san is in trouble. big, big trouble.

he doesn't know he's gotten himself in this position; he's always been hyper cautious of his schedule and his belongings, out of overbearing fear that he'd do something stupid and mess up. so when he realises his blazer is no longer in his bag after volleyball practice, nor is it hung up on the hangers, or anywhere in the changing room, for that matter, even after frantically searching through the same places countless times over, san thinks he's about to faint.

his figure is trembling when he gives in to reality and falls into a crouch on the hard ground. he's done it — he's messed up.

san's head collapses into his hands, his fingers snaking into his hair, and they tug out of frustration. at himself. at his parents. at everyone.

it's not like he hasn't messed up before. because he has, multiple times. maybe that's why he's so afraid, because he already knows what's coming for him, before he's even confronted the nightmare itself. regardless, this is different.

this is going to cost.

it's almost ridiculous, how stringent san's parents behave towards money. it's as if they forget they're highly successful business owners; it's as if they forget their child should be their priority, rather than the monthly profit they earn.

but it's always been like this. san's always been nothing but a speck of dust compared to his family's business. he's always been forgotten about, insignificant.

he knows better than to expect any sort of kind gesture when he returns home.

home.

it's a funny concept, san thinks. home. typically, when a person announces they're going home, you'd imagine they have this comfortable, warm  place to unwind in. somewhere wherein they're safe, and healthy, and welcome. somewhere they hope to be after a long, draining day. somewhere they can be and do whatever their heart may please.

san doesn't have that.

he doesn't have a "home", and if he's wrong on that, there's one thing for sure. his home, it's not normal. it's not right. and if he's being completely honest, the fact isn't funny to him whatsoever.

barely able to feel his fingers, san picks his head up. he stares. he stares at his shoes, stained with mud, and he stares at the wall, scribbled with indecency, and he stares at his nails, smudged with blood.

oh. this again. san rubs at his hairline. its sting is faint, bearable. he ruffles his dark hair over his forehead, until it reaches his brows, and stands.

it's getting late, almost passing five. that in itself is enough to get san in trouble.

the corridors are empty when san gradually steps out into them. walking through the aisles of red and yellow and blue lockers, he's reminded of seonghwa. his friend. his only friend. san thinks of the time he sneaked out on the elder boy's birthday, just last month, and they ate cake, giggled at the stars, and vaped all night. the day following felt as if the devil ripped a gap between hell and earth, his parents were that furious, their treatment the worst he's ever received, but it was worth it.

sometimes, san wonders what it's like to be living a life like seonghwa's. no parents, no school, no judgement: just him. seonghwa is lucky — now. only a few years back, he had it just as bad as san. that's how they grew this close, as miserable as it sounds. because, frankly, it is.

all the same, however, seonghwa gives san hope that he can change his life around. become who he wants to be. and if a time ever comes where san is even somewhat close to being in seonghwa's position, he thinks that that would be enough. enough to be happy. free. himself.

echoing across each wall, a hideous voice starts to bellow. mr hwang. just brilliant.

san despises mr hwang.

so when his screeching only gets louder and louder and louder the more steps san takes, he almost wants to set off in the opposite direction. but he doesn't, but he can't. he needs to go home. whatever that even means.

just as san huffs an internal sigh of relief, thinking mr hwang's callous lecturing is beginning to fade into the distance, a door to san's left explodes open. detention hall.

san is cursing profanities upon profanities in his head when flocks of students, some faces he's seen around school and some utterly unfamiliar to him, burst out of the hall, their roars animalistic. most of them don't notice his glum presence dragging its legs through the hallways, which he'd be unexplainably grateful for if it weren't for the few who shot him a weird look over the shoulder.

they look disgusted, troubled, frightened, and san doesn't know why. he isn't sure if he does want to know.

this strangling lump forming in his throat, san clutches onto his own fingers, casting his gaze to the ground. it's an atrocious-looking orange, and the heels of his scuffed shoes squeak against it as he quickens his pace.

they're whispering now, some of them. whispering about him. and still, san doesn't know what it is that could possibly be wrong with him.

but then again, he can answer that question in less than a second.

"um— excuse me?" although san is certain that nobody is trying to address him right now — that would be absolutely mad — the voice is far too close to him for his liking, and so he raises his head the smallest bit for some sort of confirmation.

a head appears before him. a face. a pair of eyes widen, they widen at him, and san stops. freezes. scared.

the boy's mouth falls open, and presses back together in just half a second. it opens again. "are— are you okay?"

san blinks. no. no, he's not okay. he wants to walk away. he tries to walk away. but just as his shoulder brushes against the arm of the other guy's, there's a grip by his elbow, a palm enclosing him on the spot.

it doesn't hurt, but it's strong enough to keep san there, beneath their fingers, and san— san wants to do many things. he wants to run, he wants to shout, he wants to cry, and— and san cries.

it's just a small sob that breaks out of him, silent, but it's enough for his face to crumple and his body to rattle.

"oh. oh, fuck, i'm— i'm sorry. shit, i'm so sorry, i—" the boy steps away. he doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't move either. he just. stands there. by san's side.

san doesn't look at him. he breathes. he stares at the poster hung up on the wall before him, announcing the date for prom, a date san doesn't care for. he breathes.

you're at school.

breathe.

not at home.

breathe.

not with dad.

breathe.

"do you—" san can make out the boy in the corner of his eye. he's still there. "need help with... that?"

that. san hasn't a single clue what that even is. seeing as the boy is staring him at him with this glint of distress in his round eyes, however, it can't be good.

san's throat goes anxiously taut as soon as he starts, making his voice come off as a strangled and measly whisper. "what do you mean?"

"you—" the boy winces, like he's in physical pain. "you're bleeding."

almost as if by instinct, san brings his fingers to his head. turns out, the latter's right — he is bleeding. san gazes at his hand blankly, then back at the boy, with a brief shrug. "that's okay."

"what?"

"it's— it's okay," san enunciates, befuddled at the question. yeah, he probably looks like a psychopath, but is this really what everyone was so fussed over? frankly, it's a tad bit absurd to him.

"it's okay?" it looks like the boy's eyes are about to pop out of its sockets. "what do you mean — it's okay? it's not— it's— you're bleeding. your head is bleeding. you're literally— you need to get cleaned up, like, right now. you can't just head home like this, what—" he intakes a deep breath.

san expects him to continue, but he doesn't.

san excepts him to guffaw in his face and admit that this is all just a joke and he doesn't really give a fuck, but he doesn't.

san excepts him to turn the other away, but he doesn't.

so san blinks at him repetitively, his head occupied as it attempts to ascertain the boy's motives, too occupied to register, let alone protest, when a hand curls around his fingers and drags him the opposite direction. almost being flown off his feet, san stammers. "wh-what— what the fuck are you doing? hey—"

for the first time, the boy doesn't look san's way when he speaks, "what do you think?"

"does it look like i can read minds?"

the boy sighs, and for a second, san thinks he's going to give up on him. but his grip on him doesn't falter, and nor does the firm determination in his voice. "does it look like i'm gonna let a guy continue on his day with his head bleeding out?"

"i'm not going to die."

"you're still hurt."

"well—" truth be told, san doesn't have a witty response to that. or at least, one that isn't self-deprecating.

the boy's hold on san slightly loosens after he nudges the restroom door open, like he doesn't need to be under complete arrest anymore. san finds it a bit amusing.

"exactly," the boy responds, slightly smug with himself, but then he's looking at san like that again; his expression falls, and he nibbles on his lip. hesitantly releasing san's fingers, he steps closer, budging san's dark hair to the side. his eyes do that thing again, where they widen exceedingly. "how did this even happen?"

san swallows. "i..." i lose all control of myself when i'm upset and scratch layers of my skin off without realising it. "i don't know."

"you don't know?"

withdrawing his gaze to one of the graffitied toilet stalls, san shrugs his shoulders. "yeah."

"you're really something else, aren't you?" the boy mutters, but, surprising san, he doesn't necessarily sound irritated or insulting. not that san cares what a stranger happens to think of him — it just makes him a little less opposed to being forcefully dragged into the school's restroom with him.

prodding his tongue at the side of his mouth, as if he's in deep thought, the boy eventually moves over to the sink. he twists open a tap and, over the loud splashing of water, orders softly, "come here."

san doesn't know why he complies. if he was thinking rationally, he wouldn't have. but in seconds, he's back by the boy's shoulder, who's turned to face him once more. "yeosang's the clumsiest asshole ever, so i've had my fair share of playing nurse before, just so you know. you can trust me. i mean— if you want to, that is."

trust. another complex thing san finds funny. or doesn't. he ignores the mention of it completely, and instead noses out of curiosity. "yeosang?"

"oh. he's my friend." the boy's lips quirk up, the smile a drastic contrast to the utter state of panic san's only ever witnessed him in. it's an oddly nice change, san thinks. mostly because it was admittedly quite freakish to see a random guy act all worried for him. "we've been friends since kindergarten, actually," the boy continues, almost a brag.

"woah," san responds earnestly. "that's crazy long."

"yeah." folding up some blue towel into a square, the boy runs it marginally beneath the tap. "i'm wooyoung, by the way." he looks san's way, into san's eyes, as if he's expecting something in return.

san's gaze is blank for a moment. maybe two. then, it clicks. "oh. i'm— i'm san."

"san? just san?"

"yeah."

"oh. that's cool," the boy, wooyoung, says. weirdly enough, he sounds like he means it. "you weren't in detention just now. what're you doing in school this late?"

"er—" san watches attentively, apprehensively, as wooyoung presses the towel to his head. it stings more than he remembers. he tries not to let it show. "i— i had a club. volleyball."

wooyoung's brows furrow. "but volleyball finishes at four. it's, like, a quarter past five now."

"i, uhm, lost something."

"shit, that's a nightmare in this school," wooyoung comments laughably. "did you find it?"

for some reason, even unexplainable to himself, san wants to lie. as he considers it, there's a sharp twinge in his head, and a painful hiss involuntary passes his lips. wooyoung murmurs a small apology, and san can't distinguish what harm there could possibly be in the latter. "no. i gave up."

"i could help look if you'd like."

san attempts to shake his head, realising it to be fairly difficult with wooyoung's hands draped against his face. "it's okay. it'll probably show up somewhere," assures san, though, in reality, he hasn't an ounce of such optimism.

"yeah, and you also said that about this," wooyoung says, nodding towards the tissue in his fist, its blue pigment discoloured with red. "makes me think i shouldn't believe you."

"but it really is okay. you— you've done enough already."

wooyoung doesn't say anything for a while. maybe he disagrees. maybe he just wants to focus on cleaning san up. maybe he doesn't want to talk to san anymore.

it's probably that.

"what is it you lost, anyway?"

or... maybe not.

san reckons he's going red out of embarrassment, as he answers in a quiet mumble, "my blazer."

"pretty big thing to lose." san thinks of his parents when wooyoung says that. his stomach curls. "you sure you don't want me to help?"

"it's okay." it's not.

"my parents would kill me if i were you, school uniform is so goddamn expens—"

a hot, thick tear strolls down san's cheek. at the speed of lightning, his fist catches it before it can reach his jaw, sliding it away, mortified as he watches wooyoung experience a hundred emotions all at once; he freezes in bewilderment, something that looks close to guilt swarming his irises, before his face softens into a feeling san's only ever seen on seonghwa's features before.

"hey, it's— it's okay. it'll be okay, san, we—" wooyoung swiftly dumps the bloody tissue into the trash, and ruffles san's hair back in place. "we'll look for it. together. come on."

why? san wants to ask. the syllable gets caught in his throat before he can.

there's this smile wooyoung's mouth is wearing, one san reckons is supposed to be comforting, as he gestures to the door. although it does absolutely nothing to suspend the wretched knot in his stomach, san follows along, regardless.

"when were you last wearing it?"

"before volleyball." it's fucking humiliating how san can only whisper.

humming, wooyoung pauses. "are there any assholes in the club with you, by any chance?"

san knows what wooyoung is trying to get at. "don't know."

at the, candidly, useless answer, wooyoung sighs. "well, we can— have you looked through lost and found yet?"

"no."

"we'll start there, then."

they find san's blazer. the small talk wooyoung tries to make as they walk to the storage room labelled 'lost property' is overwhelmingly awkward, and whilst they're searching through piles of haphazard items, ranging from love letters to a pair of fucking underwear, the light suddenly goes out, and wooyoung accidentally ends up stepping on san's foot, which he apologies for in a hurry, though san tells him it's okay, returned with a you've lied about that twice before that san denies, and— long story short, they, eventually, find san's blazer.

well, wooyoung does.

he almost seems happier than san when they exit the cramped room, brushing off the dust which has stuck itself like glitter onto their clothes.

almost. because san, meanwhile, hasn't felt this relieved in forever. he estimates it's around six in the evening by now, yet even that, the thought of his parents' fatal reaction over his disappointing punctuality, doesn't ruin his mood. not yet, at the very least.

san notices that he's smiling.

and apparently, wooyoung does, too. "awh. you have dimples."

"huh?"

"you have dimples," he repeats. "they're cute."

"oh. um— thanks," san murmurs, as they step out into the refreshing, evening breeze. something he needs after all of... that. in hindsight, it's stupid how much time he spent panicking over a piece of clothing — even more conveying that same panic to a total stranger. wooyoung probably think he's crazy. god, san is horrified in himself. he wants to say something about it, clear up that he isn't always this much of a wreck, but he's too late because they're already at the gates, and wooyoung is turning his way, and—

"i'll, uh, see you tomorrow, then. hopefully."

san feels like he may be hearing things. "really?"

wooyoung laughs. for a moment too long, san thinks he's mocking him. "if you want me to completely forget you exist after today, then sure, i can try to do that. i wouldn't like to, though."

"oh." seonghwa jokes often that that's san's default response to everything. san might just have to agree with him. "that's— that would be alright, yeah. you're, uhm— you're—" san struggles. wooyoung smiles a bit. "you're nice. yeah." 

"nice. i can take that." wooyoung is smiling harder now, and san can't help but be confused. "you're pretty nice yourself, san."

san doesn't say anything more. he doesn't think he can.

"i'll see you later."

"yeah." san nods.

wooyoung walks away, and for a reason that doesn't make a lot of sense to him, san hopes later is sooner than anything else.

———

a/n: [clears throat] hi :D

tbf i don't really know how many people will make their way here (nobody likes missing like i do sigh) but if u ARE here hello hi it's missing's woosan spin off yass pls tell me what u think

i love u thank u for being here have a beautiful day [smooches ur cheeks]