⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

Two miserable weeks pass.

Loneliness had become a cavern, an endless whirlwind of encompassing darkness that never seemed to ever wane. It was heavy, burdensome like a cloak, sharp as a dagger, painful in ways that no one should ever truly know. Yet, Wooyoung felt it all. He shut himself away, healed on his own, kept to himself, only ever daring to leave the confines of his room late at night once the moon had fully risen, collecting items of food to keep himself fed during the daylight hours.

He didn't want to trip over San's feet, nor to impose in a way that would cause more arguments. Maybe, just maybe, he was overthinking, delicately perusing through ideas and scenarios that would likely never come to pass, but with everything at stake, with the entire risk of their relationship crumbling to an irreplaceable manner, Wooyoung just didn't want to push it.

Changbin came to visit regularly, bringing a few books along with him, or the rare appearance of a few video games, trying to keep Wooyoung company, even in his time of healing. Wooyoung appreciated him more than he could ever know, as Changbin's presence seemed to be his only salvation. His books, of course, provided some comfort, a means of escaping the reality he knew that he made himself a prisoner to.

The irony wasn't lost on him, as he was completely aware of how rearranged the circumstances are between himself and San. Before, San was chasing after him, seeking comfort and intimacy, indulging in some sort of fling just for the sake of stress relief. Now, he was avoiding Wooyoung at all costs, likely drinking himself into a state of misery until he eventually fell asleep. He didn't want San to act like that, nor did he really wish for San to be in pain like this. But what could he do? San didn't want to see him, and Wooyoung wasn't about to go and plead for his attention, either.

Now, two weeks after his near-death experience from Yeonjun, he felt mostly back to normal. His wound was almost completely healed, as a lingering soreness persisted even without stitches present. Otherwise, he was completely engulfed back into a state of normalcy.

Today felt different, though. It wasn't like the other days, filled with a quiet realization that he was locked away inside his own hellish prison. Today, rather, he could hear voices of everyone in the living space drifting through the corridor, laughing and talking about something, mingled with the smell of freshly cooked Korean dishes, reminding Wooyoung of a time when home was just home. When it was comforting and felt safe, not when it was dark and neglectful.

Changbin had texted him earlier, stating that he should come out and join them, yet, Wooyoung remained unsure if he should. He didn't know how everyone felt about him now, especially with the truth shattered and spilt all over the floor. He didn't expect anyone to forgive him, nor be overly friendly, but. . . to fit back into the group, to be with them, to try and just exist again, felt too good to be true.

Changbin was overly encouraging, trying to convince Wooyoung to just step outside of his room, to reintroduce himself, and if anyone had any questions, to just answer them as truthfully as possible. It wasn't that Wooyoung intended on lying anymore, because truthfully, he hadn't. He would explain the situation to anyone who wanted to listen, however, he didn't want the past to become a broken record, to keep having to repeat his mistakes when all he wanted to do was move past them.

But, he digresses. He can't force anyone to speak to him, to want him around, but for the fact that they allowed him to live here, to heal under their protection was grace enough.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Wooyoung, now, had been sitting at his desk, leaning back into his chair by the time his door swung open. He glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow, sucking in a breath at the sight of Changbin carrying a soju bottle.

"You look like you could use this," Changbin muses, a slightly slurred smile faded over his lips.

Wooyoung arches a brow, but he doesn't completely dismiss the idea. "I might, but I don't know about drinking around everyone else–"

"Oh, come on, Woo. They're over it. We're adults here," Changbin says as he saunters over, his wide smile now drifting into something softer. "Not everyone is out there, as I'm sure some of them are paired off and doing God knows what behind a closed door. It's just me, Hyunjin, Yunho and Mingi, Minho and Jisung–"

"That's. . . mostly everyone."

Changbin narrows his gaze before he continues talking again. "Okay, point being, I want you to come drink with me. So, you should."

"You are awful at peer pressure," Wooyoung retorts, but Changbin doesn't falter. Rather, he keeps talking, waving his hand around while the other still holds onto the neck of the soju bottle.

"It's not peer pressure, I'm just. . . poorly convincing you to rejoin our group and come drink with us, mainly because you've been locked in here like a hermit and I will not let you rot inside of this room, alone may I add, any longer."

Wooyoung, a bit taken aback by the words, begins to nod slowly. He understood, even if he sought to protest, part of him wanted to drink himself into oblivion, to let his mind run numb and his emotions fall into silence. He wasn't sure how everyone would feel about him being there, but at this point, he wasn't entirely sure that he cared, not in the way he used to, anyway.

"You're sure that this is okay?" Wooyoung asks, just once more, waiting and hoping for the reassurance that his slightly-tipsy friend might offer.

"Positive," he assures, handing over the bottle, his smile growing. "Come on, Woo. You're healed, you're alive, and you've finally seen the government the way the rest of us do. There's a lot for us to celebrate here."

"I don't know if everyone would celebrate that," Wooyoung mutters, but Changbin scoffs, taking a step backwards.

"Please–" he laughs. "Just because some of them were upset at one point, doesn't automatically mean that they would rather you be dead, Wooyoung. You're one of us, regardless. That says something."

Wooyoung pauses, a slight glimmer of understanding bleeding across his lips, trying to understand the weight of Changbin's every word. He wasn't lying, he wasn't being deceitful. He was being genuine, trying to pull his friend out of his darkened abyss that had been holding him hostage for the last few weeks.

Even still, his excuse for avoiding this entire drinking session would be null, as all he was doing was sitting there, his mind gallivanting through thoughts, both meaningless and obtrusively poignant, though Changbin somehow had a way of enticing him away from everything else. Maybe it was the promise of drinking himself into numbness, a promise of different scenery, a moment of levity, or. . . maybe it was the hidden chance to sneak a glance at San.

In truth, Wooyoung thought about him a lot. More than a lot, really. He hadn't seen him, heard from him, or even had a chance to pass by him in the hall. He was like a ghost, a complete mystery, one that Wooyoung would do anything to unravel himself.

"Fine," Wooyoung finally relents, taking the bottle of soju, turning around in his chair fully. "But this better be worth it, Bin. I don't want to bring myself more trouble just because you want a drinking buddy."

"That's the spirit!" Changbin enthusiastically remarks, reaching to grab Wooyoung by his right wrist, slowly coaxing him out of his chair. "Come on. We can go sit and enjoy the festivities for a little while, and if you want to leave after one drink, then you can. All I'm asking for is one drink."

"Right," Wooyoung says, following Changbin's pull willingly. "One drink better not turn into two."

"No promises!"

With careful, meticulous steps, Wooyoung follows Changbin out of his room, barely hesitating by the door as he treks out into the hall, feeling the cold press of glass grace his palm, the soju bottle dangling carefully, his eyes wandering around every single inch of the white walls in search of a familiar face. San was nowhere to be seen, as he expected, but he couldn't help but feel the slightest bout of disappointment.

As they entered near the living space, Wooyoung felt Changbin's grasp grow lax, his fingers releasing Wooyoung's wrist as he sauntered into the fray without fear. He rejoined the chaos, sitting down on the large sofa, a space near the edge left open, presumably for Wooyoung. Yet, he stands there, the bottle awkwardly pressed against his palm now, his stance wavering for a moment before he glances around the room, absorbing it for everything it was.

Hyunjin was leaning against the wall, a bottle in his right hand, his phone in his left, eyes reading something as a smile graced his lips, entranced in a way that Wooyoung has never really seen him to be. Yunho and Mingi were settled close on the sofa, barely any room between them as Yunho's arm hung lazily against Mingi's shoulders, a bottle nursed in each of their hands, laughing about something as they talked with Hongjoong, who reached for his drink from the coffee table. Seonghwa was nearby, standing upright for now, his hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, looking up to meet Wooyoung's gaze fleetingly. Wooyoung doesn't immediately look away, but after a passing glance, he takes an inward breath, moving to sit down on the sofa next to Changbin. Minho and Jisung sat next to Changbin, bickering lightly about a bag of crisps that must've been popular amongst the masses. Wooyoung raises a brow, observing the chaos delicately, but his senses felt a bit too fuzzy to be truly reading too much into it.

He wasn't even tipsy, but his lack of social prowess, his innate need to seek solitude and hide from his mistakes, seemed to somehow overwhelm everything else. He didn't want to ignore everyone, but he felt like a piece of this puzzle that just didn't belong. The angles and shapes weren't aligning, mixing up with the incorrect box and pieces, trying to fit into a bigger picture that never truly welcomed him in the first place.

So, he takes a sip of his soju instead. He pops the cap off and indulges, letting the taste linger over his tongue, trying to let the feelings bleed elsewhere but here, maybe the carpet, the couch, or even the faint edges of Changbin's clothes. Wherever; Wooyoung didn't care. He just didn't want them here. He didn't want them inside of his own mind anymore.

"Come on," Minho chides, reaching for the bag between himself and Jisung. "Share with me. Don't be so stubborn."

"Who says that I should?" Jisung attests, raising a brow, his tone tinged with an obvious smirk. "You're awfully pushy for someone who doesn't have the higher ground."

"Because I'm your boss," Minho retorts playfully, laughing lightly. "And you're drunk. Give them to me."

"You should listen," Changbin chimes in, his lips curled in a cocky smile. "It would do you good to listen now."

"Says you," Jisung attests, pointing a finger, his eyebrows pinching together. "You never listen to your boss, anyway."

Wooyoung listens carefully, nursing another swig of his drink, his eyes never leaving the conversation that was happening to his left.

"I run communications detail, I practically am my own boss sometimes," Changbin mutters, though Seonghwa scoffs, taking a drink of his own bottle that was once on the coffee table, and was now in his palm.

"What?" Changbin asks, his eyes shifting to look at Seonghwa. "Am I wrong?"

"Everyone in this room is your boss besides Jisung, you idiot," Seonghwa muses, a smile softening the harsh edge of his tone. Wooyoung cracks a small smile, though opting to hide it behind yet another swig of his drink.

Changbin fell into silence, while half of the room, on the other hand, had stumbled into soft laughter. Changbin looked around at everyone, and even despite the smile twitching at his lips, he began to protest, standing up, raising an arm, creating a scene that was completely unnecessary.

"I can't believe you idiots!" He protests, pointing a finger at all of his assailants. "After everything I do for you! Without me, none of you would have a single job!"

Everyone laughs, but no one dares to argue or intervene.

"I keep the lines open, bringing us more deals, more clients, more revenue to fill your pockets–!"

"And yet," a voice intrudes from behind, causing everyone to nearly freeze in the spot. "You live under my roof, eat the food I pay for, all without thanks."

Changbin turns, his eyes widening as he spots the one person that no one expected to hear from. Wooyoung tenses up, his hand nearly gripping his bottle so tightly that he was afraid it might shatter beneath the pressure.

"I am your boss, don't forget. I won't fault you for being drunk and acting a fool, but remember who's the one actually calling the shots," San chides, though there lacked any true bite to his tone.

Changbin sheepishly smiles, offering San a curt nod and a partial, half-assed salute before he sits back down, quiet laughter breaking the voided space that San's words had caused. Wooyoung, however, couldn't hear any of it.

He carefully, slowly, almost tediously, turned to look over his shoulder, trailing his eyes over everything that San was.

His lowly-buttoned shirt, crisp and white in color, rolled up to his elbows, clinging thinly to his torso as if it was tailored specifically for him and him alone. The first three buttons were undone, a silver chain delicately laid against his collarbones. His eyes, red and hazed over, clearly drunk off the essence of his whiskey cabinet, a crystalled glass of amber liquid pressed and nursed against his left hand, lips not yet quirked into a smirk that had usually been present there. His hair, normally perfectly groomed and kept slicked, now lay unkempt against his head, messy at the edges, clinging to his forehead and dancing in front of his eyes, giving way to a more disheveled, yet somehow, intimidating appearance.

There was always that predatory look in his eyes, one that gave way to a darkening, deeper fire that always unraveled anyone he glared at. Wooyoung wasn't immune to his gaze, and he knew he'd never be. But this one, and this one in particular, bled with something completely different. He looked. . . lost. Not in the way someone can't fathom their future, or rather cope with their present, but someone who was grieving the past, and didn't yet know how to move on from it.

Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to talk, to figure it out, to let their past tribulations melt into nothingness just so he could hold San, to let him know that it was okay.

His previous family battles, the loss of someone close to him, the unrivaled anger that drove his vengeance, weighed heavier on him when he was inebriated like this. He seemed more vulnerable, sensitive, clinging to his whiskey as if it were the only thing keeping him somewhat stable-footed.

Then, San's gaze shifted.

Their eyes met, the room falling completely into silence, a dazed blur of emotions struggling to free themselves of the tension bubbling to the surface. Longing, desire, need, and distrust; a flurry of things that Wooyoung couldn't palpably explain, yet felt all at once. San's eyes boiled with tension, his gaze searching, holding steady for a moment before he glances down, breaking line of sight after what felt to be a millennia of holding it.

Wooyoung clutches his drink, tighter than before, eyes watching San's every move as he talks absently, conversing with his crew with a lazy smile, something faint and barely there, yet curled nonetheless. Wooyoung wants to reach him, to do something, but even as San begins to walk away, he feels himself cemented in the spot, nearly rooted there, lost in a trail of thoughts that was meant for him and him only.

San's figure began to grow smaller the further he walked, his steps quiet against the floor, taking another drink from his glass just before he disappeared from sight completely, leaving Wooyoung to watch, unable to move from his spot. He could hear the murmurs of the other couples around the living space, stuck in a tipsy streak of banter, growing closer, indulging in one another, unafraid to share their affections for the other even with the world they lived within.

He couldn't stand it. He didn't want to sit here and drink this entire bottle of soju, watching and listening to everyone drown in their own romantic bliss while he and Changbin chatted about nothing in particular.

Coming out here was a bad idea. Now I miss him. Now I want him. Now I wish I would've just–

"Wooyoung–"

He pauses, turning his gaze back towards Changbin, who was looking at him with a slight glimmer of confusion passing over his gaze. Changbin, ever so kind, somehow read him like a book. Cover to cover, page through page, each paragraph scoured over. Wooyoung felt the blood drain from his face as realization crawled in, his jaw tightening as he fought to make up some sort of lie to cover his basis, but Changbin spoke before he could even have the chance to defend his actions.

"Were you staring at San?"

Wooyoung's lips part, eyes shooting away, guilt betraying him as he sighs. "No, I just–"

"Let's go chat," Changbin suggests, the drink he once held in his hand being dismissed, set onto the nearby table. "I think you need a minute."

Wooyoung doesn't protest, though he nods, following Changbin's movements as they rise off of the sofa without interruption, disappearing towards the kitchen, which felt to be a safe-enough distance from the living space. Changbin stops, leaning against the kitchen island as Wooyoung stands ahead of him, setting his bottle down somewhere far away from his grasp, folding his arms over his chest, slowly blinking to look up at Changbin.

"What's going on?" Changbin asks quietly, keeping his voice low so that their conversation would remain between them alone.

Wooyoung hesitates, only partially, debating on how much he should say versus what he should keep private, given that the likelihood of getting back together with San was next to none.

"The entire reason my mission failed was because of San," Wooyoung says quietly, his eyes shifting to scan the group that wasn't too far away, making sure none of them noticed. For the most part, they were too busy laughing at Mingi to care, as it seemed. "San and I. . . we had a. . . thing going on."

"Oh, so the dramatic risk to save his life wasn't just out of the kindness of your heart?" Changbin muses in a low tone, earning an eye roll from Wooyoung in turn.

"We weren't even. . . it doesn't matter–" Wooyoung rushes out, waving a hand, feeling heat crawl up his neck. "Point is. . . we, well, I have feelings for him, and now. . . I think he'd rather choose to hate me than anything else right now."

"Oh," Changbin says, his eyes softening. "'Feelings' feelings? So, the deeper kind?"

"Yes, you idiot," Wooyoung mutters under his breath as he leans closer, trying to keep his voice down. "I saw parts of him that I'm sure no one else has down here, and I just. . . I want to fix it all. He won't let me, though."

"Well, go on–" Changbin says, gesturing off to the right, almost to where the hallway began.

Wooyoung raises a brow, confused.

"Go," Changbin says once more. "Go get him. Sitting here and eye-fucking him isn't going to fix anything. Words will."

"He doesn't want to hear my words, Bin."

"But right now," Changbin begins to say, his tone oddly persuasive. "He's tipsy, and probably not as angry. He only gets this drunk when he's feeling too much and he wants to drown out the noise. I have a feeling if you go to talk to him, he might just talk back."

Wooyoung takes a moment to glance at the hall that San disappeared down, his eyes shifting to look back at Changbin once more. "Are you sure?" He asks in a small voice, "I don't want to intrude."

"Boy–" Changbin huffs, gently pressing his hand to Wooyoung's lower back, offering him a light shove. "Go in there. Fight for your man."

"Okay–! Okay, shit." Wooyoung smooths out his shirt, pausing near the corner of the hall, his hand just barely touching the archway frame. He spares one last glance at Changbin before making his way down the hall, his fingertips trailing against the faint grain of wood before fleeing back to his side, twitching anxiously, allowing his steps to follow a familiar path towards San's bedroom.

With how he's been, Wooyoung figured he wouldn't be in his office, working away to cure his future hangover, but he'd rather be in the dark of his room, planning and plotting, or fuming about something. Maybe he'd be laying with his loyal dog, or watching a movie, maybe even sleeping. Wooyoung didn't know. He just had to hope that San would hear him out.

His steps were quiet as he walked, heels pressing against the cold floor with every inch spent gaining ground to San's bedroom, hand slightly trembling as it paused, hovering over the handle that remained as the only barrier left between himself and the unknown.

Yet, he turns it, pushing it downwards, letting the door drift open as darkness envelops his senses. The faint flicker of candlelight, the aroma of burnt umber, followed by the sudden deep, threatening growl of a nearby canine. Wooyoung pauses, the door drifting open until the stopper prevents it from making contact with San's wall. Two eyes, dark brown and inquisitive, met Wooyoung's as he looked down, spotting Daemon, San's Doberman, rising from his bed with slow-paced steps guiding him closer to the door. Daemon approached without hesitance, the gold chain hung around his neck glistening in the candlelight as he moved and stopped just barely a foot away from Wooyoung's position.

He swallows, looking down at this protective canine, not making a rash movement, but rather choosing to stay still, hoping to offer the idea of not being an immediate threat. Daemon, however, tensed as he approached, his ears perked upright, eyes sharp, continuing to growl, though not quite pulling his lips back to show his teeth just yet.

"That's enough," a voice rings out from the left, causing the canine to pause, his ear swiveling to listen closely. "Go lay down, Daemon. He's not a threat."

Daemon considers the request, but after a moment of silence, he turns, his demeanor shifting, paws leading him right back to where he came from. Wooyoung steps inside, reaching for the door, closing it behind him with a barely-audible click. The room envelops him then, eyes perusing over the decor as he shifts to look at San, who was sitting on the edge of his bed.

There was an empty whiskey bottle at his feet, a few scattered glasses around his room, the faint traces of cigar butts left abandoned in their ashtray. He was a mess, or had been a mess, just like Seonghwa had said. Clothes were scattered around, draped over chairs and furniture, ties not put away correctly, hangers left askew at the bottom of his now-open closet doors.

He was just as much of a mess as I was. Maybe we both still are.

"You come here, unannounced?" San asks, adjusting the buttons of his shirt, pulling each one loose until the shirt just barely clung open to his shoulders. "You know what I've told you, Wooyoung. I'm not interested in talking."

"I wanted to make sure that you're okay," Wooyoung says quietly, not stepping any closer. "You've clearly been isolating yourself, just like I have, and by the looks of this room–"

"Don't interrogate me, Wooyoung." San pushes himself off of the bed, taking a step closer as he speaks, "I'm not drowning in sorrow because of your pathetic little lies. I'm dealing with some shit; things you can't even fathom. What I'm doing is best for me, not for you, or for anyone else."

"All these empty glasses and bottles say something else," Wooyoung returns, which earns a raise of San's brow. "I'm not here to argue, San. I'm just here to make sure you're okay. I don't want you ruining yourself over me, or even over anyone else."

San pauses at that, his hands reaching to un-roll his sleeves, letting them fall back down to his wrists before he discarded the shirt completely, letting it drift down to the floor. Wooyoung keeps his eyes trailed upwards, refusing to look down, to fall under his spell again, but his presence, his aura alone, was intoxicating.

"I'd rather you argue with me," San returns. "At least it'll prove that you care, that whatever we had meant something."

"San–"

"What?" He demands, stepping even closer, barely half an arms' length away. "You're thinking too much, Wooyoung. That's what you're always doing. Thinking, analyzing, trying to make sure everything runs under your control. You're never just here. You were never just with me. It was always about something else, wasn't it?"

Wooyoung begins to shake his head, but San reaches up, grabbing his chin gently, holding his gaze, lowering his tone until the words Wooyoung never thought he'd hear fell from his lips.

"Then why are you here, Wooyoung? Are you here to talk, or for something else?"

Wooyoung doesn't falter, doesn't shy away, but he couldn't help but feel himself drift back into that place that somehow held him hostage to San's every wish. He didn't want to argue, truthfully, but with San's warmth bleeding closer to his skin, the way his eyes were boring into his own, mingling with the ache of need bubbling from beneath; it was a recipe for pure disaster.

San lingers there, his hand falling away from Wooyoung's chin, the tension settling between them so palpably, it felt like an electric current. Everything Wooyoung wanted to say fell on a broken voice, harboring themselves on his tongue as he sat submissively beneath San's gaze. He didn't feel small, nor did he feel weak; he just felt. . . powerless. He wanted San to shut his mind off, to clear the doubts, to speak on the things left unresolved. Most of all, he just wanted San.

Without thinking, Wooyoung wraps his hand around the back of San's nape, pulling him closer as their lips meet in a fiery, deepening kiss. To Wooyoung, it felt like breathing again. As if he had been starved completely and deprived of everything good in this world, now rushing back to him, replenishing his will to live and simply exist.

He melted into it, feeling as San's hands wrapped around his waist seamlessly, as if they had always belonged there. But his hands didn't linger for long, rushing about and pulling, nearly tearing at the fabric that kept them apart. Everything was in a blur, met with the snaps of belt buckles and unloops of buttons, fabric pooling to the floor and kicked away, completely forgotten until they'd come to regret this tomorrow morning.

But Wooyoung didn't care. He never did when it came to San.

He wanted to be ruined, to feel nothing except San's hands on him, to taste him, to memorize the way San's lips warmed his own. He wanted to look in the mirror tomorrow and see himself purpled in bites and stakes of claim, to wake up and look directly at the one person that could take him apart piece by piece before delicately placing him right back together, as if it never even happened.

Wooyoung's hands moved with a devious tremble, slipping San free of his trousers until they too landed amongst the growing pile scattered near San's large bed, abandoned from thought, leaving them bare and pressed against one another as their lips and heavy breaths chased after the only thing they could ever pull from one another.

San's hands drifted lower, hooking beneath Wooyoung's thighs as he picked him up, holding him close, all before pressing him against the nearby wall with their lips still practically glued to one another. Wooyoung can feel the texture of the wall pressing against his back, the cool paint likely leaving faint marks against his skin, his hands clutching onto San's shoulders before he feels the male shift, thighs tightening around his waist, preparing for the inevitable.

He wanted this. He wanted San. He didn't care if he was slightly tipsy, or even if he was making this worse. Right now, all he wanted was this. He needed the escape, the moment to breathe, to feel anything else but his eternal sense of dread, lost in the thought that he'd simply be better off dead.

He wanted the reassurance, the bleeding affections, the lingering kisses and coiling in his stomach. God, he needed it.

Gasps and groans bleed through the once-quiet room as San presses himself into Wooyoung, leaving the younger to tighten his grip around San's waist, arms wrapping around San's neck, letting his head fall back against the wall as the messy strands of his hair wildly cling to his neck and shoulders. San didn't hesitate, rolling his hips without a single essence of tenderness, rushing to claim whatever it was that he was chasing after.

Wooyoung let him. He wanted San to use him, to free himself of those thoughts, of that need to control something, now beginning to realize just how much he never wanted San to do this with anyone else. He wanted to be the only one, the one person San trusted more than anyone else, all while loving him and him alone. He couldn't let anyone else have him like this, to be vulnerable and exposed, to kiss him and taste him, to feel him intimately; he couldn't.

It was toxic, possessive in a way that was completely unlike Wooyoung, but in this moment, feeling as San's hips move and press upwards against his own, he finds himself unable to care anymore. All of his old ideals, his old personality, his previous acts of wanting to escape from Korea entirely, fizzled out into complete silence. This is what he wanted now. San, the mafia, the Velvet Mirage, this life; it was everything he was secretly craving for his life, and now that he had a taste of it, he couldn't simply let it go.

San was ravaging him with every single inch of fleeting control, his pace unrelenting and quick, snapping upwards as Wooyoung arched into him, sliding a hand into San's hair, tugging and pulling with breathless moans fleeing from his lips as he let the male completely devour him. San traced a languid, sickening trail against Wooyoung's jaw with his tongue, teeth grazing against Wooyoung's pulse as he trailed lower, biting into his skin like a rabid animal, wanting nothing more than to leave indents of their time together as a reminder of just how much he owned him.

Even if San hated him, even if this was going to be the last time they'd be together like this, there'd still be the marks. There'd still be the acknowledgement of how, right now, Wooyoung was completely and utterly his. As he sunk his nails into San's back and drug them upwards, he knew that San wouldn't simply let anyone else mark him that way, staking his own claim in whatever way he physically could. But it'd never be enough. He would need more, to mark him over and over again, to claim the one person that belonged to him in the same manner he belonged to him, too.

His breaths were stuttering, pressed flush against the wall, letting San completely unravel every single inch of his essence with every upwards thrust that began to unfurl a feeling that was all too familiar. He gasps, moans, digs his fingernails in tighter, letting his head fall back with his eyebrows pinched together, feeling everything as it all tumbles into a quickening burst.

He falls into the unknown, breathing out San's name in a claim of lust, legs falling limp, grip loosening completely as San held him there, pinned against the wall, hands tucked just beneath his thighs in a manner of support.

He could feel San's breath against his skin, their chests heaving uncontrollably, sweat clinging to their bodies as they stood there, wordless in the aftermath of their actions. Wooyoung remains put, watching San, trying to read his demeanor, to gauge if this had been a complete mistake or not, but the moment San looks up, he finds a trace of the male he once knew lingering just beneath.

Slowly, carefully, San leans closer, their noses just barely brushing against one another as their lips meet in a delicate kiss. Wooyoung sighs into it, exhausted, slightly tipsy, yet entranced by the feeling of having San surround him like this. For once, he felt. . . safe, and that was an entirely new feeling that he hadn't felt before.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, as the day always swelled with the unknown, but all he could hope was this wouldn't disappear. He wanted to remain close to San, to figure this out, even if it involved a few arguments.

San was worth it, after all.

And he'd do anything to prove that he'd change. Not just for San, but for himself.