cosmicclue
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Summary
Yunho talked a lot. In person. In texts. In voice messages. Sometimes Mingi would just listen to a three-minute audio of Yunho ranting about a math problem and wonder how on earth does someone passive, pessimistic and antisocial like him would end up friends with someone so energetic.
It wasn’t like Mingi didn’t have other friends. He did. Kind of. But no one else made him feel like that.
(No one else made him feel butterflies in his stomach either, but he googled the symptoms and self-determined it’s most likely gastritis or palpitations, not a crush.)
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Summary
“I’m San,” San says, voice dropping in a force of habit, something that has latched onto him from years of living the same humdrum life and his lifelong acquaintance with introducing himself to people who truly didn't give a fuck about him or anything he did, introductions serving merely as a necessary evil.
The stranger looks at him for a brief moment before he tilts the disinfectant bottle into the ball of cotton, soaking it as he leans forward and presses it against San’s stitches. San grabs his wrist.
“I’m gonna need a name before you treat me, pretty boy,” San says, making sure that it doesn’t come off sounding like a request.
The stranger raises his head to meet his eyes, something like sadness pooling in his eyes, smudged black and purple distracting San for the umpteenth time this evening and whispers softly, “Wooyoung.”
It’s a pretty name for a pretty face, but San is presented with an even prettier smile, shy and curling at the edges of his mouth, lilac field for his hair and cherry blossom cheeks, as he repeats it under his breath.
Or, San is working in the task force as a mercenary for an intergalactic law enforcement authority, and Wooyoung's the anomaly he doesn't see coming.
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“This is Wooyoung, he’s my best friend.” San turns to Wooyoung, leaning in far closer than he would while sober and grabbing Wooyoung by the shoulders. They’re basically the same height so it’s oddly jarring to suddenly be so close, noses almost touching. “You know that, right?” San says seriously.
“Uh, yeah,” Wooyoung says. His tongue feels heavy, the words not quite slurred but not quite clear. The world has gone fuzzy around the edges, San’s face is the only thing in focus.
“My best friend. I love you so much, dude. Seriously. I love you, man. I love you.”
or: the college boys no-homo-bro-but-im-in-love-with-you au we all needed
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They’re in rehearsal before their last two concerts in Kobe when it happens. It’s just one bad landing, his foot slipping where the stage is dented slightly in one place. No one else notices at first, but Seonghwa feels more than hears the sickening pop in his knee.
The pain that erupts through his body makes dark spots appear, dancing, in his field of vision. He looks around, but no one is there to catch him, so he stays upright, tears springing to his eyes.
Seonghwa and the difficult art of letting yourself be taken care of.
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Summary
Seonghwa could only frown in confusion and blink slowly as his tipsy brain tried to make sense of the random question, silently staring at the stranger while he fidgeted anxiously under his gaze.
“How much for an hour?” asked Awkward Guy in a rush.
“An hour?” parroted Seonghwa, feeling even more puzzled by the supposed clarification.
“Oh, you’re right, that’s probably not enough time…” the stranger muttered before touching his glasses nervously. “Ho-how much for the whole night?”
Seonghwa simply stared at him for a second longer before he finally managed to process what the man had said as that last question made the rest of the conversation click and fall into place.
Awkward Guy was asking how much it cost to spend the night with him.
Because he thought Seonghwa was a prostitute.