TW: physical violence

grey. the sky across from the window. the tuxedo drowning the scrawny figure in the mirror. the emotion within san's eyes.

he hears his mother shout for him, her voice sugared with this sweet facade that doesn't truly belong to her heart. they have guests over today, important guests related to the business, and so she feels as if she's personally impelled to act as if they're this perfect, golden family.

it boils san's blood. of course, he acknowledges that no decent person would adhere to supporting a businessman who can't even treat his only child properly. even san's parents are aware of that — they have no other reason to drown him with their care before the unkempt, old men they manipulate into their work.

still, it hurts san that his feelings are only ever considered when it benefits them. it fucking hurts. he's selfish, and he knows it, but that won't help anything. that won't help that he's nothing; that won't help that he tries so badly to prove otherwise; that won't help that he wants to be something, somebody.

around his parents, because of his parents, san feels... inhuman. he feels like a doll, manufactured merely to satisfy the expectations of his bloodline: grow up to become a tough, respectable, and strong-headed businessman, like his father is. but he isn't capable of that. he knows it. seonghwa knows it. his parents know it. they all do.

san doesn't have it in him. the confidence, the stability. the purity.

he's not like the rest of his relatives, the successful ones. he's more like seonghwa. he's more inclined to do his own thing, rebel against the familial traditions, be himself. or at the very least, san will try to.

his mother's voice echoes once more, force carved into her deceiving tone. "please could you get down here this instant, san!"

adjusting his collar one last time, san sends a longing glance over to his shiba inu plushie, before begrudgingly slipping out of his room. he pulls his slump shoulders into a more sensible position, the sounds of formal talk and wine glasses clinking leaving his palms sweaty. slowly but surely, he joins the long table of middle-aged business owners, slipping silently into his designated seat by his father's side.

chatter quickly subdues at san's presence.

"well, who do we have here?" one of the guests asks, a man dressed in a navy-blue suit. he's smiling warmly.

san's father chuckles, a sour look in his eyes that only san distinguishes. for his own sake, san averts his gaze to the empty dish below his chin. "this is my son," the man boasts, and something makes san's heart clench. "our only child — san!"

"he must be pretty special, then," the man in the blue suit says, nodding over to him. "hello, san. what kind of things are you interested in? any hobbies? sports?"

san doesn't think he has any hobbies at all. he doesn't seem to find the time for them, let alone the freedom; his parents aren't so fond of him doing things that don't benefit the family. though, san wonders if playing cookie run counts as a hobby. and maybe, if wooyoung lives up to his word and teaches him that game he really loves, that can be san's second hobby!

"oh, um—" the problem is, san doesn't reckon cookie run is a real, or sensible, answer, and so he refrains from mentioning it to a table full of prestige business owners. "not really," he eventually answers quietly.

"none at all?" another one of them chimes in incredulously, a lady whose hair is cut into a red bob.

right as san moves to shake his head, his father bursts into disagreement, "oh, of course, he does! our san is into volleyball, aren't you, boy?"

san looks around — at his father, at the man in the blue suit, the lady with a red bob. they're all watching him, waiting for an answer. he opens his mouth. "um, yeah. kind of."

"is volleyball something you actually like, or does dad just make you play?" the man in the blue suit jokes.

san's father chuckles at him dryly, almost distasteful. san likes the man in the blue suit.

an intense smell of fresh savoury wafts into the dining room, alongside san's mother juggling multiple dishes in her arms. she makes a demanding sort of look in san's direction, who instantaneously jumps up to his feet to help her. as he sets the table with his mother's mouth-watering food, he feels their eyes on him, dozens of pupils watching, studying, examining his every move.

san reckons his father is liable for the way they're acting. not only does he ensure to treat him like an actual human being on days like this, he likes to narrate this nonsensical fantasy of make-believe where san is his superstar son, the family's pride.

it's so bizarre, it's funny. or san tells himself it is. perhaps to numb the hurt, perhaps to pretend it's not even there to begin with. and perhaps, san's version of make-believe is just as harmful as his father's, and he has no position to comment on the man's stupidity. either way, san enjoys digging for amusement in his endless episodes of misfortune. it's not a healthy mechanism, and neither is it worthwhile, but, somehow, without realising so, he finds himself giving in to his untamed make-believe from time to time.

it's not okay, it'll never be okay. but san would prefer to lie about it until the falsity crumbles into dust and topples over him, than confess to his helpless existence.

san is thinking about pigeons and their freakish, beady eyes when a jolt bolts through him at the call of his name.

it's blue suit man. "you aren't going to eat anything, young man?" he asks. oddly enough, he sounds sincere. "your mother's food is divine."

san wants to say he knows, agree enthusiastically, but the truth is, it's been too long for him to remember. so he just smiles tightly, and answers, "thanks, but i'm not really hungry."

"if you say so. how's school going?"

maybe san is foolish, but there's a genuine spark of interest within the latter's voice that he doesn't hear often. it reminds san of wooyoung, and it reminds san that tomorrow is monday.

"it's been alright. yeah." usually, san would be lying. for both the sake of himself and the people around him. however, the last few days have actually been okay, and he can't possibly lie about that.

"same old, i'm assuming," the man says, and laughs loudly. despite his disagreement, san joins in, only much quieter. "you got any good friends over there?"

the question is pretty standard, yet san feels his mother look over at him, stare at him, from the other side of the room, lasting far too long for his comfort. it makes san think about wooyoung, again, does the critical glance, and his heart pings. san doesn't like to lie. he thinks dishonesty is the worst thing in the world, it's idiotic and causes unnecessary dispute. but... but occasionally, it's for the better.

it's not as if he hasn't lied for his own safety before. it's not as if he hasn't lied about wooyoung before.

san's breath hitches, before he utters, conflict blurring his features, "i— i have one, yeah. but only— only one." and, apparently, san's lips just have to accentuate the meagre number of friends in question, as if merely being asked it isn't already enough humiliation for one evening.

"small circle, eh?" the blue suit man comments, and takes a long swig of his wine. he sighs delightfully. "necessary sometimes. what's their name?"

"oh." san is in trouble. see, he could have justified his prior answer with an easy and bashed explanation of well, i didn't want to embarrass myself, but now— now, san is definitely, most definitely, in trouble. his parents have their connections, and they will found out the truth, then they'll find out about wooyoung, and—

his mother's glare burning into his skull, san doesn't turn to meet it this time. not even for the shortest second. he doesn't have the courage to.

blue suit man chuckles, but this time, there's this almost mocking tone there. he cocks his head to the side, and opens his mouth, and he's about to say something, so—

"wooyoung. his name—" san feels sick to his stomach, a feeling he thought he didn't have to associate with wooyoung, ever. "—is— is wooyoung."

"ah. he's a good influence, you're sure?"

san gulps, and nods. that's all he can manage. his throat clenches around the air he deeply inhales, feeling as if someone is strangling his lungs. he sees, without needing to turn his head, his mother and father share a telling look with one another.

san's stomach churns. it curls and snakes and twists into a knot of fright, which only arises within him more and more throughout the remainder of dinner. every time he moves his limbs, even just a slight twitch in a different direction, he feels a thick pool of remorse emerge from his throat, threatening to erupt. and san can't dare to mess up now, not unless he wants it harsher later on. he'd be an utter fool to want that.

seonghwa's voice suddenly appears in san's head. happiness, san. grasp onto what makes you happy, he hears. it's the strongest thing you have.

so san thinks of wooyoung. it's stupid; thinking about wooyoung, being so insanely absorbed in the boy, is what dragged san into his grave to begin with. but it can't be helped. he's too late.

although they've only met a handful of times, wooyoung is wholeheartedly the best thing to happen to san in years. he's the happiest and brightest and loveliest person san's ever met, let alone have the fortitude to call his friend. it may sound fairly ludicrous to say so soon, but san can't possibly take their relationship any lighter, because it just— it means that much to him. wooyoung means that much to him.

it's starting to become scary, how much san dreads losing him. because, in all honesty, wooyoung doesn't know anything about san. nothing real. to him, san is probably just the average teen boy — with an exception to a cellphone and school friends. though, a time will come where that changes, where wooyoung discovers the truth, where wooyoung knows... and things will be different. they'll have to be.

different how san doesn't know. he doesn't know if he wants to know. most people run away: upset; distraught; scared. but wooyoung isn't like most people. san hopes he stays that way.

at some point, chairs scrape against the ground, being tucked underneath the table as everyone prepares to leave. the man in the blue suit approaches san, startling when he pats his shoulder, a form of farewell. "good luck, boy."

san smiles, almost grateful. little does he know how much he'll need it.

he helps his mother with the piles of dishes, as is tradition, in utter silence. over the lively gurgle of the drains, san feels as if he can hear the daggers his mother pierces through him.

shortly, he finishes, relieved as he steps out the kitchen door. it seems san's father hasn't moved in the slightest, still slouched in his chair in the dining room. his brows are furrowed, gaze concentrated on the television before him, news channel blaring — like he even cares about anything going on in the world.

san's own eyes dart from the man, to the stairwell, and back again. it's risky, and if his parents catch him, which they eventually will, he'll undoubtedly be left with bruises galore.

for any other person, that should be enough of a reason to stay put. obey by the rules and endure the initial consequences. the conversation awaiting san is inevitable, pigs will have wings by the time his parents have the mercy to let it go. but san... san would much rather prolong the confrontation, even if it means it'll be more severe, more intense. he simply can't bear to hear it now, the things they have to say about wooyoung.

he thinks he'll go ballistic.

san steadies himself, mapping out the short journey from the doorway to the stairs. it's simple, it'll only take a few seconds. as easy as a pie.

so when san's shoe scuffs against an uneven floorboard he didn't even know was there, echoing a groan, he winces, frozen. squeezing his lashes together so hard it hurts, his heart sinks. he waits.

and there it is — "hey, boy!" his father snaps, voice deep and hoarse.

reluctant, san slowly opens his eyes. only for his father's gaze to remain on the television, seemingly unfazed. oh. maybe... maybe san will be alright, after all. almost hopeful, san carefully treads into the room, his mouth pressed shut.

"sit," his father commands, and, by nature, san listens. like some dog on a leash. his whole life, this is all he's known. there's no other way it works.

san's knee jitters uneasily when his father finally turns to him, and his palms grasp onto the arm rests.

"so." the man pauses, clicking a button on the tv remote. the screen goes blank. "who was it again — youngwoo? wooyoung?"he quizzes with a taunting grin, and if by any chance that hope from earlier has made it this far, each and every speck of it has crumbled. san watches as his father raises a brow, and his jaw clenches. completely crumbled.

"answer me, boy."

san can't lie. this is the very problem; he can't lie to save a life. "yeah," his voice breaks as he responds, because he already knows. he knows that this is it. he knows by the belittling chuckle and the furious glare. this is it.

"did you not learn from last time?" the man's voice increases an alarming notch. "huh?!"

"i'm— i'm sorry—" san musters, a feeble and pathetic whisper. "i-i— i didn't— i don't know—" fumbling for an excuse that doesn't exist, a tear rolls down the side of san's face.

it's his fault. all his fault. he's the one who let wooyoung approach him, he's the one who accepted wooyoung's offer of going for a walk, he's the one who stupidly decided they're friends now. san is the one to blame. like he always is.

"you don't know what?!" the man screeches, and he barges up to his feet. his shadow looms nightmarishly over san, who cowers, face hung low in sheer terror.

grasp onto what makes you happy.

san wants wooyoung to be her— no. no, he doesn't. he doesn't want wooyoung to be with him, he wants to be with wooyoung. he wants wooyoung to teach him minecraft, and he wants wooyoung to coo over those ugly fucking pigeons, and he wants wooyoung to drag him along for a walk. he wants wooyoung to latch onto his arm, and tell him nice things, and laugh with his gleaming teeth. he wants to see wooyoung happy.

he wants wooyoung to make him hap—

there's an excruciating pain at san's scalp, as he's yanked up, forced to meet those dark, unhappy eyes.

his father's palm lifts, and there's a hot, burning sting across san's cheek this time. another. and another.

he feels it in his jaw, his head, his stomach.

everywhere. everywhere but the one place his father will never touch. not that he wants to.

san's heart.

———

san is a bit of a bookworm. some of his earliest memories involve him sitting in the cosy book corner in nursery, surrounded by fairy lights and teddies, or seonghwa reading him to sleep when he came over. back when he was allowed to.

right now, san is reading a book called solitaire. he's sat in the library, legs crossed in one corner of the room, the hood of his jacket over his eyes. he's also, despite the intriguing words of fiction, trying his very best to not think about wooyoung.

san hasn't spotted him yet, and if he's being brutally honest with his feelings, he thinks it's better if it stays that way. he doesn't want to get hurt again — or worse, have wooyoung get hurt.

san's father is capable of more than san would like to know.

solitaire is written by a lady called alice oseman. seonghwa was the one to recommend the book to san, after going on an incredibly excited ramble about one of her bestselling books being remade into a show where two teen boys fall in love. usually, romance makes san squirm out of disgust, but he actually found himself smiling, unsure on how to tell seonghwa about the heavy feeling it brought upon his heart.

"san!"

oh.

oh no, oh no, oh no.

san feels like the most terrible person to walk the earth when he tugs his hood further over his eyes, and presses his face impossibly closer to the pages of solitaire.

"hi!" wooyoung greets, completely normal. soft and cheery. he hasn't noticed san's attempt of brushing him off, then. instead, he seems rather interested in whatever he has going on: "oo, what are you reading?"

san doesn't answer. he isn't reading anymore, anyway. multitasking around wooyoung appears to be impossible, even when he can't be talking to him.

"san?" wooyoung's voice comes quieter this time round, slower. "hey, sannie, are you okay?"

sannie. only seonghwa calls him that. but seonghwa is family, and san's never had to ignore him before, san's never had to treat seonghwa like this — like crap. so it's not the same. san's eyes water with scorching hot liquid. they burn so intensely that san has to blink, involuntarily giving the tears room to trickle down his cheeks.

"what's wrong?" wooyoung continues, and his fingers brush at san's book. san doesn't have it in him, he's done far too much already. so he allows wooyoung to gently pull the novel out of his hands, take in the disheveled sight of him, and thumb his tears away.

wooyoung holds onto san's knuckles, and brings his hand to his lap.

san's whole body racks, as if he's throwing up his insides. his back trembles, and his fingers tremble, and his knees tremble.

"san, what's up? please— please, talk to me."

san's never heard wooyoung sound so dismayed before, until now. he didn't think he'd ever have to. wooyoung's fingertips graze across his face because he's started to cry again. they're warm and delicate against san's skin, treating him like a piece from a broken vase, and it makes this a hundred times harder.

"it's a bit busy here—" wooyoung says softly. that's not true. there's only half a dozen other students besides them. "do you wanna go somewhere quieter, san? it— it'll help you feel better," wooyoung tries, and san shakes his head.

a storm of turmoil whirls within his chest, turning his heartbeat frantic out of dread. "can't," san rasps, head swinging back and forth. once he's stopped, he thinks he sees three wooyoung's momentarily.

"can't?"

"can't— can't do this," san tells wooyoung, face crumpling as he sobs, internally begging the latter to just give up. go away. it's better that way, easier. nobody will be hurt. not physically. and san— san can't have wooyoung be hurt. he needs him to go. "'m sorry," he whispers loath-fully, as faint as the oxygen he intakes.

wooyoung's eyes glisten, almost like stars. but dead stars shine, too, even when they have no energy left to give. "i don't— i don't understand."

neither does san. he doesn't want wooyoung to be upset, he wants him to be safe.

"why are you— what's wrong? what's wrong, san, is it— is it me? is it—"

san thinks that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. but he's not any better, not when he forces himself to nod his head yes. not when he's pushing wooyoung away. san regrets it in nothing more than a second, remorse immediately settling into his chest like some sort of cancer. but he knows that, ultimately, this is the right thing to do.

although, when wooyoung's eyes sink and when he looks away and when he slowly removes their clasped hands, san wonders if that's truly the case.

"oh," wooyoung says thickly, a murmur. "i'm— i'm sorry, san. i didn't mean to make you feel like this... i'm sorry."

something gleams over in wooyoung's eyes, but before san can distinguish what exactly it is, wooyoung is... wooyoung is leaving. he stands, and slings his bag over his shoulder.

san can only watch, sadly, as wooyoung's back disappears from his line of sight. he sinks into his chair, tucking his chin over his knees and retrieving his book. flipping the pages of solitaire open, san goes back to reading.

except he can't bring himself to look at the words any longer.

———

a/n: traumatised smts readers how u feeling? woosan self sabotage pt2 lol

NO JKJK i swear pls dont be sad there is nothing 2 b sad abt ummmm. idw 2 spoil so all i can say is trust me!!! i promise u can trust me

ok i literally dont know how 2 do a/n's anymore like i reread missing the other day 4 insight just in case i get things muddled up and i USED TO BE SO FUNNY N INTERESTING what happened