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« life is tough
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Wooyoung wakes up that morning the same way he always does -- tired, annoyed and dissatisfied. Eyes blearily taking in his dark, rusty ceiling with its peeling paint, he blinks; once, twice, and then turns on his side and slams 'snooze' on his phone. He doesn't care that he exerts more force than necessary, the old phone's screen was already cracked anyway.

The next time he wakes up is ten minutes later, and by then he's aware enough that the blurry 6:35 shining through the dimly lit room and blazing his eyesockets means he'll actually be late if he doesn't get his ass up right now and get ready on time.

"Shit, shit, shit," Wooyoung swears out loud, kicking off his thin blanket in an instant. He nearly falls over his tiny bed due to his clumsiness, but doesn't have time to think about it or berate himself for his lack of motor skills in the morning because he needs to get the fuck out of his apartment in less than thirty minutes, or the old hag known as his Media college professor will have his head. Most likely.

Jung Wooyoung isn't one to care much about school. Never had since his elementary school days where learning decided to become a hundred times more difficult and complicated for him, up to the point that nine times out of ten, he'd show up to his classes just because he didn't want to disappoint his parents (who he was already sure he'd disappointed countless times already).

But Mrs Nam has a penchant of being strict with attendance, which Wooyoung does not understand. He doesn't try to, either, because lately he hasn't been bothered to care about anyone. He doesn't even care about himself.

The bathroom's a dark, stingy space when Wooyoung enters it. He fumbles hastily for the switch, but this time the bulb doesn't turn on. Oh well, it'll probably work next time. Wooyoung's mind is too occupied to worry about it. It's not like the landlady would listen to his complaints either, not with him already struggling to pay rent on time.

Wooyoung tries not to stare at himself in the bathroom mirror; at this old, little thing that's lasted a remarkably long time despite the cracks he hasn't had the time, nor the cash, to replace, but like a magnet, the reflective surface draws him in even with the small timeframe he has to work with.

A burning impatience, and this faint, but lingering melancholy stares right at him through sea green and brown, and his brows furrow as he blinks, irritated with himself. What are you even doing?

Hatred's too strong of a word to describe what Wooyoung feels at the sight of his eyes, but he can't help the slight anger that boils inside him at his reflection. His left eye sparkles a vivid aquamarine, reminding him of a stormy sea at dusk, its colour so bright it disturbs him, just like it almost always does whenever he wakes up.

Heterochromia. That's what the doctors called it. His left eye has looked like that since forever, and as a kid, he'd never minded it, his head all too consumed with things other little children thought about. But his mother detested it. Loathed it, even. She was convinced his eyes were like that since something was wrong somewhere, not listening even when the doctors tried to assure her time and time again that Wooyoung's eyes were healthy.

Kid Wooyoung didn't take that lightly, and it made him grow more intolerant towards his left eye. Now he doesn't care all too much, but the distaste for his eye still sneaks up on him as soon as he sees it.

Wooyoung thinks about everything and nothing as he showers, making sure to keep the scrubbing to the minimum even when he knows he'll run late anyway. Sometimes he wonders why he's still trying, why he's still dragging himself to college every weekday despite knowing he'd lost his passion for it long ago.

The answer quickly hits him. It's because he's used to it. He's used to waking up at a certain time in the morning, used to disliking his left eye, used to dodging conversations with his nosy neighbour whenever he can, used to pushing himself out of bed to attend classes he doesn't give a damn about, and most of all, he's used to this life because it's all he's ever known. It gives him this false sense of security and predictability even when he knows it's nothing but fickle and his life can't be any further from perfect.

But that's the thing about getting used to something; even if you want to, you can't leave, and it doesn't matter when it kills you inside. It doesn't matter at all.

Wooyoung flips a brown contact over his left eye, then combs through his long hair like a madman after he's done forcing himself into his worn sneakers, praying to whatever god that exists out there he doesn't actually have some stubble or anything on his face because he'd been in too much of a rush earlier to check for it.

He rubs a finger over his upper lip as he paces around the shoe box of a kitchen, figuring what he's gonna eat for breakfast. He's elated to find out that yes, he doesn't need to shave, but disappointment quickly combats it when he realizes his cupboards are as bare as the Sahara.

It's whatever, is what he tells himself, over and over again until he starts to believe it. He grabs his things and steps out of his puny one bedroom apartment, averting his gaze just as he sees his neighbour heading out his own apartment. Hopefully, he's invisible to the guy so he can somehow maneuver his way out of this situation before he's seen.

"Good morning, Wooyoung!"

Wooyoung jabs his key so hard into the door of his house it almost breaks the metal. Inhaling a deep breath, he turns around, shoulders tensing at his neighbour's eyes on him.

Kang Yeosang isn't a bad person per se, but ever since he'd moved in he's had this way of being so unbelievably cheerful and happy-go-lucky that it fucks with Wooyoung's mind at times, because he can't stand it. Seeing Yeosang so chatty and bright nearly every morning drives him nuts, but he knows he'll seem like an asshole if he ever voices out his complaint, and so he endures it. Every single time.

Yeosang's round eyes crinkle once he gets Wooyoung's attention. They're caramel, as warm as the rising sun. "Sleep well?"

Wooyoung shrugs, a simple action that feels like a burden to do. "I slept well. Thanks."

"I'm glad to hear that," Yeosang nods, a wide grin on his face. How he manages to look so happy everyday is a mystery to Wooyoung, but Wooyoung's never been fond of mysteries. He doesn't care.

His grip tightens around his bag's strap, and then he's shoving his other hand into his jeans pocket and focusing his weight on one leg, a surefire way to let Yeosang know he's taking up his time without saying anything.

"We should go out for some coffee right now. I think you're the type to like coffee."

Wooyoung is the type, but Yeosang doesn't need to know that. He doesn't need to know anything, because whatever friendship he's trying to build between them isn't going to work. Wooyoung doesn't do friendships -- he can't, and he knows it'll all be pointless anyway. That's how it always goes.

"Look, Yeosang -- " he cuts in, internally wincing at how harsh his voice sounds. "I need to go now. Sorry."

Yeosang's lips part to say something, but Wooyoung doesn't wait for it. He looks away and marches off, eager to escape his presence.

Wooyoung doesn't even know why he's so keen on avoiding Yeosang and his attempts at befriending him, but he can't help it even it makes him look like a dick. Friendships fail all the time.

He enters the bus after a few minutes of waiting and jams an earbud into his ear at the backseats, blasting music at an inappropriate volume as he absentmindedly observes the busy streets of Seoul. He wonders briefly how it'll feel to stand in the middle of traffic as he waits for a car to hit him.

It's a morbid, intrusive thought, but he's had those for so long now that they don't affect him anymore. Sometimes, it even humours him.

* * *

Mrs Nam's face looks like wrinkled raisin as soon as Wooyoung bustles into the lecture hall. He doesn't apologize because he doesn't give a shit, and ignores the few stares cast his way as he scurries towards the back of the class, already wishing the ninety minute period would end.

He doesn't pay attention to more than half of what the woman says nor does he read the words plastered across the projected screen, too busy calculating living expenses and fending off unwanted feelings of living uselessly. By the time he manages to arrive at some sort of compromise, students are packing their bags and filing out of the room.

Wooyoung wills his fingers to stop shaking as he pushing his own books into his bag. He realizes with a sense of detachment he hadn't jotted down a single word all through the class, but at that moment, that is the least of his worries.

He joins the other students at the front to head to his next course, a lifeless grey blotch in the sea of buzzing, glowing stars that shine with each passing smile and laughter they exchange with each other. But he isn't included -- of course he isn't -- because people only acknowledge what they're used to and what they're familiar with, and he isn't one of them. They aren't one of his, either.

But, it shouldn't matter anyway. He doesn't care.

* * *

Wooyoung fucking hates retail. He hates arriving at work right after his draining, pointless classes just to have some customer with a stick up her ass yelling in his face because he supposedly couldn't get her the right goddamn colour swatches and hell, Wooyoung doesn't even know anymore.

"You asked for fuchsia and burgundy," Wooyoung explains as calmly as he can, but the lady's face is just getting redder and redder. "There they are. Those are what we have, so please -- "

"These are not what I asked for! Can't you do your job properly?!" The woman screams, voice high-pitched and shredding the insides of Wooyoung's eardrums. The little boy beside her cowers due to the intensity of her voice. "My son needs another play room for his birthday and we can't risk getting the wrong purple paint for the walls!"

Oh. Wooyoung's jaw tenses, unable to stop himself from eyeing the customer in front of him. It's now he notices the air of authority the woman seems to carry, catches sight of the black card casually dangling between her blood red manicured nails and the condescending way she forms her words, as if she could be doing much better things right now than talking to him.

Anger sparks beneath his skin at the bitter, hilarious irony of it all. Here is he, stuck with a job he despises just because he doesn't want to get kicked out of his house at the end of the month, but all this woman cares about is getting the 'right' purple shade for her son's new room.

Said woman snaps her fingers in front of his face.

"Wow," she sneers when Wooyoung comes back to the present, "you can even afford dozing off while I'm talking to you? What kind of store is this?! I want to speak to the manager!"

And then the owner arrives, and then there's two people arguing and cursing at Wooyoung, and he's sick of it. The kid starts to bawl at some point. Wooyoung wants to bawl too.

By the time his shift ends, Wooyoung wants to retreat back into his apartment and hide there until eternity. But he'll be lying if he says he wants to spend the rest of this stupid day rotting away in the dump he paid monthly rent for.

Wooyoung, like a majority of people on this planet, has a problem. Or maybe he's the only one who has a problem, because it's when he feels his lowest that everyone else seems to be having the greatest time of their lives.

Maybe he's supposed to be the villain, and his life isn't about him, but other people. Maybe that's why no matter how hard he tries, nothing seems to go his way.

People aren't supposed to care about villains. They're supposed to hate them and root for the heroes, so that's why when Wooyoung saunters in Louise's that shadowy evening, the club's neon pink and acidic green lights searing behind his eyelids like highlighter pens each time he closes his eyes, he doesn't feel an inch of guilt for his liver as he props himself on a barstool and gulps down his first (and hopefully the first of many) drink for the night. It's something strong that's fortunately cheap as well, one that burns down his throat and leaves him a sweaty, shivering mess, aching for more.

Wooyoung gets himself a second and a third, keeping his gaze lowered when people flock around him, flaunting their bodies as they grind under the numerous, headache-inducing strobe lights. Fuck, he's drinking alone and he's got nobody to dance with, and it's a stupid, childish thought but he thinks it nonetheless. He can't get any more pathetic than this.

But he doesn't care.

Wooyoung wants to drink until he can't feel anything anymore; wants to drink until he's gone, away, never to be seen again any anyone else. Then he won't have to wake up at ungodly hours of the morning to attend courses he fucking hates, won't have to slave away at a stupid job that barely pays for his living expenses, and he won't be foolish enough to waste money he can't afford to lose on alcohol that'll just hand him a killer headache later on.

He won't have to exist anymore.

Wooyoung doesn't notice the new face sitting by the bar until he hears a low whistle, followed by a chuckle and then words he can't be bothered to eavesdrop in on. It's when he feels eyes on him that he finally looks up, and when he does, he's met with ocean blue hair and a pair of chocolate brown eyes that are far too sharp, far too aware of their surroundings.

He's not drunk, some distant voice whispers at the back of Wooyoung's brain. He doesn't know why he thinks of that.

The man says something, but the thumping bass and the hoard of thoughts clogging Wooyoung's mind don't allow him to hear.

"What?" Wooyoung has to strain his voice, already expecting the blue haired man across from him to get angry or glare at him like he was the gum stuck beneath his shoes.

Only, the guy does nothing of the sort. He leans in slightly, and Wooyoung inhales a whiff of expensive-smelling cologne.

"You sure you don't want something else? I mean, I don't really condone getting wasted, but," the man's arched, pointed nose scrunches a little, "those have no substance at all."

Wooyoung doesn't know why, but he feels ashamed. He knows he shouldn't feel that way, knows he can't let some stranger's passing words get to him because, isn't he supposed to not care? He doesn't care, but he does. Maybe it's the man's pristine cashmere sweater, the rolex on his wrist and his many other accessories, or the calm yet charismatic way he talks.

Wooyoung settles on a shrug he hopes appears nonchalant enough. "It's whatever."

A small smile stretches across the blue haired man's face, alert eyes surveying him from head to toe. If Wooyoung didn't know better he'd have assumed the guy was checking him out, but his stares are...observant, as if assessing him.

Blue glances at the bartender, a swan-like man with blond hair, a couple tattoos and a pretty face. Blond smiles once they lock eyes.

"I'd like to talk a bit more with you," Blue tells Wooyoung once the bartender leaves. "He's Seonghwa, by the way. The bartender. If you want any drinks from now on, you can get them from him. It's on me."

Wooyoung's eyes widen. "What the fuck?" He stammers before he can stop himself.

Blue laughs, his straight white teeth on display. "I don't know why, but I like you already. I think he will too."

"Who will?" Wooyoung questions, as lost as ever.

The bartender -- Seonghwa -- arrives with a new drink in hand. It's rosy pink, shimmering like glass under the strobe lights.

"A pink martini. A much better choice than whatever you were having," Blue explains with an almost bored tone. When Seonghwa attends to another customer, he stares at Wooyoung and gestures at the drink.

Wooyoung doesn't know what is happening. One second, he's alone, and then someone he's never seen before is conversing with him like they're good friends.

"Why do I feel like you're judging me?" Wooyoung blurts, warily eyeing the martini.

"I'm not. And it's not drugged, either." Blue fiddles with one of the rings on his fingers. "Name's Kim Hongjoong. You?"

Wooyoung hesitates, and once again, the guy -- Kim Hongjoong -- laughs.

"You're smart, I'll give you that. But I'm not dangerous, at least, not when it involves clothing." Kim Hongjoong notices Wooyoung's confusion and grins. "Tell me, do you recognize me from anywhere?"

It's then Wooyoung takes a sip of the martini, taste buds satisfied at its sweetness. He allows his eyes to scan Hongjoong's face, and shakes his head. "I...I don't. Am I supposed to?"

Hongjoong waves him off easily. "No, it's not important. I just... There's this thing I'm offering. A job, if you will. Would you be interested?"

Wooyoung freezes, heart pounding against his chest at the way Hongjoong's watching him. "What? W-What job?"

If there's one thing Wooyoung hates, it's the way he stutters his words anytime he's nervous. Makes him feel like a joke.

Hongjoong leans closer. "Something like babysitting. Yes."

"You don't even know my name."

"Yeah, I know." Something twinkles in Hongjoong's eyes. "But I pride myself in being a good judge of character. I think you're alright."

I'm not alright, Wooyoung wants to argue, because he's truly not. He's not fine and his life is fucked up -- he is fucked up, but of course, he can't say anything like that. Not when he possibly has a new job offer in his hands.

"I know what you're thinking: Babysitting? That can't pay much, can it?"

Wooyoung gulps. "I -- I wasn't -- "

Hongjoong holds his hand up to stop him, and Wooyoung smacks his lips shut. "It's okay. The world runs on money. Having money is good too, there's no need to be ashamed of liking it." He points at the martini, which Wooyoung finds himself downing. He chuckles, staring at him all amused. "But don't worry, it'll pay well. Now, can I get a name to that face?"

"...Wooyoung," Wooyoung coughs out, wiping his lip. He hopes he didn't make a grave mistake by relaying his name to this guy named Hongjoong. "But, I don't know..."

Hongjoong slides out of his stool, that same impish smile on his lips. "Let's go on a drive, Wooyoung. I feel like you don't believe me, but I want to convince you otherwise."

"A drive?"

"Mhm. It's too loud here," Kim Hongjoong answers, and something in his tone makes Wooyoung agree.

And when Wooyoung enters the man's car, a black Aston Martin with deep brown leather seats that only confirms that amount of money Kim Hongjoong most likely has, both males talk briefly, and then the ride is silent. It's quite a lengthy one too, and Wooyoung is about to call bluff when Kim Hongjoong drives into a spacious parking space alongside a congregation of other cars just as spotless and as luxurious looking as his car.

"You see that?" Hongjoong says after a beat. He's pointing at something up ahead, and when when Wooyoung finally snaps out of his thoughts and looks, his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

In the distance lay a set of lit up skyscrapers that stir with workers despite how late it is. Choi's Highlight decorates the one in the middle, the cursive words glowing like molten gold against the busy backdrop of the city.

Wooyoung doesn't know how he hadn't noticed how familiar this place was, doesn't know how he hadn't noticed all the times he'd glance at the digital billboards displayed across Seoul and see that name on it, soon distracted by real life and how unfairly cruel it is.

But now, everything rushes back to him in a blur of clear memories, Hongjoong's low chuckle easing into his ears.

"That's where I work," the man says. "Neat, right?"

Wooyoung thinks he's dreaming.

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a/n: thoughts?