Chapter Text
Seonghwa gets sick. Not the average cold. Seonghwa is sick sick. Chills rack his aching body. His throat hurts, but his chest hurts most. Pain lances through him every time he takes a breath. He fevers, but he’s not sure how high since every time he’s awake long enough to take his temperature he’s working on getting fluids into his body instead. He sleeps fitfully, waking every few hours in a cold sweat. His supply of granola bars runs out quickly. The acetaminophen he found in his bathroom vanity is running dangerously low.
On the third day, Seonghwa considers calling an ambulance in one of his more lucid moments. By the fifth day, he’s at least staying awake long enough to send some texts. He reassures San and Wooyoung that he’s alive. Given his lengthy silence, Seonghwa finds he’s been let go by the university, easily replaced. A shame. He did find joy in teaching.
He orders a grocery delivery (including more painkillers) and sets his phone back down. He manages a cold shower and goes back to sleep, unemployed again. The delivery wakes him from a particularly bad dream, in which an angry Hongjoong kept moving away, disappearing as soon as he was within reach, taunting him.
By the seventh day, Seonghwa feels more himself. He glanced in the mirror that morning, horrified by the state of his skin. The dark circles under his eyes and hollowed cheeks serve as final remnants of the entire ordeal. He goes outside for a little sunshine and a coffee, which revives him even more, and then he applies to a few more odd jobs.
Life is robotic. Seonghwa feels numb. There is only a constant chest pain, a constant reminder that he’s still alive.
He receives a call back later that week from a small marketing company, willing to take him on as an intern without a formal interview. He’d used his college degree on his CV this time, hoping that maybe he’d be able to put it to use for something.
His boss is an eccentric middle-aged woman with pink cat eye glasses named Terri. She’s nice enough, and thankfully doesn’t remark on his accent. Seonghwa starts off with typical intern office tasks, making coffee, refilling printer paper, picking up the office’s lunch orders from a nearby mediterranean joint.
The other summer intern, Connor, is a fresh NYU grad, overconfident and always peering down at Seonghwa like a bug to be squished by his shiny Prada oxfords. For all his disdain, Seonghwa thinks Connor is being particularly clingy. He follows Seonghwa around the office all day. Seonghwa secretly comes up with two hypotheses: he is so efficient he gets all his work done in the morning and has the rest of the day to bother Seonghwa or he’s a nepo baby of one of the C-suites. He leans towards the latter, since Connor proves himself to be a blubbering idiot.
Two weeks later, Seonghwa earns enough respect from Terri to assist with some design projects. It’s nice. He feels productive. He doesn’t hear from Hongjoong at all. The throbbing chest pain is a constant now, but Seonghwa slowly learns to live with it.
Seonghwa is on his way to the office on a blazing hot early August day when he’s stopped by a friendly looking woman with long black hair. She hands him a card. “I’m recruiting models,” she says. She collects his phone number while Seonghwa is still a little stunned. Later, he hopes he hasn’t just been scammed.
“You’ve done well here, Song,” Terri says to him one afternoon, using his Americanized name. There’s a little over a week left in his current contract and two weeks left on his rent agreement. “We’d like to hire you on full time.”
“Ah,” Seonghwa says, adjusting the silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “I’m really sorry, Terri. I’m planning to head back home.” It’s the first time he’s spoken of the plans brewing in his head.
Terri nods and shoots him a sympathetic smile. “Well in that case, best of luck wherever you end up then.”
Seonghwa returns to his desk, Connor immediately sticking his head over the divider. They’ve developed a sort of working relationship over the last month and a half, meaning Connor talks at Seonghwa and Seonghwa sometimes listens.
“Did you get in trouble?” Seonghwa shakes his head.
“Got my full time offer,” he replies, more focused the presentation he’s working on than Connor’s dirty blonde head.
“Wow, congrats man,” Connor says. “You take it?”
“Nope. I’m going back home after this is over,” Seonghwa replies.
“Oh, bummer,” Connor says, head retreating behind the divider. He’s uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the afternoon, which Seonghwa discovers he doesn’t mind at all. He focuses on his work for once. But, at the end of the day when the fatigue sets in, he finds it’s more difficult to push away thoughts of Hongjoong, of how he’s doing in Seoul and how his latest track is coming along without all the noise. He hopes he’s actually working on his music and not taking more photography jobs, but he knows Hongjoong is probably keeping himself up most nights with both.
The model scout calls him on a Tuesday evening. He’s asked to send in some photos, and then to meet at an office in-person the following day to sign a contract. Seonghwa sends in a few of the shots Hongjoong had taken of him at the Met, and then takes his lunch break on Wednesday to sign his contract.
Thankfully, the agency has a Seoul office, and Seonghwa is able to negotiate some terms on his contract. He won’t be walking runways but he’s happy with photo shoots and editorials anyway. His first booking is with a Korean clothing brand in a few weeks.
Seonghwa texts his mother flight details. She doesn’t respond. They haven’t talked since he hung up on her. She hasn’t called, either.
On his last day at the office, he’s packing up his belongings and some of the desk decorations he’s accumulated over six months of living in the city. There’s a framed photo of him and San from their dance troupe days, a miniature snow globe with the Empire State Building sitting inside, a mug with his face on it that San had given him for his birthday a few years ago, and a little succulent in a pot that says “Keep Growing!” that he picked up from the Union Square Farmers Market last week.
The office holds a little going-away party for him, involving balloons and a strawberry cake. Seonghwa is thoroughly touched. Connor gives him a goodbye hug. It’s also bittersweet, and the sensation lingers in his nostrils. He doesn’t cry.
***
Seonghwa doesn’t go home when his plane touches the runway at Incheon International Airport. His mother still hasn’t responded, so he isn’t sure if his parents are expecting him. He hauls his luggage to a hotel near Gangnam and books a three-night stay. He’s not quite ready to go home either, and he’s not sure what kind of reception he’ll get when he does.
His first order of business is to see San, who gives him the biggest bear hug upon seeing him. Seonghwa thinks at least some of his ribs are cracked by the time he lets go. Wooyoung pulls him into another less constricting hug immediately after. Unfortunately, he does not successfully dodge the wet kiss Wooyoung plants on his cheek.
They catch up over soju and samgyeopsal. San promises to buy an item of clothing from Seonghwa’s first photo shoot, which makes him blush and slap San across the shoulder. Seonghwa doesn’t tell them about Hongjoong.
His second order of business is a little more daunting. He dials a phone number he hasn’t in years, thinking he’ll go straight to voicemail, but the call is picked up on the second ring.
“Hello, Seonghwa.”
“Hello, Yeosang. I have a favor to ask.”
They meet at a café near Seonghwa’s hotel. Seonghwa is nursing a chamomile tea when Yeosang arrives, right on time. He looks good, healthy. Fluffy brown hair frames his face and his shoulders now fill out the sleeves of his gray cardigan.
“Hi, Yeo,” Seonghwa greets. Yeosang tips his chin in greeting.
Seonghwa nods to the iced Americano sitting on the table between them, he’d ordered hoping Yeosang still enjoyed his coffee black.
“Ah, thank you,” Yeosang says, sipping gratefully. “What did you want to ask?”
Seonghwa had forgotten how blunt Yeosang could be.
“How did you know we weren’t mates?”
Yeosang eyes him carefully.
“Probably a few months into our relationship,” Yeosang says. “I only really saw you as a friend, no matter how much I tried to convince my wolf it would be in our best interest.”
“I only went through with the mating because of our families, I think. That’s what I regret most, hyung. That I put you through that even though I was pretty sure the mating wouldn’t be successful.”
Seonghwa purses his lips in an attempt to stave off a few tears. Yeosang had always been a sweetheart.
“I’m grateful,” Seonghwa says finally after a few calming sips of tea. “And for the record, I agreed, so it’s not completely your fault.”
There’s a long silence. The café buzzes with activity, the whir of the espresso machine, dishes clattering, and other quiet conversations blanket them while Yeosang takes contemplative sips.
“I’m sorry we fell out of touch,” Seonghwa continues. “I didn’t want to be a constant reminder of regret.”
Yeosang scoffs. “It’s never too late, hyung.” He takes a particularly long drag of his Americano.
“Sounds like you found your mate,” Yeosang says, hitting the nail directly on the head, “since you’re so torn up about it.”
Seonghwa winces. He’d always been easy to read.
“Yes,” he sighs. “I have.”
“What’s holding you back? You look kind of miserable, no offense,” Yeosang says.
“I’m scared. I’m scared my wolf will never take a mate. I’m scared of breaking the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“That’s so pessimistic,” Yeosang says. He even has the audacity to roll his eyes. “You know this other wolf is your mate, right? Deep down somewhere?”
Seonghwa knows he’s right, but he’d already spent a lot of time suppressing his feelings, like avoiding the thought would prevent it from manifesting.
“I broke us,” Seonghwa says. Yeosang takes a deep breath in through his nose.
“You did not,” Yeosang replies evenly. “We were never meant to be.”
“Right. Okay.”
“I think you two need to talk.”
Seonghwa scowls. Yeosang throws his straw wrapper at him.
“You know I’m right,” Yeosang says.
“I’m trying not to inflate your ego too much.”
With some of the burden off his shoulders, they catch up briefly before Yeosang heads off to attend a meeting. He’s seeing another wolf named Jongho, but nothing serious. Yeosang’s more focused on the family business for now, learning the ropes to eventually take over for his father.
Seonghwa sits in the café for a little longer, tea gone cold. He does need to talk to Hongjoong, but he can’t unless he’s ready to accept the bond. His chest pain flares with the thought of him. It’s been worse since he arrived in Korea. Seonghwa rubs at it out of habit.
***
Seonghwa steps into the foyer of his parents’ home, half surprised to discover his key still works. He finds his father in the sitting room, cigarette in one hand and empty lowball in the other.
“Appa,” he says, bowing. His father eyes him warily, a man of few words. Seonghwa’s dark hair is a little longer now, falling into his eyes and trailing down the back of his neck, but his appearance hasn’t changed much in six months.
“Seonghwa,” he says gruffly. “Your mother is in the study.”
Dismissed. Fine.
He deposits his suitcase in his room, then trudges back downstairs to find his mother.
She looks regal, only the thin skin of her hands and wrinkles gracing the corners of her mouth give away her age and bad habits. She’s dictating something when Seonghwa knocks, maybe a speech for one of the many charitable foundations she’s obligated to spearhead.
Seonghwa clears his throat, unsure if he’s welcome or not. Given that she’s ignored him for the first few moments of their first encounter in months, he actually takes it as a good sign.
“Park Seonghwa,” she says finally, like he’s a client and not her own son.
“Mother,” Seonghwa replies stiffly.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she says. There’s a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes pasted on her face. “I’ll have Hyungwon forward you the fall event schedule.”
Seonghwa barely contains his eye roll. Hyungwon is his mother’s secretary and for all intents and purposes very good at his job. His only flaw, Seonghwa remembers, is his unwavering loyalty to his mother. Trust her to throw him back into his regularly scheduled programming of making gala appearances and useless company meetings.
Seonghwa simply nods and leaves the room. The air is thick, suffocating him.
***
Seonghwa arrives at the studio fifteen minutes early. The set is bustling already. He’s ushered off to hair and makeup as soon as he’s spotted by the director. Then, he’s fitted in a casual jeans and jacket look.
The whole process feels new and strange. His arms feel clunky and he isn’t sure what expression he’s making half the time. He’s reassured a lot by the photographer, who kindly directs him through poses for the remainder of the morning. Seonghwa’s only thought is that Hongjoong might be proud that his offhand comment had actually materialized.
He stays at home with his parents for the next few months, arranging his photoshoots so that they won’t conflict with anything on the schedule Hyungwon had handed him.
Seonghwa’s first modeling gig ends up as the website header for a relatively well-known Korean clothing brand. San and Wooyoung take him out for drinks to celebrate after the site goes live. When he wakes the next morning with a horrible hangover, he finds his official social media pages have gained thousands of followers overnight.
The gigs pick up pace. Seonghwa barely sleeps. The dark circles under his eyes become violent storm clouds. His personal trainer finally snaps when he starts dropping weights in exhaustion.
What’s most important is that the income starts rolling in. His own income, and his only. Soon, he’ll be free and independent of his parents’ rule, out from the thumb of oppression threatening everything he loves. Seonghwa sends a silent apology to his cousin, who will likely be taking over the company when his parents find out he’s emancipated himself.
His new apartment is shiny and modern, on the 25th floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows, and overlooking the Han River. Seonghwa falls in love with the clean lines and bright spaces immediately. And he’s also in love with the fact that it’s his.
The day he breaks up with his parents is, expectedly, worse than the day he left for New York City. Both of his parents yell. It gets ugly. He’s never seen his father turn that shade of red before. Seonghwa grits his teeth and stands his ground. Eventually, though, Seonghwa gets what he wants. He’s disowned. The relief washes over him like a cool salty blue ocean wave.
The invite to Paris Fashion Week for Dior arrives in his mailbox several weeks later. Seonghwa carefully places the giant bouquet of red roses in a vase on his kitchen countertop. The schedule involves a lot of interviews, including several short spots and a formal sit-down for the official brand channel, which makes Seonghwa nervous. He’d largely avoided them growing up and thus the media training he’d received was minimal.
***
Seonghwa is nearly blinded by the camera flashes as he steps onto the red carpet. The constant pain has lifted slightly, just enough for him to breathe a little better, and he briefly considers moving to France. He moves through a few poses as instructed and then heads further down for an obligatory standing interview. He doesn’t remember what he says, hoping it’s generic and friendly enough. His glittery interviewer reacts so positively, even leaning in so close he can smell her perfume, he’s somewhat reassured.
As he takes his seat for the show, he feels the red string snap into place somewhere deep in his gut. When he looks up, among the cluster of photographers at the end of the runway is a tiny angelic face. Hongjoong. His hair is a dark chocolate brown now, bangs hanging in his eyes. Seonghwa is so overwhelmed in that moment, relief and longing crashing into him like a tsunami, he almost cries. He sees the hurt in Hongjoong’s dark eyes even from a distance, so he adds regret to the emotional whirlpool swirling around his heart.
He hadn’t meant to run into Hongjoong, really. The Plan_Final_REAL_V2.exe was to win Hongjoong back (read: grovel for as long as it takes), but only after he’d established a career as a model and not a second before. He wanted to prove that he was his own person, able to support the love of his life and deserving of that love being returned.
But Paris Fashion Week had thrown a wrench in his master plan. Fate couldn’t seem to wait any longer, and Seonghwa should have known better than to not expect Hongjoong, a known model photographer, to be present to photograph the runway. With models on it.
The show itself is stunning. Seonghwa enjoys himself a little and makes small talk with the celebrities (!) sitting beside him, an American actress on his left and a country singer-songwriter on his right. He spends the majority of the show sitting on his hands in an attempt to assuage the urge to simply get up and go to Hongjoong. His wolf protests the entire time.
After the show ends, he’s immediately ushered back to a waiting vehicle and taken straight to his hotel. He doesn’t even manage to catch another glimpse of Hongjoong, but he knows he’s there. He can feel it. He films some video content for Dior when he arrives, still dressed in his red-carpet outfit. He knows the director and cameraman can tell his heart isn’t in it. It’s really a good thing, Seonghwa muses, that I’m a model and not an actor.
Later, when the makeup is wiped off and he’s alone in his room, he stares at his phone, internally panicking. He has a message to Hongjoong sitting in the text box. A simple “Hello, it’s Seonghwa. Can we talk?” stares back at him ominously. Seonghwa isn’t even sure if Hongjoong had blocked him after that fateful day at the park. He hadn’t tried to call. Hongjoong hadn’t tried to call him. In the end, deep into witching hour, Seonghwa finally gives up on his internal war and hits the send button. Then, he throws his phone down on the bed next to him and tries to get some shut eye.
Seonghwa wakes with a start a few hours later. Hongjoong hasn’t responded, but Seonghwa knows he’s a late riser coupled with the jetlag. His agency-assigned bodyguard ends up finding a small café a few blocks away for a Parisian breakfast (minus the cigarette). Seonghwa sits in an uncomfortable metal bistro chair streetside, wishing he could unsend texts.
Hongjoong still doesn’t text back. It’s fine.
***
The final item on Seonghwa’s inaugural Paris Fashion Week itinerary is a photoshoot. He doesn’t bother to read any of the details on the ride over to the studio, which he regrets immediately when he steps inside and feels the familiar tugging in his chest.
Fate intervenes again. Seonghwa is filled with an irritating awkwardness, which turns into anger. He’s just here to do his job, model, for a photographer who’s just trying to do his job too.
As it turns out, Hongjoong is just the assistant photographer on duty. Seonghwa is stuffed into a leather and denim studded number and is directed to lounge across the sapphire blue couch on set. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hongjoong adjusting the lights and avoiding eye contact at all costs. He sits quietly behind the monitors in a way that Seonghwa can’t see him.
How infuriating. His mate, hiding.
Then again, he’s responsible for breaking his heart, so it’s largely justified.
The remainder of the shoot goes smoothly, as usual. Seonghwa tries his best to focus on the photographer, not Hongjoong, despite the mantra of Hongjoong Hongjoong Hongjoong that’s replaying incessantly in his head.
Seonghwa, back in comfy sweats, is gathering his belongings in his assigned dressing room after the shoot when he hears a gentle knock. “Come in,” he calls, assuming his bodyguard has come to fetch him.
Instead, a dark chocolate head pokes in from behind the doorframe.
“Uh, Seonghwa. Hey.”
Seonghwa’s throat works to produce words, a noise, anything.
“Hi.” Idiot.
Hongjoong slowly lets himself in, the door shutting behind him with a gentle click.
“I got your text,” he says without preamble. He sounds shaky, so unlike the usual self-assured Hongjoong Seonghwa knows.
“Oh,” Seonghwa says. “Okay.”
“Could we talk?”
“No.” Hongjoong recoils. An arrow pierces Seonghwa’s heart.
“Not here, not right now,” Seonghwa amends. “I have to head back to the hotel any minute now, my flight for Seoul is later tonight.”
Hongjoong freezes, pain flashing through his eyes so quickly Seonghwa almost misses it. “I’ll let you know when I’m back in town, then.”
Seonghwa tosses his headphones into his bag and hoists it over his shoulder. With one last glance, he nods at Hongjoong and walks past him in long strides, out the door in search of his ride.
Concealed in the back of a dark van, he takes a shuddering breath. Every step was a battle against his instincts. The rational part of his brain wins, mostly. They’ll need a lot more time and space than an imminent flight and studio dressing room can give them.
Seonghwa is met with a modest crowd of airport paparazzi when he touches down in Seoul. With his apparent fame rising the ranks, he can’t afford to be careless. A shiny new pair of Dior sunglasses stay on his face as soon as he steps off the plane.
His apartment feels cold and lonely. The clean lines he had fallen in love with are stark and clinical now, and the roses are mostly wilted. He hopes Hongjoong texts him soon.
***
San senses something is wrong the moment Seonghwa lets them into the apartment, but he hides it well. He and Wooyoung coo over the new furniture and some of the décor Seonghwa has collecting on freshly built shelves. Seonghwa returns to the pot of yukgaejang bubbling on the stove.
Wooyoung starts channel surfing on the couch while San joins Seonghwa in the kitchen.
“It’s almost ready, Sannie,” Seonghwa says gently. “You can join Wooyoungie if you want.”
“Hyung, are you okay? You’re acting off,” San says. Seonghwa cringes internally, figuring he’d be cornered sooner rather than later by his best friend. Seonghwa offers him a spoonful of soup to try, buying some time. There is no use in lying to San, who has the uncanny ability to pry every secret out of Seonghwa.
Truthfully, San has known things have been off since he got back from New York. He has been nice enough to allow Seonghwa some time to open up on his own, but his patience is wearing thin.
“I’m okay,” Seonghwa sighs, eyes focused on stirring. “I think I met my soulmate. In New York.”
San’s eyes widen. When Seonghwa looks up he can see the gears turning, the questions rising in his head.
“I’m broken, you know. Two failed mating bites is basically unheard of.” San scoffs, and Seonghwa can hear the intake of breath in preparation for an argument.
“I got scared. I turned him down, and I ran away,” Seonghwa continues. “I broke him too.”
San wraps Seonghwa up wordlessly in a warm, tight hug. Seonghwa notices Wooyoung lingering in the doorway.
“Oh, Woo, how much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Wooyoung moves forward and joins the hug, which is now mostly just San hanging off Seonghwa’s back.
“Okay, that’s really enough,” Seonghwa grunts. “You two are really fucking heavy.”
His two lovable octopus friends finally let go after more prompting and a reminder that dinner is ready. Seonghwa dishes out three bowls for them, and they all settle at the table.
“What’s your plan now, hyung?” San asks once their bowls are clean.
“I wanted to make peace with my parents first,” Seonghwa says. “So that’s done. And be able to support myself, which is also done.”
San and Wooyoung share a look. Seonghwa isn’t privy to most of the things that they seem to communicate telepathically anyway, and has no desire to know either, so he continues.
“So now the plan is to grovel at his feet and hope he takes me back.”
That earns him a lot of applause. Seonghwa aims a few kicks at their shins. Ridiculous octopus friends.
***
Hongjoong
I’m back in Seoul. We really should talk.
Seonghwa replies with his address. Later that evening, the doorbell rings. He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and takes several unhelpful deep breaths before opening the door.
Hongjoong’s there, a vision packaged in a long wool coat over a blue cardigan. The tip of his nose is a little pink from the cold wind outside and his cheeks are flushed. Seonghwa also notices the dark circles under his eyes that match his own.
“Come in,” Seonghwa gestures inside. He knows he’s a clean freak, but wonders if Hongjoong might be judging the Star Wars Legos displayed along the wall or the mug with his face on it sitting on the coffee table.
Hongjoong settles on the couch, draping his coat over the arm closest to him. Seonghwa offers food and drink in a mirage of being a good host, but Hongjoong shakes his head. He sits primly, hands folded over his lap, twisting a silver ring on his finger, looking at everything but Seonghwa.
“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa blurts out, immediately going off script. He had a whole speech planned, which had gone flying out the window the moment he laid eyes on Hongjoong.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. It sounds really stupid now, but I had some things to do first,” Seonghwa says. Hongjoong blinks at him.
“That is stupid,” Hongjoong says, a touch of anger coloring his voice. “I’m sorry too. I should have fought harder for us.”
“I didn’t think I was in a place to receive love or affection,” Seonghwa admits quietly. “I wouldn’t have let you.”
Tears start brimming in Hongjoong’s eyes.
“What changed, then? Why now? It’s been months,” Hongjoong chokes out. “I tried to give you space, like you wanted, but it hurt so much.”
“I’m so sorry,” Seonghwa grimaces. “I wanted so many things for us. For me. Mostly a place to call ours. But I’m ready now. I want to be yours.”
“Damn it,” Hongjoong sniffs, tears now freely running. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
He swipes a sweater paw at his face, which would have been extremely cute if Seonghwa could see him through his own tears.
“You were supposed to be all cold and distant,” Hongjoong says between hiccups. “I was supposed to try to convince you to give us a shot.”
“We can still tell everyone that if you want,” Seonghwa says. Hongjoong barks out a laugh and extends an arm to shove Seonghwa, who falls easily on top of the couch cushions.
Seonghwa reaches out and catches Hongjoong by the wrist, pulling him flush against his chest. It’s a perfect fit. Hongjoong is so warm, and his tears stain his t-shirt. Seonghwa will take it, though, if they’re happy tears.
“Hwa,” Hongjoong says into his chest, muffled. “I’m never moving. You’re going to have to carry me around like this.”
“Okay,” Seonghwa agrees wholeheartedly. They talk about everything and nothing. Hongjoong falls asleep and Seonghwa spends the rest of his cat nap running a hand through soft dark hair. Eventually, Seonghwa is forced to get up to reheat the last of the leftover yukgaejang for two grumbling stomachs. Hongjoong clings onto Seonghwa like a lifeline.
Seonghwa understands, though, being deprived of the soulmate touch for so long. It will most likely be days before they’re able to be apart for more than a few hours. He feels weightless and floaty. Ordinary life stressors don’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters is the gorgeous little wolf currently preventing him from pulling hot soup out of the microwave.
“Hongjoongie,” he says, trying to free his arm. He may need to add a third octopus to his collection. “We need to eat.”
He’s freed for a few moments to gather some side dishes and bring everything to the couch, where they eat on the floor by the coffee table with their legs tangled. A kdrama re-run plays softly in the background.
“You know,” Hongjoong says. “I got really sick after that day in the park. I had to postpone my flight.”
Seonghwa freezes, spoonful of rice halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“It was awful. I thought I was going to die.”
Red hot guilt crawls up Seonghwa’s spine. He did this. He made them both sick. The rejection almost killed them.
“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says. He’s been apologizing a lot recently. Hongjoong eyes him carefully.
“You were sick too, right?” It’s not accusatory. Seonghwa lets out the breath he’s holding.
“Yeah,” Seonghwa confirms. “It’s my fault. The rejection.”
Hongjoong withdraws a fraction of a centimeter. It stings Seonghwa, a sour taste lingering in the back of his throat.
“Don’t you think,” Hongjoong says slowly, “I should have been involved in the decision-making process?”
Obviously. “I didn’t want to burden you.” It’s a pathetic excuse. Hongjoong is right.
“You burdened me anyway, Seonghwa.”
He deserved that. He deserves all the hatred Hongjoong has been holding for him. In hindsight, they should have talked instead of Seonghwa making every attempt to run from his feelings.
“I know.” He’s run out of apologies but is full of regrets.
“Promise me,” Hongjoong says. “Promise me you’ll talk to me first. Next time. Every time.”
Seonghwa nods vigorously. Of course he will. He’s learned his lesson.
***
Later, when the dishes are cleared away and they’re back to snuggling on the couch, Seonghwa fixates on a single thought circulating in his mind.
“Hongjoongie, would you be my mate?”
“Yeah, duh,” comes the response almost immediately.
Seonghwa smiles, tilting his head down to meet Hongjoong’s glittery orbs. “We don’t have to officially mate now, but in the future.”
“It’ll be your third,” Hongjoong points out objectively. “Is that okay?”
“It’s okay if it’s my last one.” Their faces are so close he can feel the hot air Hongjoong lets out when he snorts.
“Of course it will be your last one,” Hongjoong says, sarcasm painting the rounded edges of his words. “Don’t be facetious, my beautiful mate.”
Even with the sarcasm, Seonghwa preens. Being called someone’s mate, Hongjoong’s mate in particular, fills him with an unbridled joy, like cotton candy clouds and warm orange sunshine. He brushes their noses together.
“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
It’s Hongjoong’s turn to nod vigorously.
“Use your words, baby,” Seonghwa says, self-control disintegrating by the millisecond. Hongjoong blushes up to his ears.
“Call me that again,” he says, choking on a whisper.
“What? Baby?” More nodding. “Okay.”
Seonghwa isn’t sure who moves first, but their lips finally crash together. There are fireworks painted on the backs of his eyelids. Hongjoong’s mouth is so warm, so soft, and so receptive. Seonghwa gives and gives. The tiny moan that escapes Hongjoong when Seonghwa licks at the seam of his lips sends more fireworks through him. Hongjoong opens beautifully.
Seonghwa takes his time exploring Hongjoong. His hands explore the warm expanse of Hongjoong’s skin, under his blue cardigan and the white t-shirt underneath that. He commits every curve, every line, every noise that he makes to memory. Seonghwa can feel the fluttering of his heart against his ribcage, mirroring Hongjoong’s own rapid pulse.
Hongjoong’s hands cup his jaw with surprising tenderness while they kiss, then move to tangle themselves in his hair. He pulls just enough to hurt, and Seonghwa moans something obscene. Seonghwa doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Hongjoong.
They break apart to catch their breaths a while later. Minutes, hours, Seonghwa doesn’t know, but he doesn’t hold back a whine. Come back, he thinks. Hongjoong grins, catlike, and Seonghwa realizes he spoke out loud.
“Stay over,” Seonghwa says after a few more butterfly kisses, unable to keep his eyes off of Hongjoong’s shiny swollen lips.
They get ready for bed together, brushing their teeth side by side in the mirror, doing each other’s skincare. It all feels very domestic, like they’ve been doing the same routine for years. Seonghwa lends Hongjoong shirt and sweats to sleep in, and for only being a few centimeters shorter, Hongjoong drowns in them. Seonghwa thinks it may be the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.
The first thing that Seonghwa registers when he wakes is the streams of golden sunlight filtering in through the curtains. The second thing he notices is the warm weight above him. It takes his groggy brain a few more seconds to realize everything that happened yesterday was real, and that his mate, his mate, Hongjoongie is finally in his arms.
Seonghwa lets Hongjoong sleep, the younger deep in dreamland still. He cards his hand through his soft hair, traces the tattoo on his arm, draws new patterns on his back. Soon, though, his stomach calls for breakfast, so he carefully untangles himself and places a kiss on Hongjoong’s head once he’s free. Hongjoong stirs, reaching for a Seonghwa-replacement pillow, but doesn’t wake. Seonghwa allows his heart to squeeze in endearment, then heads to the kitchen.
He’s plating up toast when he feels strong arms wrap around his middle.
“Morning, Joongie,” he says. “It’s almost ready.”
“I love you,” Hongjoong says, voice rough with sleep. Seonghwa leads them back to the bedroom with two plates.
“I love you too,” Seonghwa says. “Now eat.”
Seonghwa learns Hongjoong is mostly nonverbal after waking until he’s been properly caffeinated. He watches his groggy mate slowly work on breakfast and his wolf is only satisfied when he sees the plate is clean.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Hongjoong says, sipping on his second helping of coffee out of Seonghwa’s face mug. “I know it’s early, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”
“We’re soulmates,” Seonghwa says simply. “I’ll find you in every lifetime.”
Hongjoong smiles at that, face mostly hidden by the steam rising from the coffee mug.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
***
“Woo and Sannie are going at it again,” Mingi says, joining Seonghwa at the bar.
“You can interrupt them,” Seonghwa swirls his drink, propping an elbow on the counter. “They make out like that all the time.”
“I don’t even want to get near them,” Mingi replies, shuddering. Seonghwa offers a sympathetic shrug.
“You’ll get used to it eventually, Mingi-ya,” Seonghwa says. He offers a sip to Hongjoong, who’s sidled up next to him. Seonghwa can see the shiny scarred-over marks on Hongjoong’s neck as he tilts his head to drink.
Mingi, the producer friend Hongjoong had met with in New York, scoffs. “You guys aren’t that much better.”
“Oh, shut up, Mingi,” Hongjoong speaks up finally. “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t be sucking face with Yunho in the bathroom right now if he was here.”
Mingi grimaces, wisely choosing not to argue with a firecracker like tipsy Hongjoong, who hands the drink back to Seonghwa and tilts his head to lay ice cold lips on his own mating bite. Electricity zings through Seonghwa’s body and heat settles in the pit of his stomach, eyes widening as he looks over at his mate.
“Hongjoongie,” he warns, voice low, “we’re in public.”
Hongjoong lets up easily, giggling as he moves away and heads back to the table to join Wooyoung and San. He’d been a tease since day one, which Seonghwa had been very pleased (mostly) to discover.
Mingi makes a gagging sound. “It’s been a year,” he says. “Get a grip.”
Seonghwa just laughs and pats Mingi’s shoulder as patronizingly as he can. He collects a second drink from the bartender.
“You and Yunho first.”
He leaves Mingi at the bar, who’s frowning deeply. Thankfully, San and Wooyoung have disentangled themselves and are involved in animated conversation with Hongjoong. Seonghwa slides one of the drinks in his hand across the table, Hongjoong catching it easily without a pause in conversation.
“Hey, supermodel,” San greets Seonghwa as he settles himself on Hongjoong’s lap.
“Ya, that’s not my title, you punk,” Seonghwa scolds. “It’s hyung to you.”
“Sorry, supermodel hyung,” San says. “I thought you were walking for Saint Laurent next month?”
“Isabel Marant first,” Hongjoong corrects. “Then YSL. Right, baby?”
Seonghwa nods, sipping on his drink. He snuggles his face into the crook of Hongjoong’s neck as he and Wooyoung go back to arguing. Mingi returns to the table a few minutes later, glass full.
He looks fondly at his mate, then around the table at his best friends. Seonghwa is truly happy. He’s doing something he loves with the people he loves, and he’s the luckiest man alive since they love him back. It took a few tries, some odd jobs, and only a minimal amount of groveling, but he wouldn’t trade this beautiful little life for anything else in the world.