Archive of Our Own

Jeonghan wore a perpetual mien of apathy as he headed for the elevator, hurriedly striding along their floor’s dimly lit hallways, hell-bent on making a clean escape. Without a hint of remorse, he had left some of his colleagues napping on the uncomfortable (but terribly expensive) leather couch at his office, semi-inebriated and beat after a couple of rounds of drinking bottles of affordable, convenience store-bought wines. He originally wanted some Ribolla Gialla, but given the current state of his wallet after his pesky best friend had blackmailed him into dining at La Yeon for lunch two days ago (Joshua had the gall to use him as an excuse to see the very suave Executive Chef Lee Seokmin once again), Jeonghan had thought the bargain-basement vinos would do for now.

It was not the kind of celebration he had pictured inside his head. He should have gone home when he had the chance to and doze his exhausted (overworked was a more appropriate term) ass off in the comforts of his bedroom rather than attending this wretched, soulless “party” held at their department’s poorly maintained conference room. Socializing with these halfwits was, in fact, an accomplishment worthy of a seventeen-hour sleep.

Their team had recently sealed a multimillion-dollar deal with a top hotel brand, and everyone was eager to see a table full of mouth-watering dishes and crates of free alcohol as a reward for everyone’s hard work, but the pungent smell of cheap Vietnamese takeouts, courtesy of their despicable department director (may he rot in hell), had welcomed them for dinner instead. The pho was excessively salty and the lack of shrimp inside the gỏi cuốn had them sniveling in utter disappointment (and at least one of them might have gotten a stomachache after the meal). He should have lowered his expectations the moment the director’s assistant, a snooty middle-aged woman who loves to sneak off to the copy room to watch raunchy telenovelas on her iPad, had volunteered to organize the said social function with exceptional earnestness. Jeonghan could only rub his temple where a migraine had begun percolating as he watched his coworkers hang a badly photoshopped congratulatory banner on the wall.

He skidded to a halt as he reached the main set of elevators, jabbing the button multiple times like a cat on a hot tin roof. It was a little past eight and the office area was usually deserted at this hour as his fellow architects would rather work on their blueprints at home, undeniably spooked out at the thought of doing overtime alone. Their seniors had too much fun sharing their made-up ghost encounters last Halloween, that they had effectively frightened their poor juniors into going home before the clock strikes nine. It’s been said that a lady in a white, flowy gown lurks around the cubicles and corridors at that time, with angry, bloodshot eyes, weeping for help.

The set of doors to his left opened with a soft ding, interrupting his train of thought. Jeonghan scurried onward, only to retreat at the sight of another man standing squarely in the middle of the lift.

Oh.

The man had visibly swallowed, staring at him, unsure of what to do. It took him a few beats before he raised his right hand up for a friendly but hesitant wave, accompanied by his signature gummy grin (and Jeonghan had wanted nothing more but to bite those scrunched up cheeks). 

“Good evening, Mr. Yoon.” The man greeted, a little nervy. “Come in, come in.”

Jeonghan had quickly regained composure, bewilderment slowly turning into roguish glee. The man took a few steps backward, albeit ungracefully (which was very unlikely of him, by the way), to give him space. He trudged inside the box as the elevator doors closed up behind him, flashing the blundering engineer a megawatt smile.

“Choi Seungcheol," he drawled, liking the way the other man’s name rolled off of his tongue, “what a pleasant surprise! Fancy seeing you here this late. Hardworking as always, I see.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Yoon. I was out the entire day monitoring the construction of a new condominium near Garosugil district but I had to return here to finish a site plan and schedule some material and equipment purchases needed on Thursday.” Seungcheol replied, a little flushed, staring at his well-polished shoes. “What about you? Overtime?”

Jeonghan hummed as his gaze roamed over the twitchy engineer, searching for clues. He took this moment to subtly observe the other’s face. He had not seen him for three consecutive weeks; the last time was during Soonyoung and Jihoon’s unruly engagement party (unruly was an understatement, honestly speaking—it was unruly in quite such a cataclysmically, shamefully terrible way; he could not even recall what happened for the half of it, three sheets to the wind), held at an exclusive club at Gangnam-gu. Seungcheol had always exuded this alluring, manly aura, his silver-blue locks dyed back to black, trimmed and slightly permed. He was, as usual, impeccably dressed in that striped Giorgio Armani wool suit (that Jeonghan could probably never afford—eat the rich) and his favorite Bottega Veneta overcoat, the first three buttons of his black collared shirt undone like it was not 2°C outside. It was unfair, really, how Jeonghan looked smashed and dead on his feet, awfully so, while Seungcheol, despite the pressure and heavy workload, looked like he was going to pose for the front cover of Vogue magazine. He would let this man step on him with that blatantly costly Christian Louboutin oxfords any day, he mused.

“Mr. Yoon?” the man asked, softly. “Are you alright? You seemed out of it.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, I’m alright.” He tried to keep his voice as steady as he could, but he was quite sure that the other could somehow still see right through his sudden unease. He should definitely put his unprincipled daydreaming to a halt, not when the subject of the said daydream was standing a few feet away from him. Choi Seungcheol was, undoubtedly, a wickedly attractive distraction—and the young interns in their team’s secret group chat would definitely agree without shillyshallying.

Jeonghan then continued as the engineer watched him with an indecipherable expression on his face. “Apologies, where are we? Oh, right! As much as I adore my work, I rarely do overtimes, unless the project calls for it. So, no, I wasn’t here for that. Director Song threw a shindig after securing that multimillion Jeju resort project hence, why I'm still here. Well, truth be told, it was hardly a blowout. The stingy alec couldn't even order meat for us! God, I was craving for some jokbal. Or a large pan of dakgalbi! My mouth even waters at the thought of it. Ah, I sincerely hope Director Song steps on a lego.”

Seungcheol could only shake his head, amused with his whining. “That’s really unfortunate, Mr. Yoon. I bet he bought you Vietnamese again? From that hole-in-the-wall that sells bland, inauthentic Asian food at Eulji-ro?”

“Spot on! He is quite predictable, isn’t he?” Jeonghan had chuckled. He would be lying if he says he did not catch sight of how skittish the other was, seeing how the engineer kept addressing him formally and was tapping his foot on the floor, lightly, impatiently. He had decided to bring it up, curious, and unhesitatingly went on. “And please, Seungcheol-ah, you don’t have to be so formal. I grow a little older every time someone addresses me like that. I thought we were friends!”

“Well, are we?” Seungcheol had asked, inaudibly, like it was not meant to be heard of, before he looked at him and smiled. 

He had thought about Seungcheol’s inquiry once more. Are they friends? He hadn’t been expecting the question, so he had to think before he answered.

Engineer Choi was quite civil with him, before, during and after office hours, of course (he had found it necessary to reiterate that)! He had worked with him plenty of times, alongside Architect Lee who, in his immodest gremlin mode, had never failed to throw a T-square or steel scales at Engineer Kwon’s direction back in their morning huddles (over the years, Jeonghan had learned that it may or may not have been a part of their peculiar foreplay—kids these days, really). Regardless of the continuous derision from his father’s business partners and the board of directors, Seungcheol had proven himself an invaluable employee at the firm. He was the founder’s son and the only successor of Choi Associates, he was bound to get subjected to public scrutiny and constant ridicule, but the engineer had paid them no heed and determinedly climbed up the corporate ladder without using his family’s influence nor connections. After countless projects together, in spite of his initial qualms, it was safe to say that Jeonghan had gained a newfound regard for the man.

(And maybe he had developed a little crush too, but that was all in the past; it was not important, it’s ancient history.)

So, going back to the question: are they friends? Jeonghan was itching to say yes. Although if he were to tell anyone, he would have bragged about their supposed bond in a heartbeat. Sure, Seungcheol had invited him for a night out a few times at his lavish Hannam-dong pad (just the two of them) and had keenly conversed about varied sets of topics ranging from modern revisionism, the downsides of hostile architecture to comparing their baffling natal charts over fried chicken and beer, no big deal. The other had driven him home a lot of times too, Seungcheol automatically passing him the AUX cable so they could listen to some good tunes from either Yun Ddan Ddan or a random Western artist he was fond of at the moment (Jeonghan had forbidden the engineer from playing his achingly depressing Spotify playlist—he might as well put Phoebe Bridgers’ entire album “Punisher” on it). And increasingly he was convinced Seungcheol sees him as a dear companion, not just a mere colleague but someone he could trust to babysit his beloved Coton de Tulear, Kkuma (but dear readers, the dog loathes his entire being and he couldn’t figure out why).

So, they were close, if Jeonghan said so himself. Close enough that he could freely steal two-thousand-dollar Balenciaga jackets from Seungcheol’s walk-in closet every now and then (though it was not the only thing he had stolen; he had sneaked out cartons of strawberry milk from his refrigerator before but please, don’t tell Seungcheol). And they might have cuddled on his own apartment’s ratty but comfortable sofa bed several times (that he already lost count; it’s not like he was keeping track—okay, maybe he was) while binge-watching crime documentaries or cliché romantic comedies on Netflix that either starred Ryan Gosling or Zac Efron. In spite of these romantic trysts, Jeonghan loved to believe that they were maintaining a healthy professional relationship. Furthermore, good work relationships are always a must! For group morale and productivity!

Seungcheol coughed, the fakest he’d ever heard. “Han? You’re spacing out again. Are you sure you're okay?”

Seungcheol’s left hand settled on Jeonghan's head, thoroughly twining his fingers into his hair. He did not even notice that the other was already hovering this close beside him as he drowned in his own musings. Normally, Jeonghan would lean into the touch and savor the way the other’s nimble fingers card through the strands of his hair with gentleness and muted intimacy, it was something Seungcheol often did to soothe his nerves, but he had forgotten to wash his hair that day and quickly jumped back on the corner reflexively. What if his hair stank and was nauseatingly greasy? Jeonghan wanted to set himself on fire.

“T-there...there’s n-nothing to worry about, S-Seungcheol-ah.” He’d begun, sputtering unattractively (good grief, Jeonghan), and then stopped. Beside him, Seungcheol waited, worry etched on his face. “I was—I was, er, thinking about, uhm...a book? Yes, a b-book! A book that I’ve read about interior designing? Right! Interior designing! I was very interested in interior designing these days. You know Mingyu? Minghao’s boyfriend? Mingyu, our department’s Designated Tall Person? Silly me, of course you know him. He was the one who recommended it.”

Jesus, take the bloody wheel.

“Oh, okay then.” Seungcheol had said, slumping his back on the lift’s panel with his arms crossed.

The hush of fervid confidence, not entirely gone, but overwhelmed by something closer to self-consciousness, seeping out of his skin had him sighing in defeat. Jeonghan was embarrassed: of his possibly musty hair, of his uncharacteristic inelegance, of Seungcheol’s heart fluttering concern. On his periphery, he could see the other restlessly shifting beside him, checking the time on his Piaget wristwatch (a family heirloom, the engineer had told him once) every five seconds. Jeonghan had continued to conspicuously ignore him notwithstanding his urge to fix the other’s sloppy collar out of habit (disgustingly domestic, he knows—well, he does Junhui’s or Soonyoung's too, but not as often as Seungcheol) or engage in a polite, small talk between colleagues (though why folks called it small, he didn’t know). 

Jeonghan could only sigh, giddy anticipation long gone. He was hoping to catch up with the other, but his Confident Gay Persona, as Joshua loved to call it, had escaped his body the last minute, leaving him rambling like a buffoon. They text each other every now and again, and their conversations were, strangely enough, too restrained, brief and almost withdrawn the past few weeks. He wanted to thump himself on the back. When did they become so awkward? 

And what’s taking this elevator so long? Has it always been this slow?

Running out of patience, he darted forward to inspect the position indicator. He had felt himself freeze in momentary terror. It had stopped. For how long, that he wasn’t sure of.

They were trapped.

He willed himself to speak. “Cheolie?”

Immediately taking notice of the slight tinge of panic in his tone, Seungcheol ambled behind him, his chest now warmly pressed against Jeonghan’s back. His hands settled on Jeonghan's hips, secure, guiding him backwards so he could inspect the COP panel himself, his eyebrows knitted in concentration as he tried pressing the emergency buttons one by one. Jeonghan wanted to squeeze his eyes shut but he didn’t want to look away either. He had begun doing some breathing exercises to lessen the dread he was feeling (or was it dread? or something wholly different?). He wasn’t sure what he was so anxious about: the thought of the elevator potentially plummeting to the ground at a hundred miles per hour or his close proximity with Seungcheol? He was all too aware of the man’s presence behind him, his stomach crawling at the familiar smell of his perfume—it was Creed. Creed Aventus, to be exact. It was funny, truly, how the people at the company lobby knew the engineer had arrived because of the distinct, virile scent of his fancy fragrance.

“So,” Jeonghan whispered, trying to sound unafraid but miserably failing. Seungcheol slightly turned his head to look at him, eyes flickering with concern. He felt his face go hot, feeling the other’s minty breath fanning his left cheek. He squeaked. “Are we really trapped?”

“Unfortunately.” Seungcheol pulled back, sighing as he backed himself on the corner of the elevator. “Both call and alarm buttons aren’t functional. Maybe the electricity in the building fluctuated for a moment. I guess we have to wait it out.”

Jeonghan wanted to chase the warmth but had forced himself not to. He stood across Seungcheol, sagging against the wall.

“Han? Are you okay? You can tell me,” asked Seungcheol, and his voice was so calm that for a few seconds, he thought he was imagining it. It was barely above a whisper, a tad bit gruff.

They were hedged inside a death box—was Jeonghan okay? Of course not. Be that as it may, he did not want Seungcheol to see him vulnerable and did what he does best: feigning confidence.

“I'm feeling wonderful! Grand, even!” He clapped his hands in faux delight. “So, while we’re waiting to get saved from this harrowing situation, let’s have a little chit chat to pass time. Did you kno—”

But before he could even initiate another painfully awkward tête-à-tête, a weird grinding noise echoed inside the lift. It was coming from above, the sound progressively strident. Why was it making such noise when they had stopped moving? 

The both of them had tensed in alarm.

“Wait—can you hear that?” Seungcheol whispered, every word he uttered bled nervousness.

His head spun, worst case scenarios playing inside his head like grainy, black and white sequences from the fifties at the beginning of apocalyptic films. “Oh god, is this the part where the cables will snap in a trice and a disaster will ensue?”

“Jesus Christ, Jeonghan! Don’t say things like that! You're scaring me!” Seungcheol snapped, grasping the handrail as he cautiously eyed the ceiling. “These elevators have safety breaks! We are not going to die here!”

“Hush, Mr. Choi! I'm trying my best to stay calm here!” He hurled back, annoyed and terror-stricken at the same time. Seungcheol’s apparent distress did nothing to put him at ease. “I was under the impression that I was not crossing the Styx today. Dying is not on my agenda!”

“It isn’t on anyone’s, for Pete’s sake!”

Another clack, louder this time.

A perturbed Seungcheol had barreled forward to where Jeonghan was and wrapped a strong arm around his waist. He was stunned for a brief moment until he felt Seungcheol pulling him impossibly closer, with a stirring intensity, wrenching him out of his stupor. Jeonghan held onto him so tightly that he could feel the rise and fall of the engineer’s chest, that he could almost feel the knuckle of his spine through his overcoat. He shook numbly, afraid for their safety, for their lives, burrowing his face on the crook of Seungcheol’s neck.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

A few minutes had passed but nothing happened. The graunching had stopped too. It was once again silent, save for their heavy breathing. Jeonghan squeezed his eyes shut, before opening them. It was virtually impossible for the lift to free-fall but Seungcheol, in panic, must have thought the elevator might plummet down its shaft thus, his reaction. He felt himself weirdly close to tears. They were safe.

“Cheolie?” Jeonghan murmured, patting the engineer’s back twice. “I think we’re safe.”

But Seungcheol did not budge, still clinging onto him, a little too firm. That’s when he had realized, suddenly, that the other was trembling. The man had always been a cosmic ball of anxiety waiting to flare up.

“Can we stay like this a little longer?” asked Seungcheol. There was a rigid set on his shoulders.

Jeonghan tried to hold the pieces of his heart together as concern descended on him like a heavy weight. “Are you okay?”

“Good god, Jeonghan-ah. I’m—I’m scared shitless.” Seungcheol had said, words muffled against his shoulders. Jeonghan had kept rubbing his back with a comforting hand, fervently hoping it would make the other feel better, safer. “For a brief moment, I thought the both of us are going to die here today.”

“It’s not a good way to go, isn’t it?” Just as it had years before, the sound of his voice seemed to relax Seungcheol, slowly but surely coaxing him out of his agitated daze. “Don’t you think this would be a nice cocktail party repertory?”

Seungcheol chuckled, his grip on Jeonghan not wavering. “Damn right it is.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, all barriers down, holding onto each other like their life depended on it. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system making him feel all mushy inside, or maybe it’s really just him craving for physical contact. And as much as he did not want to dwell on such nonsensical feelings, perhaps Jeonghan had missed this terribly. They had never been this close for quite a while now—Seungcheol had always been the clingy one, the more affectionate one between the two of them but, right at this moment, he was the one oddly touch starved.

But good things must come to an end. Jeonghan pulled away first, like he always did, knowing they couldn’t stay like this for long, as much as his heart was longing for such tender, gratifying contact.

“Is something wrong?” Was how Seungcheol had broken the chilling silence, his hands seizing hold of his like greased lightning. The look in his eyes was calm but questioning. But there was something more to it—it was equal parts fierce and unguarded—something Jeonghan was hankering to decode.

Not wanting to make things awkward again (please, he had enough of it), Jeonghan had retracted his hands from the other's grasp and punched the engineer’s arm jokingly, making an effort to lighten up the atmosphere. “Eh? You just want to hug me longer, didn't you? Do you miss my loving arms that much?”

That made Seungcheol pause. His expression had changed from bafflement to pinched embarrassment, furiously blushing at Jeonghan’s half-flirtatious, half-chiding remarks. He liked seeing the other shy, pink-faced, squirming at the slightest teasing lilt in his tone.

“You—you really are—”

“Charming? Awe-inspiring? Gorgeous?”

“Insufferable.” Seungcheol answered, failing to keep his smile from getting bigger. “You are insufferable.”

“I know.” He breathed. He wanted to reach for him. He did not. “Feeling better now?”

Seungcheol nodded. “Thank you, Jeonghanie. I’m lucky to have you here with me. What I mean is, at least I’m stuck here with you? Not like getting stuck here is a marvelous experience—goodness, everything I say sounds so wrong. Ignore all that. I just want to say you’ve always been a reliable friend and I appreciate your presence a lot.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightened. It was time to start accepting only what Seungcheol could give him. 

“Sure, Cheolie. What friends are for?”

The two of them stood quietly for a while, facing but not looking at each other, the awareness of how close they were in this confined space gradually rushing in. Paying too much attention to Seungcheol was the problem, not the other way around.

“So, what do we do now?” Seungcheol asked, sheepishly rubbing his nape.

A half-baked idea had suddenly popped up inside his head; a ridiculous, but a short-term solution (it could be, if he forces it). 

“I had thought about something that may or may not work.”

“Yeah? Shoot.”

Jeonghan tried to keep his face straight while Seungcheol innocently blinked up at him. 

“It involves you singing at the top of your lungs.”

The other stared at him in horror, lifting his arms together to form an X. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun, Mr. Choi.” Jeonghan had pursed his lips, playfully pushing the other away. The awkward atmosphere had dispersed at long last, as he strived to turn this mortifying ordeal into his own personal entertainment. “How about we blast some music on our phones? Someone might hear it.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened as he cupped Jeonghan’s face, unanticipatedly, squishing his cheeks in thinly veiled excitement. A hyped-up smile adorned his features. Jeonghan was too shocked to do nor say anything, not having expected the chummy gesture in the slightest. 

“Shit! Jeonghan! You’re a genius! Phones! Why did we not think of that? Does your phone have a signal?”

“Oh! Hold up, let me just—” Jeonghan had begun reaching for his pockets until it promptly hit him with a dawning terror that he had forgotten to grab his coat on his way out (so that’s why he was frozen stiff). “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I think I left it inside my coat’s pocket. And it just dawned to me that I left the office without wearing my coat. I left my bag in there too. Fuck, my car keys too! How am I supposed to go home?”

“Aren’t you cold?” Seungcheol inquired and he was, once again, surveying him with such caring eyes. No matter how many times Jeonghan had reassured himself that he was not, in any way, affected, the butterflies in his stomach would not stop flapping their delicate wings whenever he met his gaze, proving him otherwise.

“A bit? I think I’m okay—” The other was not having any of it, taking his overcoat off to drape it over his somewhat trembling form, his nonchalant chatter interrupted. His heart ached; it smelled like him. “Ya! What are you doing? I said I’m okay!”

Jeonghan had concluded that he was more likely to die from a Seungcheol-induced heart attack rather than the elevator plunging five storeys to the ground—he was in peril.

“Your hands feel like ice, Jeonghan-ah. I don’t think you’re okay.” Said the engineer, suddenly terse, securing the coat around his neck like a blanket.

Without the coat on, he couldn’t help but notice how glorious Seungcheol looked in this ensemble, fit in all the right places, elegant, powerful. And it had seemed like his arms got a little thicker too. Not that it was necessary to keep such information. It was simply an observation. Nothing more.

“Fine, if you insist.” He relented.  “But what about you? Won’t you get cold?”

“This suit is made of wool. It’s perfect for winter.”

“That’s a two-thousand-dollar suit, all right. Well, regardless, all your suits cost an arm and leg, tailored by the best craftsmen.” Jeonghan had snickered, tone a little mocking. “It would be a waste if it couldn’t keep you warm as advertised. I could’ve bought a few reasonably priced suits from Topman or Zara with that amount of money! But have no fear, if the globalized capitalist order collapses, you’re the last rich person I’m eating.”

“Hey, I refuse to accept the suit slander.” Seungcheol quipped, bluffing offense. “But I feel oddly comforted by the fact I’m the last person in your Wealthy People to Eat list.”

“Please, I’m being economical, Vice Chairman Choi. And yes, you don't have to worry about me biting your face off. Billionaires are on the top of my list.” Jeonghan straightened, jutting his chin out in mock defiance. “Anyway, do you have your phone with you?”

“I think so, yeah.”

Seungcheol had begun rummaging inside his unconventionally large Louis Vuitton bag, taking out a whole lot of things like his Macbook, his phone and laptop chargers (the cords were twisted messily), a carnation pencil case, his equally expensive Louis Vuitton zippy wallet, airpods, Listerine Cool Heat Pocketpaks, cute strawberry-patterned band aids (he’s so adorable), stick packs of red ginseng extracts, an Etude House chapstick, a Peripera lip tint, the planner he got from Seungkwan last Christmas, a paperback copy of ‘Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982’ by Cho Nam-Joo (punctuated with colorful sticky index tabs), a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, face masks, a flashlight, a self-retracting metal tape measure, a cup of Shin Ramyun (Seungcheol was unsure whether to take this one out or not, looking endearingly bashful), a bag of matdongsan, a pill box, a medium pack of wet wipes, and a pair of chopsticks. He could only stare at the other in awe (and a tinge of judgment) as Seungcheol laid out all his stuff on the floor one by one (he should’ve brought his entire house with him at this point). An assortment of things but there was not a single cell phone in sight. 

Jeonghan was about to ask if Seungcheol had also forgotten his phone somewhere when he blurted out a striking “Fuck! I’ve found it!”, tightly clutching the mobile device on his right hand like he dug a gold bar in his backyard. 

He watched as the engineer had turned it on posthaste. “Good news, I have a signal. A couple of bars but it’ll do. Bad news, my phone’s running out of battery. Nineteen percent left.” 

Seungcheol had shown him his phone screen with a dismayed pout. His lockscreen was a precious photo of him and Kkuma cuddling, Jeonghan had taken note of. 

“Then what are you waiting for? Call someone, quick!”

Seungcheol set about scrolling through multiple contacts straight away, hands twitching in vigor. His finger hovered on Architect Lee Jihoon’s contact, pressing the call button without further delays.

“Lee Jihoon!” Seungcheol exclaimed as the other had picked up after five grievous rings, putting him on loudspeaker.

“What do you want? This better be important, Choi.”  Jihoon hissed with murderous intent, foregoing honorifics as always. Don’t be troubled, he’s a respectful child during official business hours (strictly from 8 AM to 5 PM only). “It’s a quarter past nine! I’m in the middle of doing something important.”

Seungcheol could only grumble, seemingly disgusted at the thought of his best friend doing some wild, questionable extracurricular activities at the other end of the line. “Geez, I hope it’s not something...sexual.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, hyung! Jihoonie and I are watching the latest episode of WandaVision! Spoiler alert but Pietro just appeared in it! It’s getting pretty intense and Jihoonie’s getting more impatient as we speak. He resembles an angry bread bun right now, if you know what an angry bread bun looks like. You’re in trouble, Seungcheol hyung!” Soonyoung, Jihoon’s bubbly fiancé, interjected, with more verve than necessary.

“I’m keying your newly bought McLaren if you don’t tell us what’s up right now! You’re disturbing our movie night!” 

Seungcheol was instinctively affronted, issuing the architect threats of a lawsuit and restraining orders. “Jihoonie, you are my favorite, but expect a TRO in front of your doorstep. I'm definitely suing you if you dare lay a hand on Elizabeth.”

“For goodness' sake! What kind of dolt names their car ‘Elizabeth’?”  

“You snarky jerk! Have you not read Pride and Preju—”

“For crying out loud!” Jeonghan had snatched the phone away from Seungcheol’s hold, patience running thin. As much as he remotely enjoyed listening to these two young adults banter like playground rivals, they were in the middle of a disturbing predicament. He wanted to go home, get some well-deserved rest, and not think about this unspeakable distraction standing beside him for a while. “Folks! Can we please focus on the emergency at hand?”

“Is that Jeonghan hyung?”

“Jeonghan-hyung!” The couple had bawled from the other line, jolly and spirited. He had caught Seungcheol muttering ‘they are so happy to hear from Jeonghanie but why are they so rude to me?’ under his breath, childishly sulky.

“Yes, kids, it’s me. Can you please ring the office or an elevator company, or anyone, I couldn’t care less if it’s a random stranger outside, for assistance, if you may? We’re trapped inside the elevator for nearly an hour now. Power’s still on but emergency buttons aren’t working.”

Soonyoung wheezed, voice raising an octave higher. “Oh my god! You should’ve told us right away! Are you guys okay? Is no one hurt? Oh, no, my poor hyungs.”

“Quite shaken up but we’re okay. But it’s getting really cold, and Hanie’s teeth are slightly chattering as we speak. I don’t think the building security would answer, so contacting an elevator company would be our best bet. Would it be a bother to ask you to come here? I'm sorry for the sudden request. Bring an extra coat too or a blanket, if you can, please. Thank you.”

“No, not at all, hyung. We’ll try to be there in thirty.” Soonyoung replied with enormous urgency. There was a lot of rustling and padded footsteps coming from the other line. “Ji, love, we have to go there right now! Can you please get my keys? Thank you! And kindly wear your scarf! I don't want you sick! Love you babe! See you, hyungs!”

“Thank you, my sweets. Please dress warmly and drive safely. Apologies for disturbing your rest. Cheol will buy you lunch tomorrow instead!”

“I will?” Seungcheol asked, flabbergasted, pointing at himself.

“Yes, you will.” He replied, in a voice which probably made his team members cower in fear and his bosses agree to whatever he was proposing (be it about a departmental budget increase or improving unnecessarily stringent company policies), despite it sounding saccharinely indulgent.

Seungcheol could only nod. See? The magic of persuasion! (And slight intimidation—but his best friend would probably disagree and categorize it as overt manipulation or coercion. Joshua never had faith in his ethics.)

“Be careful, you two. No rush, we’ll wait.”

“Please hold up a little longer. See you guys in a bit.” Jihoon had said reassuringly.

“Oh, hyungs! Huddle for warmth, the both of you! Hug it out or, I don’t know, copulate? Body is heat is the ans—”

Jeonghan had never ended a call so fast, casting his head to the side to look at something else, embarrassed.

“Oh, dear, what a mess.” Seungcheol had remarked, the tip of his ears a bit reddened. “Soonyoung’s mouth, really.”

“At least we're finally getting out of this huge electrical box.” Jeonghan had said.

“A ray of hope, finally.” Seungcheol sighed as he crouched down on the floor, mindlessly shoving his stuff back inside his bag without a specific organizational system. Jeonghan was scandalized. “Those two could be very extreme at times but they’re good kids.”

“You talk like you’re ten years older than them. And yeah, they’re an awfully horny duo but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” 

Jeonghan had been actually friends with the couple longer than Seungcheol. He got close with Soonyoung first. The engineer was a real sweetheart, his childlike mannerisms successfully drawing him in his orbit. He was popular amongst the employees, from snippy supervisors to cleaning ladies, well-received and admired—a crowd favorite. He was introduced to Jihoon next (as the two were already dating for a year then), and Jeonghan was a bit intimidated at first, rightfully so. Lee Jihoon was the CFO’s only son, Seungcheol’s best friend since diapers, and an esteemed architect (he bags the most clients; a genius in this field, without a doubt). But despite his somewhat icy exterior, he was pleasing to be with, not detached and uptight like what others had perceived him to be, just a bit shy and more reserved. 

After a year, that’s when he had met Seungcheol. His lips curled up at the pleasant memory. 

“They got nastier after their engagement party, don’t you think? Good thing we didn’t call them in the middle of their...rumpy pumpy.”

Seungcheol had snorted, getting up and dusting invisible motes of dust off his pants. “Yeah. Although I’ve been on the receiving end of it quite a few times. Traumatic was an understatement. I couldn’t look at Soonyoung’s eyes for a month.”

Jeonghan was repulsed at the thought, not wanting to be in the same sticky situation. He could only hope. His mind then drifted off to the night of their engagement party and how disorderly it was (who in their right mind would opt for a club as their engagement party venue?). 

“Speaking of their engagement party, I was too hammered to recall what happened that night.”

“You—you can’t recall anything?” Seungcheol sounded bewildered. “At all?”

“Why?” There was a nagging sensation that he might have committed a grave misconduct. But he had briskly chucked the presumptions out of the window, not wanting to overthink it. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me—don’t tell I did something horrendous?!”

“What was the last thing you remember?” The engineer looked serious, his head tilted as he studied his face, scouring for something.

He had cudgeled his brain for something as he harked back to snippets of what had taken place before he got liquored up. “Us, sitting on the couch? Junhui was sitting right across us listening to Wonwoo drunkenly drone on about Richard Siken. They were cute.” 

“And?”

“And the two of us, we’re talking about a man who had accused me of stealing his clients. Well, this man had designed an arena looking exactly like the Millenium Dome. The clients had every right to be disappointed! Anyway, it’s not important. Back to the story. We’re laughing about it while drinking Negroni? Or was that bone-dry martini?”

“That’s it?” For all of his tone, Seungcheol’s face did not betray any emotion.

Jeonghan frowned, recalling a segment of the party’s program where Soonyoung had a Magic Mike inspired performance. “Oh. I could remember Soonyoungie giving Jihoonie a lap dance. He’s a great dancer but I’d rather not witness it again. I thought the party would be strictly PG!”

“Anything else?” Seungcheol pressed forward.

He had squinted his eyes at the other, suspicious at the sudden barrage of inquiries. “Is this a quiz? I did something, didn’t I?”

“Y-yes?”

“Was it something unforgivably abominable? Did I puke on your favorite pair of Gucci sneakers? Did I puke on your shirt? Oh, god, did I puke on one of our seniors?” He gasped. “Wait! Did I rant about Kant’s moral philosophy and made a scene in the middle of the dance floor again?”

Seungcheol had shaken his head. “Don’t fret, you didn’t.”

“I’m relieved. I'm a bad Kantian anyway.” It was during their founding anniversary celebration when his devilishly drunk ass walked in the middle of the dance floor (in a poor imitation of coordinated movement), angrily pushing waltzing pairs out of his way, and had started gabbling about the impossibility of moral appraisal and moral responsibility without human freedom, raising a glass of Long Island Iced Tea and Sazerac in the air, speech slurred. Joshua had merrily filmed the entire scene and had never even thought of stopping him. He wanted to spontaneously combust; he never drank or dare touch a champagne glass during corporate festivities after that. “Then what did I do? Not something freaky, I hope. It’s not like I made out with someone for the entire club to see.” 

“Or d-did I? Your silence is making me nervous.” He tried to sound calm. But he did not sound calm, not even the slightest.

“Choi Seungcheol, I demand answers right now!”

Seungcheol’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, struggling to find the proper words to say.

“Seungcheol-ah!”

“O-okay, f-fine! You...you m-made out with s-someone!” He stammered, refusing to look at him. Bile clawed up his throat.

What.

“What the actual fuck! Who?! Not a coworker, I hope.” Jeonghan squawked. He was too aware of the fact that he was blushing. He could feel the heat radiating off his face, his face most likely resembling a tomato. “Your eyes are telling me it’s a coworker! Oh my god. Who is it? Not one of our friends, I suppose? Please, anyone but our friends!”

“N-no, no, not one of our f-friends.”

“Can you just tell me who is it? Was the person from Finance? HR? A fellow architect? Or one of the handsome engineers from your floor? Is it a he or a she?”

“A he.”

“Thank goodness. My gay ass has one less thing to worry about now.” He groaned inwardly. It would have been a colossal catastrophe. He already had enough of prying strangers accusing him of being, he had the urge to vomit, a heterosexual. They had seen him walking out of the cafeteria with a beautiful woman once (Bae Joohyun, the goddess of the HR department was just a friend) and suddenly he’s straight. Yoon Jeonghan? A heterosexual? The same man who gropes his friends' butts in public? Please. He was as straight as cooked spaghetti! “Who is it then? Come on, Cheolie. Stop beating around the bush! I wouldn’t stop until you tell me! If you wouldn’t tell me, I will ask in our group chat. Right now. The kids are probably awake. Let me borrow your phone for a moment—”

“You really can’t...remember?”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I did, you buffoon!”

An oppressively heavy silence stretched between the two of them. 

“You and I.”

“Pardon? I can’t hear you.”

“I said, you and I.” Seungcheol was growing frustrated. He had noticed the tic in his jaw—telltale signs of a brewing outburst. Jeonghan’s hand had fisted the material of the coat, feeling it getting heavier on his shoulder in each passing second, and had attempted to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You and I? You and I what?”

“Goddamn, do you still not get it?”

A ringing stillness tumbled upon the room as the two of them stared at each other. Seungcheol’s cheeks were stained pink, confirming his suspicion. For the love of everything gay and divine.

“Did we—”

“Yes.”

No.

“We...kissed?”

Seungcheol had looked like he was on the verge of pulling his hair out. “Yes.”

Oh, no.

“We kissed? Like French kiss?”

“Yes.”

Oh, no, no, no.

He did not speak, did not move an inch, did not breathe, his feet rooted to the spot.

“It’s—it’s totally fine. R-Right? It happens. F-friends accidentally kiss sometimes, don’t they?” He swallowed, looking away in barely suppressed panic. He was not going to make more out of this than needed. It was an accident—or was it? Was it his desire, hidden for years, an amalgamation of unresolved sexual tension and one-sided pining, finally resurfacing that had goaded him to make a move so bold, so imprudent, yet so idiotic?

“No, Hanie. They don’t.” He could feel his disbelieving eyes boring holes on his face. He might still have been able to jest the way out of this if he’d never crossed the line.

There was an inexplicable twisting sensation in his chest, and he had to swallow several times before he could open his mouth to say something. His mouth felt dry, almost sandpapery. And his eyes—his eyes were killing him. Would he see his undisguised affections carved all over his face? The way his heart beat and broke for him, only for him?

“Who initiated it then?” He knew it didn’t matter but he had to say something.

“For god’s sake! Is that even important?”

“Who initiated it, Choi Seungcheol? Is it you?” His tone was accusing, unwarranted, the other flinching at his implications. For an instant he saw a flash of hurt on his face.

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, a cloud of choleric rage looming above his head. He was obviously infuriated. “Why is it me?”

“Because you’ve always been a clingy drunk! Holding my hands and all that! Pray tell, you initiated it, did you?” He had to sound indignant, otherwise he might have crumbled to pieces.

“No, Jeonghan-ah.” Seungcheol’s tone was scathing, unfamiliar, fiercely maintaining eye contact. His voice could’ve chilled the driest of lands. “You did.”

“Excuse me? I did—what? That is not possible! I did no such thing! I can't remember doing that at all! Is this a prank? You’re pranking me, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you, that is not a funny jo—”

Seungcheol slammed a hand on the wall by the left side of his face. Jeonghan could stare at those huge, expressive doe eyes for hours. He would have admired it—would have admired him—if he hadn’t been caught up in an inopportune moment. 

“You can't even remember how you straddled me on that couch? With all those people around us, tugging my hair with both of your hands as you aggressively pulled me into a bruising kiss? Didn't peg you for an exhibitionist, truth be told. You can't remember your mouth against mine, soft and pliant?”

His breath was caught up in his throat, rendering him speechless and weak on the knees. His earlier conviction that the entire thing was a prank taken too far was dissolving at full tilt.

“I—I—”

“We made out for quite a while. Your kisses were so sloppy and desperate at the end—”

“I was blind drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing.” Jeonghan retorted, despairingly saving the remaining shreds of his dignity, his usual air of self-assurance long gone too. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve said so. You didn’t have to narrate it again and embarrass me—”

“I did like it.”

“What? What did you say?” Jeonghan had asked, hopeful that he had heard him right. He vaguely remembered telling himself he wasn't going to relive such compelling feelings a few years back. But he wanted him—sweet Jesus, after years of shrugging it off—he wanted him, wanted to feel him, so much, now, right now. 

“Oh, wait—no, I didn’t like it.”  

Jeonghan had visibly deflated, his hand balled into a tight fist, nails painfully digging the inside of his palm. He tried his best to squelch the acidic, blue funk steadily spreading through his veins. Seungcheol might as well rip his heart out—that hurt, a lot. But he’d been hurt before, and he’d get over this just as well. Hopefully.

“Because I loved it. Every second of it. God, Jeonghan. I was waiting for that moment for a long time. I was willing to wait. And I had waited. Until that night happened. It was surreal. I would kiss you again, and again, and again, only if you allow me to.”

Jeonghan took a step closer, unable to help it. Was that a confession—it sounded a lot like a confession. His heart had raced in his chest as he bravely held Seungcheol’s doting stare.

What he had said next, he was sure he would have no memory of saying.  

“Do it.”

Seungcheol was taken aback, nonplussed. “Hanie, you’re not serious.”

“What if I am?” The thought of kissing Seungcheol again made something twist in the pit of his stomach. He might as well faint in desire. There goes his dignity. “Does it look like I’m kidding? I wish I was, but no, I’m not. I was out of my gourd. I couldn’t remember what happened. Maybe doing it again would help me remember? It might do the trick. What do you think, Seungcheolie?”

“You could’ve been straightforward and asked me to kiss you right now, Hanie.” Seungcheol prowled closer, crowding his space, his back inches away from the wall now. “Are you one hundred percent sure about this?”

“You’re such a gentleman.”

Seungcheol had gently brushed his hair back from his face before tipping his chin up with one hand. The touch was hypnotic yet, consoling. “Baby, consent is important.”

“I know, and that’s very sexy of you, by the way.” He purred against Seungcheol’s mouth, painstakingly tracing his lithe fingers down along his chest. Jeonghan couldn’t go home without having him—without having this. 

“Kiss me, then. Kiss me, Choi Seungcheol. Kiss me until your heart’s content.”

Jeonghan had sucked in a sharp breath as Seungcheol shoved him against the wall, wrenching his head into an almost feverish kiss. It was hot and torrid, the both of them hungry for more. He let out an eager moan, mouth parting slackly as an invitation. Seungcheol’s tongue slid past the seam of his lips, licking it in passing, and into his mouth. A shiver ran down his spine, the palpable tension in the air setting his insides alight. How could his brain have forgotten about what happened that fateful night if kissing Seungcheol had felt this good. 

But his body seemed like it had remembered the feeling, tangling his fingers through the hair at the base of the engineer’s hair, the latter instantly melting at the contact. Seungcheol had tugged him closer by the waist, arm effortlessly looping around it, their bodies pressed together in desperation, no intention of backing away anytime soon. A satiated sigh rose from his lips, his palms travelling down south, to his abs, to his lean waist—his wandering hands intent on memorizing how taut his muscles felt beneath his touch—intent of grazing his wandering hands on every dip and plane until it was the only thing he could think of.

Seungcheol made a sound deep in his throat, something akin to a growl, and pulled away from him, panting against his greedy lips. 

“Wait, Han—”

“What is it now, Choi Seungcheol? You are ruining the mood! Why are you suddenly acting all shy like you didn’t bite my lip seconds ago?” He grumbled, trying to dive for another kiss.

“Shouldn’t we, er, slow down? Let me take you out to dinner first? Go on our first date? Get to know each other more?”

“We had dinner, just the two of us, innumerable times already.” He deadpanned. Seungcheol was about to intervene, but he held his right hand up, signaling him to stop. “No. You don’t get to steal the spotlight away from me, Choi Seungcheol. This is my confession. Get to know each other more? You’re making me laugh. Cheol, we’ve been friends for seven years! I even have some of your stuff inside my closet, a bunch of your hoodies still hanging in my clothing rack. We sleep at each other’s house all the time. You’ve been in my hometown; I’ve been to yours. My sister adores you to death. The entire Choi clan knows me, and your nosy Catholic aunts despise every gay fiber of my being, which is an achievement by the way. And I can proudly say that I am your mom’s favorite’s child!”

“I don’t think so. I am the favorite child.” Seungcheol declared, petulant.

“Face it, Choi. Ask mom yourself.” Jeonghan huffed impatiently. “And can we please not debate about this? I am respectfully asking you to shut up so I can relish this moment.”

Seungcheol smiled, leaving a trail of kisses on his forehead, on the corner of his left brow, on the tip of his nose, until his mouth reached his again. 

“Gladly.”  

He twined his arms around the other’s neck, crushing their lips together for the second time. Jeonghan can’t decide where to put his hands because he wanted to put them everywhere at once. He had begun to ponder why he had never dared to do what his instincts told him to do a hundred times: gather Seungcheol in his arms and snog him senseless. It felt good to be wanted, so good it was addicting in a wicked sort of way—as if the goodness of it all could devour him whole, and still leave him longing for more. He had never been kissed like this, not that he makes out with people often (and let’s not count his clandestine hobnobs), mouth probably red and bitten. Maybe he hadn’t been a complete nincompoop for making out with Seungcheol a few weeks prior, for wanting to taste his lips again, after all. 

“Hanie? Still there?” Seungcheol had asked, as if it was not glaringly obvious, pulling away again to catch his breath, panting heavily.

“Physically, yes. Mentally and emotionally? Arguable.” He panted, leaving a quick kiss on the corner of Seungcheol’s upturned mouth.

Seungcheol squeezed his eyes shut, resting his forehead against his.

“You ruined me, Yoon Jeonghan. I don’t think I could kiss anyone else again.”

He had suspected they felt the same way but there was never any conversation about this. Whilst Seungcheol had a talent for self-expression despite being an introvert, wearing his heart on his sleeve and speaking his mind with deftness, Jeonghan was the exact opposite. He was someone who mindlessly chucked his feelings deep into the eternal abyss, intentionally pushing and pushing it until it was out of conscious awareness. But these particular feelings had appeared to be frightfully stronger this time that repression was out of the question. It shook his world into an abrupt halt, not used to being plagued by the unfathomable. 

But this—this was the kind of love worth wanting, worth having and Jeonghan would never forgive himself if he let it slip from his grasp.

“That could be easily arranged—from now on, you’re not allowed to kiss anyone else but me—you’re not allowed to touch anyone else but me. I'm an extremely selfish man. You are mine now!”

“Do you mean that?” 

It was Jeonghan’s turn to cup his jaw, tenderly, running his thumb over his cheekbones, his skin soft, thrumming with devotion. “I wouldn’t lie about this, not to you, not ever.”

“You burn me, Jeonghan-ah.” He crooned. Seungcheol shut his eyes and leaned into the caress, nuzzling his face against his cool palm.

Jeonghan's cheeks ached, all the more, from smiling a little too much. “Was that Sappho’s Fragment 38? Won’s rubbing off on you.” 

“It is.” Seungcheol whispered against his ear, adoringly. “You burn me, Yoon Jeonghan. In ways you couldn’t imagine. Steadily, unfalteringly. I wouldn’t get tired of repeating that to you every single day. I told myself that I would never let you burn me up, but I’ve always been drawn to you—now here we are. I’ll do everything, absolutely everything, to deserve you. Break my heart for all I care. I’m at your mercy.”

“And I had burned for you just as long, Seungcheol-ah.”  

His breath ghosted over Seungcheol’s lips, their noses brushing. Jeonghan had succumbed to the homeliness of his embrace, the tormenting events of the day were catching up with him, and he could feel weariness ploddingly sneaking up behind him. But he had Seungcheol with him now and that was all that matters. He would choose him every day, again, and again, and again, until the earth stops spinning—until there were no days left to count.

“More than you’ll ever believe in, my dearest one.”

And he will burn for him as long as he lives.

“What are the odds that those two are probably eating each other’s faces up right now?” asked Soonyoung, maliciously grinning, parking his black Corvette right in front of their office building. 

Seventeen minutes had passed since their phone call with the trapped morons, a normal thirty-minute drive to the office reduced to a startling half. His fiancé had sped through the highway like a madman, almost beating two red lights if not for him, reminding the other that it was, indeed, against the law (they almost got apprehended but a histrionic, teary-eyed Soonyoung was able to convince the traffic enforcer that their friends were, quote-unquote, in grave danger—with such skill set, he should have been an actor instead). A rescue team was also on their way and Jihoon was sincerely hoping that everyone could go home safe and uninjured.

“They are probably canoodling, aren't they?” Soonyoung had asked, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

Jihoon let out an irked sigh. He already knew where this was going. “Do you want to bet on it?”

“You know me so well.” Soonyoung had leaned in, giving him a sloppy peck on the cheek as he unfastened Jihoon’s seatbelt. “Winner gets to do the dishes for a month. And I get to call you My Sweet Darling Baby Boo Boo  in public. What do you say?”

“You’re disgusting, Kwon Soonyoung. I hate you.” Jihoon had snarled, venom coloring his voice. He loves Soonyoung—ardently, more than anything—but he is exasperatingly foolish sometimes.

“Why? I’m quite bewitching, dare I say.” Soonyoung smirked, face smug as he dropped a shady hand on his thigh, and Jihoon wanted to knock that smirk off his future husband’s pretty face. “Let’s place our bets then. I can say, with overflowing confidence, that those two are exchanging salivas as we speak. And maybe some caresses here and there.”

“Gracious, do you have to phrase it like that? You could’ve made it more family friendly.” Jihoon had said, irate. 

Jihoon had then thought about his best friend’s successful, but loveless, career, his enviable academic and business reputation, and his remarkable cowardice (that mostly involved a certain architect). Jihoon, however, had experienced that throbbing yearning himself, so he could not really judge nor blame Seungcheol for his reluctance to confess. 

“I don’t think Seungcheol is going to make his move tonight. Did you know that he’s planning to ask Jeonghan hyung out on a date with a flash mob dancing to ‘Into You’ by Ariana Grande? The doofus got his inspiration from ‘Friends with Benefits.’ He originally wanted to rent Seoul Arts Center’s Opera House for a flashy declaration of love, complete with a performance and all that, but he had scraped it all off when he couldn’t hire an orchestra.”

“Is that the final stage of his unholy ploy of seduction? That’s actually sweet. Should I volunteer for the flash—”

“Love, no.”

“But Jihoonie! It would be fun! I could even choreograph it—”

“No, you are not participating in that stupid flash mob. You’re going to embarrass me. I have an image to uphold!”

Soonyoung had thrown his head back, laughing, taking Jihoon’s hand in his to plant wet kisses on his knuckles. His heart had turned over at the pleasant gesture. Eleven winters had drifted by and he’s still hopelessly, selfishly in love. 

“So, are you ready to lose, my love?”

“I am way too sober for this. Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Soonyoung sing-songed.

“You’re lucky I love you.” Jihoon had pulled him by the neck, one hand pushing into Soonyoung’s hair, their mouths sliding against each other for a deep kiss. It felt good, even better than their last, if that was even possible. He then broke off, breathing ragged as he murmured. 

“Bring it, my love.”

(If he ever lost the bet, not that he was not confident, Soonyoung would still wash the dishes for him anyway.)