Chapter Text
San stood where he always stood.
Just off to the side of the main dressing area, back to the wall, eyes up, hands loose at his sides. The room was a flurry of movement; stylists darting in and out, racks of clothing rolling past, someone laughing too loudly over the thrum of bass leaking through the curtains. San tracked it all.
This was familiar ground. Backstage always was. It was chaos, but of a predictable kind. Cordoned off from the general public, secured and monitored. Safe, as far as public venues ever got.
His gaze slid, unthinking, back to Wooyoung.
The other man was perched in a high chair in front of a mirror framed with lights, chin tipped up as a makeup artist blended shimmer across his lids. The color caught the light every time he blinked, soft gold, iridescent. His skin was luminous under it, like he was made of something warmer than everyone else in the room. He looked almost unreal.
San’s chest tightened, breath catching.
This wasn’t new. The way Wooyoung could still knock the air out of him, two years into knowing the man, almost 18 months of calling him mine in quiet, unguarded moments. But sometimes it still caught him off guard. Sometimes he still forgot to breathe when he looked at him.
Wooyoung shifted, lips parting as a member of his makeup team dusted highlight along his cheekbones. God, he looked like he belonged on a different plane of existence, all sharp angles and wicked charm wrapped in something soft and glowing. Ethereal, the stylists always liked to say.
San looked at him and thought: forever.
Wooyoung’s eyes flicked to the mirror, assessing his reflection, then slid past it to catch his own.
The corner of the smaller man's mouth curved, slow and devastating. It was the kind of smile that wasn’t for the room, or the cameras waiting beyond the curtain. It was private. Just for them. Dangerous and thrilling.
San felt it land low in his gut.
He didn’t smile back. Never did when they were in public like this, no matter how affected he was by his boyfriend's gaze. He just tipped his chin and gave the other man a quick, almost imperceptible wink. Subtle. Invisible to anyone not looking for it.
Wooyoung’s grin sharpened in response, teeth flashing like a shark that smelled blood in the water. He mouthed something that looked suspiciously like later and then turned back to the makeup artist as if he hadn’t just undressed San with a glance.
Not that San was complaining. He exhaled through his nose and consciously reset his body, Feet shoulder-width apart. Eyes back on the room. "Terminator mode" re-engaged as Wooyoung liked to say.
It still shocked him sometimes that the other man had chosen him. That he has walked right through San’s defenses and burrowed his way beneath his skin. Made a home there.
To San, Jung Wooyoung came from light and applause. From eyes that coveted and adored him. San had come from places that taught him how to sharpen his anger and disappear inside himself. How to endure, to do what needed to be done, and to somehow live with it afterward. Loving Wooyoung felt like he was trespassing on sacred ground, and guarding him felt like a penance he’d gladly pay for the rest of his life.
The makeup artist stepped away, and someone else swooped in with a brocade jacket. The garment was modern, sleek, and dramatic, cut to turn heads. Wooyoung stood as soon as they were done fussing, shrugging into it with careless grace. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, testing the fit.
“Sannie,” he called, adjusting the fit some, not even looking at him. It made San hot under the collar.
“Yes?”
“Be honest,” Wooyoung said, finally turning, eyes alight with mischief and arms spread slightly. “Do I look like I could ruin someone’s life tonight?”
San let himself smile then. “Several someone’s,” he said.
Wooyoung laughed, bright and delighted, and crossed the room in three long strides. He stopped just inside San’s space, close enough that San could smell the familiar cedar of his cologne
“You always say the nicest things,” Wooyoung said, tilting his head up. “That’s why I keep you around.”
San lowered his voice. “You keep me around to corral your admirers and carry your bags.”
Wooyoung hummed thoughtfully before reaching up and patting his chest playfully. “Hmm. And you’re so good at both.”
San’s hand came up without thinking, fingers brushing briefly at Wooyoung’s wrist, the touch light enough to pass as incidental, but heavy with meaning to both of them. They didn't necessarily hide their relationship, but it also wasn't something they liked to flaunt in the public eye. Wooyoung, for the sake of his career, and San for more...personal reasons.
“They look like they’re about to call you,” San murmured, jerking his head towards the main doors. “Knock ‘em dead.”
Wooyoung looked over his shoulder, then back to San, his gaze softening.
“Stay where I can see you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Always.”
Satisfied, Wooyoung leaned in, just close enough that anyone watching would think it was a whisper about schedules or cues.
“Try not to look too serious all night,” Wooyoung said quietly. “Everybody will be too scared to come talk to you, looking like that.”
San’s mouth twitched. “That’s kind of the point.”
Wooyoung laughed again and spun away, energy already shifting as he stepped toward the gaggle of touch-up artists and stage choreographers that escorted him toward the curtain where the designer was waiting for him.
San watched him go. Wooyoung would walk two more times tonight, including the closing look. In the chaos of the quick changes, this would be the last time they’d be able to speak before wrap. So, he settled himself back into place, eyes sharp, pulse steady as he surveyed the room. He’d decided long ago that this was his role, to be the rock. The shadow. The line nothing crossed without his say-so.
There was a time in his life when that role had nearly unraveled him, but for Wooyoung, it was as easy as breathing. Protector, guard, shield.
For Jung Wooyoung, he would be anything.
The show ended in a rush of light and sound, the applause and the sounds of cameras flashing a constant cacophony.
Wooyoung rode it like a wave.
By the time he burst back through the curtain, he was vibrating. High on applause. High on himself. High on the knowledge that he had owned every eye in the room. He was a man who adored being adored.
“God, that was good,” he crowed, spinning once as if the stage were still under his feet. “Did you see me?”
San was already moving toward him, one hand lifting instinctively to steady him as Wooyoung barreled straight into his space. “I saw,” he said calmly. “You were beautiful.”
Wooyoung grinned up at him, eyes bright and feral in that way San knew too well. This was the version of him that came out after shows: all excess energy and sharp confidence, like the world had handed him proof of his own invincibility. His allure. He wasn't a narcissist, well, no more than any professional in the space. He was just confident and acutely aware of the effect he had on a crowd in moments like these. San knew that the self-doubt and dismorphia would come later, in the quiet moments between shows when they were alone. But for now, he'd delight in seeing his lover so incandescent.
“I’m starving,” Wooyoung announced. “And drunk on adrenaline. And I want to go out.” His fingers brushed San’s wrist as he pulled away, deliberate and teasing, but gone too fast to be called anything but accidental.
San sighed softly. “Of course you do.”
Wooyoung laughed, already slipping out of his reach as a stylist intercepted him with breathless congratulations and a hand on his arm. Another followed immediately, then the designer himself, radiant and flushed, pulling Wooyoung into a hug that lingered a bit too long in San’s own personal opinion.
“You were unreal,” the designer said, gripping his shoulders. “Absolutely unreal.”
Wooyoung basked, easy and practiced, kissing the air beside the man’s cheek. “You made me look unreal,” he shot back, all charm and gratitude, the kind that came so naturally to him. Cameras snapped instantly. Someone called his name. Someone else asked him to turn slightly, chin up.
San stepped back into position without thinking, body angling to keep a clear line of sight. This part was muscle memory: the post-show crush, the unpredictable surge of people who felt entitled to Wooyoung’s space because they loved him, because they paid for him, because he let them.
And Wooyoung? He flowed through it effortlessly, hugging editors, laughing with models he’d walked beside, answering rapid-fire questions from a Vogue Hong Kong reporter who had backstage access to this event. “How did it feel closing tonight?”
“Incredible,” Wooyoung said, breathless but glowing. “Like flying.”
San watched his hands while he talked. They were still shaking a little. He motioned for Jihyo, Wooyoung’s assistant, and had the young woman fetch a bottle of water.
Between interviews, Wooyoung drifted back toward him as he always did, close enough that only San would hear, “This was a good night.”
San didn’t smile, didn't tell Wooyoung how stunning he looked on the runway, how breathtaking he looked afterward. He couldn't. So he silently handed over the open bottle in his hand. “It was,” he said quietly. “Now, drink some water.”
Wooyoung huffed but accepted the bottle San pressed into his hand, taking a long swallow before being pulled away again, the words “after party” reaching San’s ears as his lover was ushered back toward the changing rooms.
The party was already in full swing by the time they were cleared inside. Champagne trays floated through the room. Music thumped low and decadent. The air buzzed with money and perfume and the unspoken understanding that everyone here mattered, at least tonight.
On the way to the event, Wooyoung had been insatiable. He always was after a good show, the adrenaline of the evening taking physical form. San struggled to keep himself upright in the back seat of the town car as Wooyoung attacked him with his hands and lips. The partition was up, but San thanked god every day that their driver had discretion. He was filing a mental note to advocate for a raise on his behalf when a hand unceremoniously snaked its way under his waistband to wrap around his cock.
He struggled to detach from Wooyoung’s lips, grabbing the other man by the back of the neck in an attempt to separate him while his other hand semi-reluctantly pulled Wooyoung’s away from his dick. “Okay! I hate to be the bad guy here, but I’m putting my foot down. We are not fucking in the back seat of a rental less than five minutes out from an after party.”
The pout that crossed Wooyoung’s face was honestly impressive for a grown man. It was, unfortunately, adorable. “You’re no fun,” he huffed. It almost made San’s resolve waiver…almost. He knew Wooyoung loved this part, the parties, the admiration. He just…loved San more.
San leaned forward and placed a quick kiss over that distracting pout. “Only a few hours. Dance. Drink. Be seen.” One more gentle peck. “Disappear later.”
Wooyoung’s jaw loosened, his lips parting and eyes going hazy with want. This was their dance too. Push and pull. Fire and anchor. “Fine. But, if you’re going to make me wait,” he leaned forward, lips brushing San’s as he spoke, “You had better be prepared to make me scream later tonight.”
San’s head thunked back against the seat, Wooyoung's smug laughter following him down. How had he ever thought he had the upper hand in this relationship?
From there, Wooyoung’s energy only sharpened. He laughed louder, leaned closer, touched more freely, hands on arms, fingers curling into fabric as he spoke. To anyone watching, it was Wooyoung being Wooyoung. To San, it was an act, a provocation that made itself known in touches that lingered. Yes, Wooyoung was a fan of physical touch, but he also knew what he was doing.
At one point, Wooyoung drifted close again, brushing past San like he was just crossing the room. His fingers caught briefly at the edge of San’s jacket, tugged once, gone.
San’s jaw tightened with restraint. He adjusted his stance, eyes sweeping the room when, for just a second, he caught something he wasn't expecting.
A face half-turned. Familiar in a way that made his stomach drop.
By the time he focused, the face was gone, swallowed by the crowd, the lights, the mirrors. Or maybe never really there at all.
San exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse down.
Get a grip, he told himself. You’re tired. You’re seeing ghosts.
Across the room, Wooyoung threw his head back laughing at something someone said, radiant and alive and entirely unaware.
San kept watching.