TW: mentions of physical abuse

wooyoung's house is warm. that's the first thing san notices after they walk through the door. it could be the logs set alight beneath the fireplace, a harmony of orange and blue, crackling and popping and fizzing; or, it could be the little voice in san's head that reassures him he's safe here.

it's wooyoung's home, after all. san can't imagine it to be anything but that.

an almost pleasurable goosebump skitters throughout san's skin at the heat of the fire. he's silent as wooyoung locks the front door behind him, despite how he wants to point out that he really likes the pendant of a cartoonish black cat dangling from his keys. wooyoung's fingers slide against san's, just as quiet as he as he carries him inside. san doesn't believe it to be a bad silence, though.

there's this sizzling sound san hears when they near a white door, its paint peeling off in some corners. before wooyoung pushes it open, san just manages to discern a frame hung up on a nail, a picture of two boys. they look young, maybe around seven or eight. and one of them, their eyes in particular, feels ghostly familiar to him.

"mom?" wooyoung inquires, stepping into the kitchen, it looks like. he rubs the heels of his feet onto a rusty looking-carpet by the door frame, and san, thinking it would be respectful, follows after him. in result, wooyoung turns around to flash him a momentary endeared smile.

a figure stood behind the stove spins on their heel, a relatively short lady with a brown apron tied around her hips. her hair is wrapped into a bun at the back of her head, a small, odd strand hung over her eyes. she blows it out of the way, a strong huff, revealing the bewildered crease in her brows.

san looks down at his and wooyoung's clasped hands, and feels a jitter agitate his knee.

"what are you doing home so early, wooyoungie?" she begins. "is everything okay?" coming a step closer, she wipes her palms across the front of her apron, carelessly adding to the colours of flour and sauce already staining the material. then, her eyes settle on san, who stiffens uneasily under her gaze. "oh — who's this?"

"this is san. remember, when i—"

"oh!" she, wooyoung's mother, san calculates in his head, exclaims, and she clicks her finger into the air. "san! the volleyball friend."

san feels his jaw drop just slightly against his will, and he blinks at wooyoung. he talked to his mother about him. he told her his name, and he told her he plays volleyball, and he— he told her that they're friends.

"uh— yeah." wooyoung goes slightly quiet, ears turning red. "yeah, he's— he's the volleyball friend."

his mother's brows cross. "are you boys skipping class together?"

her voice is stern, but she doesn't sound like how san's parents do when they're mad at him. judging by the way wooyoung rolls his eyes lightheartedly, a small grin forming as he argues "it's only pshe!", san reckons his mother is different. a good different.

"how many times do i have to tell you — sex ed is good for you teens, wooyoungie," she says back, teasing, and when wooyoung groans in response, she chuckles lightly.

oh my god. san wouldn't be surprised if his jaw was reaching the floor by now; wooyoung's mom is the coolest person, like, ever. and perhaps the woman catches onto the entertained gleam in his eye, because she turns san's way, her smile friendly and welcoming.

almost subconsciously, san glances at wooyoung, who only nods encouragingly once their eyes meet. he's smiling, too, a resemblance of his mother. it effortlessly eradicates away san's uncertainty.

"san, do you want something to eat, dear?" she offers, her kind gaze glimmering with care.

"oh." san doesn't know what to say. he's fucking starving, yeah, but he can't ask so much from wooyoung, can he? "uhm—"

perhaps wooyoung notices something in the dubiousness of san's features, because he shuffles subtly closer, and murmurs, "you're allowed to say yeah, sannie. i didn't see you at the cafeteria today either."

in reality, san hasn't stepped one foot in the school's cafeteria since his first year. his parents would lend him money for lunch back then, their dislike for him somewhat bearable — they didn't care to starve him at the age of thirteen. however, now, now that things are entirely different, san doesn't have any reason to unless seonghwa gifts him some pocket money for his birthday. even then, san would rather spend it on actual, edible food than the atrocity the school serves.

regardless, san's heart warms at the thought of wooyoung looking out for him. caring for him. the same grey heart chipping out of misery because of what he did.

"if— if that's not a bother, then— sure," san answers quietly, absently twirling wooyoung's finger between his own. he feels the pad of wooyoung's thumb run along his knuckles.

wooyoung's mother beams, brighter than the lightbulb hung above her head. "ah, that's wonderful! i'm cooking lunch right now, actually, so if you could just wait a few minutes, hm?"

"of course. th— thank you," accidentally, it comes as a whisper. san has to stop himself from frowning disappointedly at himself; he really wants her to hear, he really wants her to know.

"sannie n' i are gonna be in my room, mom," wooyoung chirps, and he swings their hands. "shout if you need anything."

"i would if you'd be able to hear," his mother remarks, playful, resulting in wooyoung smiling sheepishly.

san thinks he might be staring far too long.

he lets wooyoung walk him through to the stairwell, all while he silently marvels over his home. it's relatively smaller compared to his own, but san likes it. he likes the abundance of picture frames put up in every spare spot you could find, he likes the hand-crafted vases adorning the windowsill, he likes the smell of cosy vanilla even though they're in the summer now. if san ever has his own home, away from his parents, he thinks he'd want it to look something like this.

wooyoung turns to san. "was there anything in particular you wanted to do, or—"

"oh, uh—" san's cheeks are coated in a layer of pink. "no, not— not really. sorry. i just— i didn't want to be there."

"that's okay. don't be sorry, san," wooyoung says, with a gentle sway of his head. his smile is so incredibly small in comparison to the stutter of san's heart.

turning a corner, wooyoung's free hand reaches for the first doorknob in sight. the spruce of the door itself is plastered with a huge, vibrant poster, though san doesn't manage to read its bold writing because wooyoung has pulled him in, and—

woah.

contrasting almost scarily with the decor draped across the entrance, the room, wooyoung's bedroom, is dark. the scheme of blacks and greys and occasionally navy blues aren't necessarily melancholy, however, but more sophisticated, chic. san reckons the reason he's so surprised by the interior of wooyoung's room, is because, well, if he were to assign wooyoung a colour, it would be the farthest from anything so depressing-looking.

wooyoung is colourful, he's bright and he's energetic and he's loving. he reminds san of a blinding yellow. definitely not black or grey.

it's pretty, though, wooyoung's room. countless posters and prints are hung on all four walls, even on his closet and the dresser by his bed. san thinks he might be dreaming when he sees a record player sitting upon one of wooyoung's shelves.

wooyoung probably notices san's wide-eyed fascination with the thing, because he steps towards it, san instinctively following suite.

"my aunt bought this for me. when i turned fifteen," wooyoung says before the question even comes to san's head, an unfamiliarly heavy feeling brushing over his eyes.

"it's cool," san says sincerely. "that's really sweet of her."

"yeah. yeah, it is. she, uhm—" this strained look, an in between of a smile and a frown, tugs at wooyoung's expression. san notices that he fights it back. "she's not here anymore. she— i-i—" or tries to. wooyoung halts, his entire body freezing with him. his eyes shut.

unsurely, san steps closer. when he's feeling upset, seonghwa has this habit of patting his head, sometimes a tender stroke, out of reassurance and encouragement. although it doesn't ever do anything to help the problem at hand, san likes it a lot; it makes him feel nice and warm. like somebody is there, somebody cares. therefore, fingers twitching nervously, san reaches up for wooyoung's head. ever so gently, he presses his palm against his bouncy locks, once then twice, before he drags his hand down to the back of wooyoung's neck, fingertips nipping through his dark strands of hair.

wooyoung's eyes flicker to san's, glazed with tears. the sight of him makes san feel cold inside.

"you don't need to talk about it if it'll make you upset, wooyoung," san tries to help, a gentle murmur.

taking san aback somewhat, wooyoung chuckles softly, and his lips quirk up. "thank you, sannie." he sniffles. "you're really sweet."

"huh? i'm not— i'm really not. i just— i want— i want to be nice to you. you deserve that."

"i— i thought—" wooyoung frowns, as if in conflict. "why did you say that before? why did you say you don't want— that— that you can't hang out with me?"

avoidant, san looks back down at the record player. its case is crafted from light wood, decorated in these cute, little stickers — of smiley faces, stars, and even an auburn fox. he doesn't think right now is a good time to gush over them, however. "i don't—" san shakes his head. "i don't think it'll be that good if you find out."

"what do you mean?"

"i just— it's... a lot," san musters, this thick feeling forming in his throat. it's suffocating.

"san, we're friends. that doesn't matter to me."

"i know. but i can't— i don't want to scare you, or— or make you feel... uncomfortable. or anything."

wooyoung looks at san like he's being ridiculous. then, he pulls san over to his bed, covers slightly creased, who naturally perches himself at the edge of the mattress after wooyoung. the look in wooyoung's eyes is so intense that san physically can't exchange contact with them for more than three seconds, leaving him to turn away to the grey of wooyoung's carpet.

"try me," wooyoung challenges, his hold on san's hand determined. san can't tell if he's joking around, or— "let's see how uncomfortable you can make me."

"wooyoung—"

"i'm being serious, san," wooyoung interjects, and softness grazes his tone when he continues, "i just feel like you're worrying about something you probably don't need to be. so go ahead — try me, i said."

san looks down at their hands. if it wasn't for the apparent difference in the size of their hands, he doesn't think he'd be able to decipher which fingers belonged to him and which belonged to wooyoung. san squeezes his eyes shut, breathes out heavily, and forces with all of his might to blurt out, "you're— you're going to get hurt."

he wanted for it to sound firm and sure, so that wooyoung will definitely believe him; instead it's quiet and weak, his voice breaks somewhere in between, and he just sounds utterly pathetic.

"oh." wooyoung sounds forlorn. "what— what do you mean?" he presses gently. if wooyoung thinks san is hysterically delirious, san appreciates that he doesn't let it show. "how am i going to get hurt? what does that mea— who's going to hurt me?"

"my—"

san can't do this. he can't — it's too much.

it's too much when, against his will, he imagines wooyoung in his place. san imagines it's wooyoung's body instead of his own, wooyoung being handled to the floor, wooyoung's limbs curling up into a helpless ball of terror, wooyoung wailing for it to stop, for him to stop—

"san. sannie."

san blinks, so rapid that an eyelash or two poke him in the pupil. the horrifying sight before him is gone, the tormenting noises are gone, and suddenly, wooyoung is in front of him, crouched before his knees, his eyes wide in what can only be described as fear.

hot tears bleed out from the corners of san's eyes, stingingly hot tears, before he can even comprehend what he just saw — what he thought he saw.

but wooyoung's fingers are cold against his cheeks, the perfect kind of cold, the worrisome touch racking shivers through san's bones.

"oh, god— san, i'm so, so sorry," wooyoung apologises, and san fears he's going to cry, too, by the expression rumpling his features. "i didn't realise— i— shit, i'm sorry. you were right, let's not— let's not talk about this anymore. let's talk about something el—"

"my dad," san whispers without thinking.

he seems to do that a lot recently. first with the man in the blue suit, then with his father, now with wooyoung. the only difference is that san isn't scared this time. if anything, he feels... he feels like he's done something worthy, something right. maybe now wooyoung will be even just the littlest bit safer.

the tear that trickles down san's cheek topples off of his chin, and splatters across wooyoung's wrist. he continues, broken and nasally, "my dad— he's not— he'll hurt you if he knows you're still my friend. and he can't— he can't—"

"you don't need to do this, san."

"i want to," san says, and his hands clutch onto wooyoung's as if they're the most sacred thing in the world. his voice has gone all high-pitched and hoarse because of his crying, but he couldn't care less right now. "i'm sorry, wooyoung. i didn't want to hurt you. i-i— the last thing i'd ever mean to do is hurt you. i love being your friend, i— i promise, but he— he's not a good person, an— and he can't hurt you, he can't touch you, he— he can't, i—"

wooyoung's arms fling across san's shoulders. the movement is so swift and so sudden that san shuts up, whether that be wooyoung's ulterior motive or not he can't guess. honestly, he doesn't think it matters. it doesn't matter when wooyoung holds onto his quivering body tight, or when wooyoung rubs little, comforting shapes over the fabric of his school blazer.

as if the embrace is his breaking point, san gradually gives in to the intimacy, uncertain hands grasping onto wooyoung's shoulders. he leans in, until their chests are touching, until their knees meet, until the tips of their ears graze over one another's. warmth surges through san like he's bursting into the brightest of flames.

"i know," says wooyoung eventually, softly and tenderly, but he doesn't retract from san; "that you're scared, sannie. and that's okay. i think it's so lovely how caring you are, and i think it makes you such a beautiful person." san's heart twists and turns. "but i can't, san. i can't just act like you don't— like you don't exist anymore. i like you too much, i care for you too much, to do that," wooyoung vows. his hand caresses san's nape like you would the tummy of a kitten. "i'm sorry."

san doesn't know what he's doing, but he leans impossibly closer to wooyoung, and rests the side of his cheek against his shoulder. it's honestly not the most comfortable position, but wooyoung still knows how to make it warm and tranquil. more than anything, however, san feels— he feels safe. safer than he ever has. he thinks he could fall into a sound slumber here, face buried in the crook of wooyoung's neck, within the security of wooyoung's arms.

although san easily recognises this, he doesn't realise the slow droop of his lashes desperately yearning for sleep until a tummy rumbles — his tummy rumbles, and, "oh," wooyoung mumbles.

san's face burns red.

"are you hungry, sannie?" wooyoung then asks, but doesn't even let san answer when he continues, almost hurriedly, "i'll let mom know, and she can—"

"it's— it's okay, wooyoung." reluctantly, san tilts his head back, so that he can see wooyoung and wooyoung can see him. "you don't need to do that, honest. you... you've both already done more than i can ask."

wooyoung takes his time, looks at san sceptically. "when was the last time you ate?"

maybe remaining in his hiding spot would've been a better idea, san realises now; he doesn't have it in him to look at wooyoung any longer. "i don't... really remember," he whispers, gaze on his lap. "but it— it's been worse than this before, s-so—"

"that doesn't make it any better," wooyoung interrupts. "and don't tell me it's okay again, because it's not. it's so far from being okay, and you know that." as if to pay damage control for the sternness in his tone, wooyoung softly palms over the latter's nape once more. timidly, san wallows beneath the touch, and his eyes close just briefly. "you'll let me help, won't you?" this time, a hint of hesitance ties in wooyoung's voice.

"help... how?"

"let me be there for you, san," wooyoung almost urges, pleads. san can't figure out why he's so adamant. "let me be help with your dad, with— with hyunsuk, with—"

san shakes his head. "it's not as easy as you think, wooyoung."

"i know, i..." wooyoung's eyes sink. "i just want to make you feel better."

"you... you already do enough of that as it is."

"you think?"

"yeah," san responds instantly, like he didn't even need to think about it. his voice is quiet and his hands twitch bashfully. "yeah, that's what i think. i already told you, rem— remember? i don't have any other friends aside from you. you're... pretty special to me, actually."

"you're special to me, too, sannie." sincerity swarms wooyoung's pupils. "that's why i want to look after you, and— and do all i can to make sure you don't get hurt again."

"wooyoung—" san shakes his head. "that was nothing. hyunsuk is just an asshole."

"you don't deserve that, though."

"yeah, but i can't change the way he feels about me." laughing dryly, meaninglessly, san adds, "honestly, i don't think anything can."

wooyoung's mouth presses together, into a hesitant line, like he's treading on legos. he inhales, breath sharp. "why? i mean— like, why does he—"

"wish i knew," san mutters dejectedly, interjecting, and he feels wooyoung's eyes rounding in sorry. "he just doesn't like me. he never has — ever since we were kids."

"oh. you've known him for awhile?"

"we're related. cousins."

wooyoung gapes, stupefied. "and he— he has the audacity to treat you like that? what? that's so—"

"it's al— alright," san assures, wobbly. "it doesn't matter to me anymore. not a lot."

the reflection in wooyoung's pupils informs san that perhaps he isn't as convincing as he wishes to be — the sight of himself, tears reddening his swollen cheeks, in wooyoung's cautious gaze is disdained, broken. he looks— san looks broken.

but maybe... maybe that's alright. because wooyoung is here.

wooyoung is here when san slowly returns to his chest. wooyoung is here when san lulls himself to slumber with the soothing beat of his heart.

wooyoung is here, right here, to hold san together.

###

a/n: HIII

ok ok i got my mock results like yesterday and i honestly did decent in like kind of everything besides maths but im lesbian so OBVIOUSLY IM NOT GOING TO BE GOOD AT MATHS so it's alright

also wooyo day in less than 24 hours (korean time) lets fucking go wommys 🤭🤭

here's a horrendously lq woosan kiss to make up for two weeks of no update <3