Chapter Text
“Going out, hyung?” San calls over the frantic Mario Kart theme playing.
Seonghwa shushes him, gesturing at Doyun’s bedroom door. It’s closed, and their manager is presumably asleep, but there’s no sense risking it. San snaps his mouth shut guiltily.
“Yes,” Seonghwa answers as he puts on his street shoes. “I need some fresh air.”
And alone time, but he doesn’t say the second part since it should be obvious. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care about waking their manager. Beyond human decency, anyway. Doyun’s sleep debt is even larger than theirs, and he isn’t as young.
“Hyung’s going to see his crush,” Wooyoung sing-songs from the other side of the sofa, eyes focused on his Daisy racing across the TV.
“I’m not.”
“Mmhmm, sure. Bring me back some shrimp chips. Oh, and an energy drink for tomorrow. You know that new cherry one? I want to try that.”
Seonghwa flips him off, but Wooyoung doesn’t even see because San’s Yoshi is trying to shove Daisy off the track. They both know he’ll buy his snacks; there’s no point pretending otherwise. But Seonghwa is the oldest, and he shouldn’t be a total pushover. Even though he is.
“Be careful, hyung,” San says.
“I’m just going to the 7-Eleven and back.”
“He is going to see his crush!” Wooyoung crows, more than a little too loud. San smacks him, and Seonghwa slips out before their tussling wakes Doyun.
Seonghwa isn’t the smartest person in the world—or even among the six members of New World—but he isn’t a total idiot. They are currently forbidden from going outside alone for a good reason. So, before he leaves the building, he carefully scans the sidewalk, checking for any suspicious silhouettes lingering near the entrance.
During their first three years, they didn’t have too many sasaengs haunting their dorm. This year, however, more and more started lingering—the price to pay for growing popularity. They mostly just lurked until a week ago. A strange woman tailed Seonghwa, calling for him to turn and face her. He had his AirPods in, so he pretended he couldn’t hear and walked faster. When she caught up, she seized his arm in a fierce, desperate grip. Seonghwa wrenched himself free and bolted the final meters to the dorm.
The company plans to move them to a new, hopefully more private residence since their current lease will end soon anyway. But until then, they’ve increased their security precautions, and no one goes anywhere alone.
Seonghwa appreciates the concern. But he also feels like he is suffocating.
The coast is clear. Seonghwa checks his reflection in the elevator doors one last time to ensure his hat covers his pastel pink hair. It’s three in the morning, so he probably doesn’t need to bother with a face mask, but the hair is way too conspicuous, even with most of the city fast asleep.
Satisfied that he’s covert enough, Seonghwa exits and sets off at a brisk pace for the 7-Eleven four blocks away. Their apartment building has its own convenience store inside, but the selection isn’t great, and going there never feels like “getting out.” The 7-Eleven isn’t exactly a trek either, but going there at least lets him stretch his legs and visit somewhere besides the dorm and the company building.
And. Well. Popping into the 7-Eleven at this time of night means maybe seeing a certain clerk.
Seonghwa squints through the store’s windows as he approaches, searching for a head of shoulder-length, firetruck-red hair. There’s no sign of the alarmingly bright dye job, so he tamps down his disappointment as he sails through the door. Hongjoong usually works the overnight shift, but not always. He can’t expect—
“Welcome in,” Hongjoong’s voice calls. Seonghwa whips around to face the check-out counter.
Oh. The red is gone, but in its place is a half-black, half-white spectacle that looks a little ridiculous and a lot absolutely perfect. Seonghwa’s hands itch with the desire to run his fingers through the long locks and feel the texture, play with the length.
“Can I help you?” Hongjoong asks.
Seonghwa blinks, gathering himself. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
He should’ve worn the mask after all. Then his blushing cheeks wouldn’t be so obvious. “It’s, uh, it’s different. Your hair.”
Hongjoong laughs the high, mischievous laugh that’s becoming familiar to Seonghwa, elbows propping up on the counter. Several silver bracelets dangle off each thin wrist. “It is, yes. You noticed?”
Seonghwa nods, thinks about complimenting it, and then escapes to the refrigerators before he embarrasses himself further.
It could’ve gone worse, he supposes.
Seonghwa locates the energy drink Wooyoung wanted and then gathers the snacks, dallying to regain his composure for the ensuing face-to-face interaction. The internal voice that sounds like their hip-hop dance instructor scolds him for being such a wreck. What is there to be nervous about? Confidence, confidence, confidence! Sell it!
Honestly, Seonghwa doesn’t understand why Hongjoong makes him so flustered. It isn’t like any crush he’s had before. For one thing, Hongjoong isn’t remotely his usual type; Seonghwa usually goes for jocks. But more importantly, he’s never been this desperate for a crush to approve of him, to just see him.
It’s especially pathetic considering they’ve barely spoken. Most of their “conversations” over the last year or so were just normal cashier-customer interactions. Seonghwa only knows Hongjoong’s name because of the tag pinned to the 7-Eleven vest. But if the shop is empty, Seonghwa attempts small talk. Basic stuff about which chips Hongjoong recommends, asking whether weird customers come during the overnight shift, and so on. Hell, even the weather.
On even rarer occasions, the small talk lasts long enough to shift into something that might be considered flirting. Like the time Seonghwa took off his beanie because it was too hot and Hongjoong said he looked pretty blond. Or the time Honjoong noticed the extra-dangly earring Seonghwa was wearing and asked to see it closer. As tiny as those interactions were, they gave Seonghwa an emotional high that rivaled how he felt after an especially nice fanmeet.
Seonghwa has also never experienced a crush with so much…envy. He noticed one night that Hongjoong’s nails were painted a deep purple and immediately wanted to paint his own. Another night, Hongjoong’s hair was styled in a cute bun, and Seonghwa found himself wishing his hair was long enough for up-dos. And the reason why he wore that extra-dangly earring was that he kept covetously eyeing the many piercings in Hongjoong’s ears and decided to try something different from his usual studs and hoops.
Maybe it isn’t a crush. Whatever it is, Seonghwa is always out of his depth around Hongjoong. He’s pretty sure they’re around the same age, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like a kid when he meets Hongjoong’s eyes.
Seonghwa clutches the snacks to his chest, steels himself, and approaches the check-out counter.
Hongjoong is writing in a little notebook, bottom lip bitten by two perfect teeth, but looks up when Seonghwa lays his items down.
“You’re not drinking this tonight, are you?” Hongjoong asks, scanning the energy drink. “You won’t be able to sleep for another twelve hours.”
“No, it’s for my, uh, roommate.”
“The loud little one or the tall puppy face one?”
For a moment, Seonghwa wonders how Hongjoong could possibly know Wooyoung or Yunho. Then he remembers that he’s visited the store with both of them before—Yunho to help carry everyone’s drink requests and Wooyoung because he is nosy and wanted to see why Seonghwa kept coming to 7-Eleven.
“The loud little one,” Seonghwa answers. And then, aiming for the flirting end of teasing, he adds, “He’s about as tall as you.”
“It’s not how tall you are that matters,” Hongjoong says archly, head tilting back and eyes bright behind clear-frame glasses. “It’s how you carry yourself.”
All the items have already been scanned, and Seonghwa already has his credit card out to pay. Before his window of opportunity closes, he quickly says, “Your hair looks really good.”
Too quickly. Hongjoong frowns. “Sorry, what was that?”
Seonghwa really wishes he put on that mask. He uses tapping his card as an excuse to look down. “Your hair. It looks good.”
Hongjoong’s frown curls into a small smile. “Thanks. I’m really happy with how it came out.”
“Did you do it yourself?”
“No, my friend did it. I used to dye my own hair, but I always botched it and looked terrible.”
Hongjoong bags Seonghwa’s purchases and hands them over with his receipt. “Thanks for visiting 7-Eleven.”
“You too,” Seonghwa says automatically and then dies inside.
Hongjoong’s laughter follows him out the door.
Distracted as Seonghwa is with this latest humiliation, he doesn’t notice the person loitering outside the store until they call out to him.
“Seonghwa-yah!”
He freezes.
“Yes?” he answers out of the same polite instinct that failed him just moments ago. He immediately wishes he stayed silent and kept moving, but it’s too late.
A woman approaches him with urgent steps. “I need you to look at me,” she says, hand outstretched.
Seonghwa shrinks away, recognizing her as the stalker from last week. Had she been lingering outside the dorm after all? Shit. He doesn’t think she is actually dangerous, but sasaengs are unpredictable. He’s heard plenty of horror stories about how quickly things can escalate, especially if they catch you alone. And even if you escape them in person, they can make your life hell online if you anger them.
He swallows and tries to make his voice respectful but firm. “Sorry, ma’am, but I need to go.”
“Just for a moment,” she insists, eyes wide. “You can spare a moment.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t go!” She reaches for his hand, but Seonghwa skitters backward. “It’s so unfair.”
“I really need to—”
“You can’t leave,” she says, voice cracking. “You’re so unfair, Park Seonghwa.”
Tears well up in her eyes, the wet gleam obvious, even lit by just a streetlamp. Instinctively, Seonghwa meets her gaze for the first time. In an instant, her face twists from distraught to determined. She lunges and seizes his wrist in a tight grip, squeezing with what must be all her strength.
“See me?” she says. “Look at me.”
Seonghwa looks. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. She’s older than him by maybe a few years. Her black pin-straight hair is cut in a short, severe bob. Her eyes are round and dark, the irises barely distinguishable from the pupils. There’s a small scar just to the right of her straight nose, like something sharp scratched her years ago. Other than that, she’s fairly unremarkable, just another person like anyone else he might see on the street.
He thinks he’ll remember her face though.
“See?” she repeats, and goosebumps creep down Seonghwa’s arms. “All I ever want to see is you, Seonghwa-yah.”
Another voice cuts through the night. “Excuse me, sir?”
Seonghwa’s heart thuds against his chest. He turns toward the 7-Eleven, where Hongjoong’s head sticks through the shop’s door—but he’s careful to keep the woman in his peripheral vision in case she tries something else.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but I need you to sign your receipt.”
“What?” Seonghwa asks, but then Hongjoong waves for him to come over, and he realizes what’s happening. He yanks his arm free and hurries toward his savior while the woman hesitates in the face of a witness.
She starts to follow him, but once Seonghwa is through the entrance, Hongjoong says, “Sorry ma’am, but I’m the only employee on shift, and I need to take my break right after this,” and then locks the door with a definitive click.
“Thank you,” Seonghwa says, heart still racing. He rubs his wrist, trying to get rid of the red spots she left. Her nails dug into him, splitting the skin just enough to draw one bead of blood. He wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb and vows to wash his hands extra well when he returns home.
“No problem. Work enough night shifts, and you start spotting trouble right away.” Hongjoong walks toward the counter. “Here, might as well make it look real.”
Seonghwa follows obediently, but he notes, “She’ll wait.”
“How long do you think?”
“As long as it takes for me to come out.”
Mentally, Seonghwa reviews his options. Calling the police seems like an overreaction, calling his manager would earn him a serious scolding, and calling one of the members might make the situation worse. He supposes he could request a rideshare and then run past her to get inside. But what if she throws herself in front of the car or something? Does he really have no choice but to wake up Doyun and accept his scolding?
“Okay, I’ll let you out the back then.”
That yanks Seonghwa from his thoughts. “The back?”
“Yeah. Come here.”
Hongjoong gestures for him to come around to the other side of the counter, checking the glass storefront as well. “From this angle, she shouldn’t be able to see us.”
Seonghwa steps into the employee-only section of the store, feeling as if he’s entered an entirely different world. He’s been to convenience stores thousands of times—in different countries, even—but he’s never been on this side of the counter. He takes a moment to appraise the cash register, the cigarette case, and especially the personal items Hongjoong must have stashed on the shelf below the counters. There’s a bag of cough drops, a white phone clutch covered in Sharpie doodles, the notebook and pen he saw earlier, and what looks like a digital recorder.
Hongjoong grabs the clutch and shrugs off the employee vest.
“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asks.
“I’ll walk you out. The back alley is confusing, especially at night.”
Hongjoong doesn’t add, And you probably shouldn’t walk alone, but Seonghwa hears it.
It feels like overkill. Seonghwa can probably navigate the back alley, and if he really needs to, he can outrun the sasaeng. On the other hand, he wants to spend more time with Hongjoong. But…
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Nah, the manager won’t care. She lets me do whatever because no one else wants this shift. Besides, I really do need to take my break.”
Seonghwa double-checks that the strange woman won’t see them leaving and then follows Hongjoong deeper into the employee-only area. Hongjoong pops open the stiff rear exit door, and then they step out into a dim sidestreet Seonghwa has never walked.
The night air has turned damp; he hopes they beat the rain. From the look of things, all the businesses on this street have rear exits that open to this alley. It’s narrow, the path constricted in places by a few garbage cans and folding chairs. A red neon bar sign at the end of the alley provides a little extra light. Otherwise, the only illumination comes from the lamps on the main street.
Hongjoong locks the door and then swings the keyring around one finger before pocketing it and pointing. “We’ll go out that way. It’s the long way around, but she might spot us if we try slipping past the front.”
“Thank you,” Seonghwa says again as they start walking. He wants to say more, to take advantage of this special opportunity and have a real conversation, but his mind is awash with only the dispersing nerves, the ache in his wrist, and the thought that Hongjoong’s skin and white hair look pink and extra pretty under the red light.
“Does that happen often?” Hongjoong asks.
Seonghwa stiffens. There’s not the sort of question anyone asks a regular person. “Uh…”
Hongjoong flicks a wrist dismissively, bracelets clinking. “I know you’re an idol. New World’s Seonghwa. I looked you up ages ago.”
For a moment, Seonghwa thinks maybe there’s a chance that Hongjoong is just as fascinated by him as he is by the clerk. Then he realizes that anyone would naturally be curious about a celebrity who frequented their workplace. He smothers the spark of hope before it has a chance to burn.
“How did you know to look me up? How did you know my name?”
Hongjoong laughs. “You told me it. And you don’t do a very good job covering your hair. Most people don’t cycle through styles faster than I do.”
“Ah.” Seonghwa touches the back of his head self-consciously. Indeed, he feels hair sticking out from under his beanie.
“Plus, most people aren’t as handsome as you. Or come around with friends who are also so handsome. I figured you had to be somebody.”
Seonghwa flushes and hopes the neon light provides enough deniability. He says, “Everybody’s somebody.”
“You know what I mean.”
Hongjoong leads them through a few turns, telling him about some of the stranger encounters from the midnight shift. Soon, however, they emerge onto the main street.
“Which block are you on?” Hongjoong asks.
Seonghwa now knows exactly where they are on his mental map of the neighborhood. He considers telling Hongjoong that he can make his own way home from here. Break time or no, Hongjoong probably needs to get back to the shop.
But instead, he says the apartment building’s street, and they go left together.
“I make music too,” Hongjoong volunteers suddenly.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Not professionally or anything. I’m majoring in music production, and I make some tracks as a side gig.”
“Side gigs are professional,” Seonghwa insists.
The red neon light is long past them, but Hongjoong’s face still looks a little pink. “It’s not. I’m talking about super small jobs.”
“What kind of music do you make?”
“It’s mostly class assignments these days. Nothing exciting.”
“What about the side gig jobs?”
“I make the BGM for a friend’s YouTube channel and live shows, and I did the soundtrack for this tiny indie game last year.”
“That’s really cool.”
“It’s really not.”
Seonghwa disagrees, but Hongjoong looks embarrassed, as if regretting bringing the topic up, so he doesn’t press the issue. But he thinks anyone who can make music good enough to share is cool. Seonghwa understands the basics of how music gets made, but he can’t do it himself. He feels confident about his performance skills, his ability to highlight the emotionality of a song or even reinterpret it. But he lacks the creativity to conjure something from nothing.
A large truck rumbles past them. When Seonghwa can hear himself again, he asks, “Is that what you want to do when you graduate? Background music?”
Hongjoong produces a hair tie from somewhere. In a flash, the white and black locks are wrapped up in a high ponytail that skims the back of Hongjoong’s neck.
“If I could make a living doing it, that’d be nice. But it’s not my passion or anything.”
“What is your passion then?”
“Retro pop. Like, the 70s and 80s. You know David Bowie? Prince? They’re probably my biggest influences.”
Seonghwa vaguely recognizes those names and has a fuzzy idea of what they sound like, so he nods. He’ll have to look them up later so he’ll have something new to talk about with Hongjoong next time.
“Is any of your music online?” he asks.
Hongjoong looks up at him askance. The answer comes a beat late with clear reluctance. “...I have a Soundcloud.”
Seonghwa takes out his phone. “What’s your username?” When Hongjoong grimaces, he adds, “Hey, you said you looked me up. Fair is fair.”
“I made my username in junior high. You’re not allowed to laugh.”
“Tell me.”
Hongjoong sighs and spells out in English letters, “luckyjoongy.”
Seonghwa types it into the search bar and blinks in surprise at the icon that pops up. “Is this you? Your hair is so short.”
Hongjoong doesn’t even glance at the phone screen. “Yeah, that’s from a photoshoot me and some friends did right before I enlisted.”
The icon is tiny, but the Hongjoong doesn’t look like someone about to enlist, even with hair shorn into a tight military crop. The person in the icon makes the style feminine–brows teased into pretty arches, bold eyeliner curving from the lids, dark, dramatic lipstick, a wide choker adding a splash of color against the bare neck. It’s impossible to know for certain since it’s a headshot, but somehow Seonghwa gets the sense that Hongjoong isn’t wearing a top below that choker.
“Is this your place?” Hongjoong asks suddenly.
Seonghwa tears his eyes away from the phone to take in the familiar, imposing sight of his building’s sleek entryway.
“Yes,” he confirms, and then he dips into a bow. “Thank you for everything.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“Really, it’s nothing. But I do need to return to the shop now.”
Hongjoong looks flustered, and Seonghwa worries he came on too strong. He can’t help it; he’s always been straightforward when he’s interested in someone and finds an opening.
“Right. Sorry for taking your time.” Seonghwa bows again crisply and escapes into the building before he does anything else that might be pushy.
He delivers Wooyoung’s requested snacks, washes up, gets into bed, and mentally reviews the entire encounter with Hongjoong, trying to determine exactly how awkward it’d been. Was it too much to ask for the Soundcloud account? Hongjoong was the one who mentioned making music, but maybe that was just an attempt at small talk and nothing more. Should he have turned down Hongjoong’s offer to walk him?
Even if he came off as a pathetic idiot, Seonghwa can’t regret it. Nor can he regret potentially angering the sasaeng. Not when it’d cinched him the longest conversation with Hongjoong yet and more information than he’d managed to glean in all his months of obsessively filing away the smallest details.
Rubbing his bruised wrist, Seonghwa opens Hongjoong’s Soundcloud on his phone.
There is a lot more music than he expected given that Hongjoong made it sound like just a casual hobby. Even assuming that he is looking at all of the output since junior high, there’s a long discography to scroll through.
Seonghwa clicks into the popular tracks and plays the top one. He keeps listening even after Yunho comes to bed and turns off the lights. He keeps listening until, finally, he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.
“Noona, wake up! You’re going to be late.”
The low, unfamiliar voice makes Seonghwa wrinkle his brow, but he pushes himself upright. Is there a new manager that no one told him about?
He’s accustomed to jarring wake-up calls, even by strangers, so his body moves on autopilot, untangling his limbs from his blankets and standing up—only to somehow miss the floor and stumble. Flailing, he catches himself on his desk, which is much farther from his bed than he remembers.
“Ow, shit,” he curses. And then he freezes.
That is not his voice. And now that his eyes are actually open—this is not his room. It’s dark, but he can tell that much. For one thing, Yunho’s bed is missing, and none of the furniture silhouettes look familiar. Even if the members played a prank on him and rearranged the dorm layout while he slept, that doesn’t explain why he sounds like a different person. Or why he can’t figure out where his limbs end. Or why—
Did that stranger call for noona?
Seonghwa slides his hand (small palm, slender fingers) along the wall, trying to find a light switch. He stumbles over clothes, textbooks, and something sharp that makes him hiss before finally he flicks the lights on.
The bedroom looks like a typhoon blew through it, heaps of clothes all over the floor and furniture. Amidst the chaos, there’s a keyboard piano squeezed into one corner and an impressive computer setup that looks too shiny for all the crumbled papers and crushed drink cans surrounding it.
What really catches his attention, however, is the long mirror hung on the wall beside the bedroom door. In it, a very familiar face peers back at Seonghwa.
Hongjoong.