cock, like he was made for it. It was probably the only way to shut him up. Hongjoong began twisting his hand up the shaft, the glide now slick enough that he could imagine it was Wooyoung’s cruel, perfect mouth sucking him dry.
But the beautiful picture he was painting disappeared as he noticed the graffiti scrawled just above the hole.
ᗪIE YᑌᑭᑭIE Sᑕᑌᗰ
ᒍ.ᗯ. 1982
Hongjoong let out a bitter laugh, his hand falling away from himself.
Suddenly, he’d lost his appetite.
⟢⟡⟣