Chapter Text
Cool fingers slide into damp hair at the nape of San’s neck. Breath tickles the shell of his ear as Wooyoung leans in and tells him to throw the fight.
“You’ve gotta lose this one, San-ah,” he murmurs under the thrumming crowd, producing a water bottle with his free hand. The fingertips still lodged in San’s hair press harder into the tight muscles of his neck. “We’ll get more if you lose.”
San scowls and snatches the bottle. Water spills down his chin as he takes a long sip. It drips onto his white tank, already drenched with sweat.
It’s not that he hates losing, it’s just, this fucking punk's been pissing San off before they’d even gotten in the ring—looking at San as if he’s some vermin, unworthy of being his opponent. He eyes San now from his own corner, like San’s just a gut-smeared fly still twitching where it’s stuck to the swatter, despite the even number of hits between them. The punk’s got more support from the crowd and now San’s gonna have to throw his hard-earned winning streak just for a measly couple of bucks.
Plastic crackles and water spews over the open mouth of the bottle. It soaks into the cloth wrapped around San’s hand.
Okay, so maybe San does hate losing.
Wooyoung tsks, fingers dropping away from San’s neck. San’s head dips back an inch, missing them immediately.
“If you wanna keep eating instant ramen every meal for the next three months too, just so you can save your pride, then be my fucking guest,” Wooyoung grumbles.
The ref signals and the cheers and jeering reignite, grating. San turns toward Wooyoung as he passes the bottle back, observes his thin chin and the slight hollow in his cheeks.
“Fine,” San holds his gaze. “I’ll do it.”
Wooyoung grins, but the gleam is missing from his eyes.
“Atta boy,” he says, reaching forward to roughly pat San’s cheek. “I’ll buy you beef tonight.”
San breaks away, embarrassed the mere mention of meat is enough to flood his mouth with saliva.
Wooyoung catches him by the shoulder.
“Try to protect that pretty face,” he says. “I’m the one who has to look at it all the time, so no lasting damage, yeah?”
San rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
As he crosses to the center of the ring with the building clamor of the crowd washing over him, it’s with the phantom taste of beef in his mouth and the imprint of Wooyoung’s fingers pressed into his skin.
San sees the hit coming from a mile away, but this charade's gone on long enough. He stumbles over his own feet to make getting caught off guard believable.
And then he’s looking up at the dark warehouse rafters. There’s waves of pain and the shouted countdown of one two three garbling like radio static around him. He rolls his head to the side, searching for Wooyoung, but the hit must have disoriented him more than he thought—he’s facing the wrong corner. There’s only that piece of shit punk and his slimy manager, hands raised in the air like they’d really done something.
San swallows his groan as he sits up. The world spins, it’s a sensation he can’t quite get used to. Wooyoung calls somewhere behind him. He turns, follows his voice, but freezes halfway—caught by a face at the back of the stands, half-lit by shitty warehouse lights.
The people crammed in the rows all around him are yelling over each other, laughing, exchanging fistfuls of cash in winnings and losses, and there, completely still amongst the chaos, is a pair of dark eyes focused on San and San alone.
San’s mouth opens and closes again. He barely registers the pain anymore. It’s been months since he last saw those eyes and it’s damn sure too soon to be seeing them again now. But there they are, narrowed in a way San can’t decipher, and he can’t look away, can’t break this connection between them—so palpable he’s convinced he could reach out and pluck it like a string, feel it vibrate against his fingertips.
“San-ah!” Wooyoung floods his vision as he drops to his knees in front of him, cupping the unmarred side of San’s face. “San-ah, I thought I said protect your face!”
“Woo—it’s—look—“ San slurs his words, trying to pull out of Wooyoung’s grip to find those eyes again, to confirm it’s really him.
“What?” Wooyoung whirls in the direction that San’s looking, hand still clasped firmly on his cheek.
The name sits on San’s tongue, but he can’t voice it. He scans the stands, still just as full as it’d been when the match ended, all save for one.
Wooyoung looks back at San in question, but San shakes his head. His jaw throbs.
“Never mind,” he says.
Wooyoung frowns, but he doesn’t press further.
“Come on,” he says, lifting San’s arm over his shoulder to help him to his feet. “Let’s get you some food.”
The beef is tough—San’s face aches as he chews. It’s dry and bland and he thinks it might just be the best meal he’s ever had.
Sprawled on his ass on the other side of the ratty cardboard box set up as a table between them, Wooyoung bares his teeth in a snarl and tears into the meat, eyebrows furrowed. He mutters under his breath around the bite, “I shoulda just cooked some myself.”
“Oh, yeah?” San cocks an eyebrow. “You been holding out on me, Wooyoungie? Got some secret stovetop stashed away in here?” He glances around the shabby interior of their second-hand van like it’s a possibility.
“Fuck you,” Wooyoung scowls, still chewing.
San grins as he hunches lower over his styrofoam takeout box and shovels another bite into his mouth.
“Or were you just planning to throw on an apron, kick down the doors and force your way into the kitchen next time?”
Wooyoung purses his lips, finally swallows—watches San watch the movement of his throat.
“If I have to.”
San huffs a breath through his nose, but doesn’t bother with a retort. Hell, maybe Wooyoung would force his way into the kitchen. A man can dream.
Wooyoung digs into the plastic bag sitting on the floor next to him and reveals another styrofoam box. When he opens it, the smell of kimchi fried rice permeates the van. San’s mouth waters, but he won’t reach for it until Wooyoung’s had his fill. It's been too long since they've had a meal like this.
He searches for something to say to fill the silence, then resigns himself to eating instead, lingering in the way the pain radiates through his face with each bite.
The thing is, San’s been trying to get his mouth to form the right sounds all night. He knows Wooyoung can tell something’s off, but those three syllables keep sticking to his teeth, the sweet taffy of it all.
Wooyoung spoons a giant heap of fried rice into his mouth, then closes his eyes and sighs in satisfaction, cheeks puffed out like a cute little chipmunk. His bliss is contagious, even when it’s fleeting. San munches on his last piece of beef and chases down gristle with a long swig of Wooyoung’s warm beer. The cot underneath him creaks as he leans back against the curtained windows of the van, his stomach full for the first time he can remember in months.
Then, as easy as breathing: “I saw Jeong Yunho.”
Wooyoung’s spoon stops midair, eyes sharpening in an instant.
“Where? When?”
“Tonight,” San says. “In the stands.”
“Was he with someone?”
“Didn’t look like it.”
Wooyoung frowns, spoon dropping back to the takeout container. He stares down at it intently as he pushes the rice around. A couple grains spill over the side and into his lap.
“You don’t think it’s time, do you?”
San shakes his head. “I haven’t gotten any messages, have you?”
“No.” Wooyoung purses his lips, eyes shifting back to San's. “Nothing.”
San shrugs. He’s not sure if it’s good or bad that Yunho had seemingly come tonight of his own volition, what it could mean.
Wooyoung rises from his spot on the floor and steps around the cardboard box to settle cross-legged on the cot, kneecap poking into San’s thigh. He digs the spoon into the rice and holds it up between them.
“Open,” he says.
On a different day, San might have protested.
He opens his mouth.
Wooyoung feeds them both until the spoon scrapes styrofoam. San runs a finger around the mouth of the beer bottle until Wooyoung takes it, finishes it in three gulps.
They don’t talk about Yunho again until they’ve cut the overheads and are wrapped around each other, lying intertwined to fit in a cot made for one. The worn cotton of Wooyoung’s shirt is soft under San’s fingers as he traces lazy lines up and down his spine.
“How do you feel?” Wooyoung asks against his collarbone, using that rare, gentle tone that makes San want to break.
“No worse than any other time I lose.”
Wooyoung turns his face to peer up at him, his breath warm on San’s neck.
“I meant about seeing Yunho.”
San’s hand pauses. He keeps his eyes trained on the dim glow of yellow streetlight that’s slipping between the curtains they'd rigged to separate the front of the van from the back. His fingertips press into the vertebrae underneath them then relax again.
“I miss him,” he finally murmurs. “You?”
Wooyoung heaves a sigh and buries his face against the juncture of San’s neck and shoulder, sends goosebumps flaring when his eyelashes brush the skin there.
“I’m kinda jealous,” he says, so soft, and squeezes San tighter. “I wish I’d seen him.”
San hums in understanding.
After a moment Wooyoung adds, “I miss him too.”
The line of light grows blurry, but San can’t blink. If one tear falls, he’s not sure when they’ll stop. He grits his teeth, tries to distract himself with the blooming pain, but it only conjures Yunho’s eyes again. This distance, this isolation is hard for them all, but sacrifices have to be made, San knows that. He has to be as strong as the others. He can’t falter in this.
But when he finally closes his eyes, the tear still falls.
Jeong Yunho is so, so stupid.
He’d sworn to himself he’d only go once—just once to see them with his own eyes, to make sure they were okay.
And now, here he is ducking out of the warehouse and into the night for the fifth time in less than three weeks.
Worse than that, this time he’s been seen.
He’d taken care to stick to the back of the stands, always seated in half-shadow. But then San had stumbled, the other fighter’s fist connected with his jaw, and Yunho could feel the teeth-rattle in his molars. He hadn’t even realized he’d jumped to his feet, not until San’s dazed eyes locked on his and then it was too late.
Yunho takes a hard left into the next street. He pulls his jacket closer to his body to fight off a shiver and grits his teeth against a chatter. He runs his hands up and down his arms as he weaves between concrete towers and rundown storefronts, but he knows all too well it’s not the chill of the night that’s affecting him. It’s anxiety. It’s adrenaline. It’s something twisting his insides and screaming for him to go back. It’s boundless, a supernova imploding in his stomach and he can’t escape it. Can only let it consume him.
He wishes he could call Mingi.
The path back to the garage is even more convoluted than usual, but he’s got to burn off some of this energy before he can face Jongho. He’s desperate to run, to feel the slap of his shoes against the pavement jolting up through his shins until his lungs are burning. But he’s already risked enough tonight. Can’t afford to draw attention or look suspicious.
So he walks. Turns down street after street. Tries to lose himself in the sharp contrast of the city, how it somehow holds the darkest corners he’s ever seen and the brightest neon reds and blues. He slinks into the shadow of alleys at the sweeping telltale headlights of patrol cars. He reminds himself why they are doing this, of children’s futures, of the greater good.
He doesn’t think about the gaunt look of Wooyoung’s face or the shadow that crossed it when San turned away to resume the fight. He doesn’t think about San dropping to the floor like a rag doll or the feeling of his own heart rocketing into his throat.
When he turns onto the next street, a car door slams. It’s followed by a sharp voice, “Hey, kid. Got some identification?”
Yunho freezes, stomach lurching.
He takes stock as fast as he can, eyes scanning the darkened buildings around him. The garage isn’t far from Sector 2, but he hadn’t noticed crossing the boundary.
“Come on, kid. I don’t have all night.”
Fuck fuck fuck. He'd left his tracker at home—if he gets caught now, no one would know what happened. Why he was gone. Fuck.
Yunho turns slowly to face the voice, plastering on his friendliest smile despite the bile churning up his windpipe. He can talk his way out of this. The dark figure of an officer rounds his patrol car a few buildings away. And then the officer turns, approaches another dark figure Yunho hadn't seen huddled against a wall. Yunho chokes back his relief, steps slowly, melding with shadows, and the officer forces the dark figure to their feet.
“Where’s your pass?”
Yunho weighs the options, hiding and waiting or trying to slip away and risk being spotted.
A sharp yelp and the sound of a body smacking against a car hood makes Yunho’s mind up for him. He creeps to the edge of the building, then vanishes in the darkness of an alley that smells like garbage and sewer water. He times his footsteps with the shouts and pleas that echo behind him.
By the time he’s slipping through the back door into the safety of the garage, heaving for air, limbs burning, he’s got no idea how long he’s been gone.
He leans against the door, just to catch his breath, to try and calm the shake in his hands.
Way too fucking close. Idiot.
Once his legs feel stable again, he pushes off, makes his way past the little room that houses a worn leather sofa, a table, and a microwave, weaves between a stack of tires and the motorcycle a client dropped off earlier in the day, just to check the front door that he already knows will be locked. Then he makes his way back by the bike, almost knocks over a toolbox Jongho must’ve moved, and tiptoes up the stairs like they don’t creak and whine with every step.
When he opens the door to their loft, it’s as dark as the rest of the building. There’s the red glow of the alarm clock across the room that reads 3:47 a.m. and then, right on cue, Jongho’s voice: “It’s late.”
Yunho closes the door behind him, inhaling slowly.
“Later than I thought,” he answers. He hopes his voice doesn’t betray him. He toes his shoes off next to Jongho's. “You didn’t need to wait up for me.”
“I didn’t,” Jongho lies. “Get into any trouble?”
“No,” Yunho dismisses and crosses into their little galley kitchen. “Just a good night for a walk.” He reaches into the cabinet for a glass, moving carefully. Thankful it’s too dark for Jongho to see the tremble that still resides in his hands.
Sheets rustle as Jongho readjusts himself in his bed. “Maybe I’ll take one tomorrow night.”
This is why they work so well. They never ask where the other has been, but they always wait up.
Yunho fills his glass with tap water then turns it back in two gulps. He frowns at the metallic tang left in his mouth, at the water dripping down his chin. He thinks of San, eyes narrowed in focus, brow quirked in displeasure at something Wooyoung had said, skin wet with sweat and water.
What's it like for them, when they climb into the van at the end of the night? The van Yunho and Jongho had found for them that last day they’d been in contact. Does it feel safer having someone close?
They hadn’t known then it would be five months of separation, but even if they had, what difference would it have made? What could they have changed?
He places the cup in the sink.
He wishes he could call Mingi.
“I’m feeling kinda restless tonight,” he says. “Think I might work on the bike for a while.”
“Suit yourself,” Jongho says, then the sound of him turning over.
Yunho fumbles in the dark to find his coveralls and then he’s back across the room. When he opens the door that leads to the garage, Jongho speaks again.
“It’s chilly tonight. You can sleep in my bed if you’re cold later.”
And later, when Yunho slips into Jongho’s bed, Jongho slides over to give him room, even though he’s still mostly asleep.
Affection blossoms in Yunho’s chest at the relaxed pout of Jongho’s face, the sleep-rough slur of his murmured, “Go to sleep, hyung.”
There’s only a few inches between them, but Yunho can’t bring himself to cross the distance. He’s never known Jongho to seek out touch, and Yunho wouldn’t dream of asking him to tolerate it now.
He closes his eyes and thinks of dimples, a loud cackling laugh, of hands with the instinct to touch, to linger.
He reminds himself why they are doing this. Children’s futures. The greater good.
He can’t go back, can’t see them again. They’re all separated for a reason. He’s been risking everything they’ve worked for all these months, and for what? To satisfy his own greed? To remind himself of everything he can't have?
He shifts just an inch closer to Jongho, squeezes his hands into fists to stop from reaching, and swears to himself: he won’t go back again.