Chapter Text
1
He Looked Like a Good Kisser
Desperate.
That’s the only explanation Wonwoo can come up with.
Why else would he cover a catering shift on the only day he has off?
But rent is almost due, and his savings account balance is an exact match for his willpower at the moment—which is apparently close to zero. All it took was one look at his calendar and a quiet, puppy-eyed “please hyung?” for him to agree. Wonwoo has always had a soft spot for Lee Chan.
Besides, the event is simple enough. It’s only an afterparty for some music show, a gathering of who’s-who celebrities and business people wanting to show up, smile, and rub elbows in the hopes of making friends in the entertainment industry.
Wonwoo has never paid much attention to the tabloids.
He’s never had enough money to care about famous people’s problems.
So, with the promise of a larger paycheck and helpless against his friend’s hopeful sincerity, Wonwoo pulls his suit from the back of his closet, travels two hours to some fancy hotel, and clocks in.
Wonwoo is desperate, and it really is the only explanation because why else would he be standing here in an uncomfortable suit on a Saturday in an egregiously expensive hotel ballroom letting an old man scold him about the taste of hors d'oeuvres with names he can’t even pronounce?
It’s ridiculous, almost to the point of hilarity, and Wonwoo has had just about enough.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, bowing deeply and trying to keep the blasé annoyance out of his expression. Judging by the uneasy silence of the beautiful people around them and the confidence he carries, this man is someone important, and even though his status shouldn’t matter, it does. “I’ll go speak with the chefs.”
“As you should,” the man replies tersely and turns away, giving Wonwoo silent permission to leave.
Conversation resumes. Shoulders untense. The background music changes. It’s a ballad, and it would be beautiful if Wonwoo weren’t white-knuckling a metal serving tray.
Deftly weaving through the hall filled with billowy decorations, chic suits, and elegant dresses that each probably cost more than a year’s worth of rent, he escapes to the nearby hotel kitchen. It’s busy with cooks and catering staff bustling about, caught in the focused current of their work. No one says anything to him as Wonwoo sets down the tray on an empty countertop and walks away to catch his breath.
Only one thing keeps him from leaving altogether: Lee Chan and his bright, trusting smile.
And the paycheck.
But really, Wonwoo wouldn’t risk his friend’s job (or his own) just because some man with an inflated ego got mad. Chan would be so upset, and the worst part? He probably wouldn’t even blame Wonwoo. His smile would falter and he’d just nod and give a polite non-response to hide his disappointment like, “Oh, it’s okay hyung. I shouldn’t have asked you to go. It’s my fault.”
The thought of it aches in Wonwoo’s chest.
I just need a second to clear my head.
With slow, steadying breaths, he walks away from the kitchen, away from the crowded ballroom filled with movie-screen pretty people, and toward the closest space he can think of that would offer some degree of privacy.
This is how he opens the bathroom door to find two men kissing.
Desperate.
That’s how they must have felt—to not even make it to a stall before their hands grabbed and mouths met, a ravenous type of kissing that left them breathless and flushed.
Wonwoo blinks, frozen with shock as they immediately pull apart.
Fingers untangle from hair and belt buckles like they’d been burned, and the three of them stare at one another for a beat before one of the men hides his face and hurries out of the bathroom, brushing past Wonwoo like a ghost.
The other young man just stands there, panting lightly, his cheeks red up to his ears and his eyes wide with panic. There’s something familiar about him, something in his charmingly handsome features that Wonwoo recognizes.
Just a celebrity, probably.
The moment hangs, suspended and fragile, as they both come to terms with the gravity of the situation.
“I…” the young man starts, his voice soft, almost apologetic like his heart is embroidered on the cuff of his designer suit’s sleeve. “I can explain.”
“I don’t think there’s much to explain,” Wonwoo says carefully.
Before his companion can respond, the door opens again. Their collective attention shifts as an unfamiliar man walks in, oblivious to the tension, and Wonwoo takes the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom. He returns to the kitchen, trying not to think about what he’d seen.
Wonwoo naturally thinks about it anyway.
Messy hair. Bitten lips. A knee pressed between thighs.
Fingertips caught in a waistband.
Wonwoo’s cheeks burn and he shoves the guilty thoughts aside as they arise.
Focus.
A new tray in hand, he returns to the ballroom like nothing happened. Except, something did happen. His memory helpfully conjures the sound of a hitched breath.
Wonwoo quickly tries to smother the thought, his heartbeat hammering, but it only gets worse.
He’d just seen a handsome, probably wealthy man kissing someone.
No. Not just someone.
Another man.
He looked like a good kisser—
Stop it.
Wonwoo miserably stares up at the ceiling, wishing he were anywhere else right now.
“Hey.”
The word startles him out of his spiraling thoughts. Wonwoo follows the vaguely familiar voice to see the young man from the bathroom, the same one who, mere minutes before, had looked sex-mussed and kiss-ruffled. His clothes have been adjusted. His hair has been combed back into place. The flush is gone from his cheeks, which are now just beautifully sun-kissed, though the tips of his ears are still a little pink.
It suits him—
Oh my god stop.
Wonwoo clears his throat and firmly puts the tray between them.
“Bruschetta?” he offers lamely.
“Oh. Um. No thank you,” the young man replies with a sheepish smile. It suits him, too. “Can we talk?”
“About what?” Wonwoo asks despite knowing what the answer will be.
“About…what happened.”
“I’m working.”
“Can you take a quick break? You can blame it on me,” the young man offers softly, practically pleading, a subtle pout on his lips and too much trust in his eyes.
Part of Wonwoo wishes his companion looked just as flustered as Wonwoo feels, but he doesn’t. And Wonwoo’s imagination supplies the guilty, heated what if of this young man leading him back to the bathroom.
Before he can answer, and before Wonwoo’s brain can provide any further details, someone calls across the loud, crowded room.
“Hyung! Mingyu hyung! Come here! I wanna introduce you to someone!”
Their attention pivots to a beaming younger man, gesturing excitedly for Wonwoo’s companion to join him.
Mingyu.
The name writes itself in Wonwoo’s memory, smooth script, dark ink, ballpoint pen.
“Hang on! Be right there,” Mingyu replies, then turns back to Wonwoo. His voice drops to something just above a whisper, something only for them and the tray of bruschetta, “Please? Just hear me out—”
“Hyung,” the other person sing-songs, moving closer in the crowd.
Mingyu winces, then turns to greet his friend.
“Where’ve you been?” the newcomer asks with a laugh.
“Just chatting. Getting snacks,” Mingyu replies, picking up a piece of bread from Wonwoo’s tray and offering it to the stranger. “Want some?”
“I’m good. C’mon, there’s someone I really think you should meet.”
“Okay,” Mingyu agrees, then casts a quick glance at Wonwoo. There’s worry in his eyes, but Wonwoo doesn’t know what to do to soothe it. He’s just a caterer. It isn’t his place to try to fix this.
And with that, Mingyu is pulled away, into the throng of beautiful people with enough money to not have to worry about picking up Saturday shifts to pay rent.
And enough money to not have to worry about making out with someone in a public bathroom, apparently.
Wonwoo’s grip tightens on the tray as heat threads through his belly.
He tries not to think about it, and with staunch precision, purposefully avoids Mingyu for the rest of the event.
He tries not to think about it, and blasts music in his headphones on the long bus ride home.
He tries not to think about it, but kicks his pants off and touches himself anyway, quick, utilitarian, just to get it out of his system.
His pillow is cool beneath his head. The blankets rustle with his movement. His toes curl in his socks.
Wonwoo finishes with a gasp he muffles into the elbow of his now-wrinkled suit jacket, trying to think of anything except what he saw, trying to think of anything except the handsome man with the kind eyes and charming smile.
His hand slows with the sudden sensitivity, and awareness fades in guilty bits and pieces back into his mind. Panting quietly, Wonwoo lowers his arm from his face and looks down at the mess on his fingers. He groans in frustration (and maybe in wanton longing, too, but he’d never admit that).
Time to clean this up and forget it ever happened.
To his credit, that’s exactly what Wonwoo does—until the next afternoon.
He’s walking through the mall on the way to his second job when he sees them, four life-size cardboard cutouts standing outside the skincare shop. How does he know they’re life-size? Well, Wonwoo vividly recalls how tall Mingyu was, the slight angle he’d had to look up for their gazes to meet, and this paper and ink version of him is almost exactly the same. He’s holding a bottle of something. Toner or cleanser. It doesn’t matter. Wonwoo isn’t interested in the celebrity product endorsement. He isn’t interested in celebrities at all. Period. Full stop.
And yet his gaze lingers, his thoughts crowded with memories of glittering jewelry, expensive colognes, and the din of conversation. He can still hear Mingyu’s voice, worry laced through his tone. He can still see the way Mingyu looked at him, distress balanced with tentative trust in his eyes. He can still remember the way Mingyu had kissed that man, confident, passionate, and generous.
Desperate.
So he’s famous, Wonwoo concludes, as if he couldn’t have discerned that just from the way Mingyu looked and acted. Not just some wealthy paper pusher. Probably an idol.
There’s no other reason to have a group of life-size cardboard cutouts advertising products.
And at that moment, the gravity of what he saw finally starts to dawn on him. His cheeks warm with the memories (and with the whisper of lonely jealousy that pinches in his chest).
What does it matter? He wasn’t hurting anyone.
Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, then leaves the skincare shop behind, heading to the tech store across the walkway. He clocks in and takes his seat in one of the back offices, spending a few minutes organizing his desk, laying out tools, adjusting the magnifying lamp, and refilling the stapler. Anything that would buy him time to refocus his thoughts. Eventually, he retrieves the first bin and glances at the work order. Phone battery replacement. Easy enough.
He puts on some quiet music as he unscrews, swaps, and solders, losing himself in the process of it. There’s comfort in normalcy. Wonwoo even does a complimentary device cleaning before placing the phone back in the bin, writing a few notes, and marking the order “ready for pickup.” The day passes by in uneventful solitude.
Wonwoo returns to his studio apartment in the relative silence of his own thoughts and the noise of public transportation.
He doesn’t think of Mingyu. Or at least, he tries not to.
Wonwoo doesn’t have a catering shift scheduled, Chan is busy at his own second job, and it’s far too late in the evening for Wonwoo to go out in search of something to do by himself. Not that he’d do that anyway, no matter the time. So Wonwoo finds himself on his laptop, contemplating browsing some forums to make elaborate lists for gaming computer parts he won’t ever be able to afford, when his fingers seem to type of their own accord.
Idol Mingyu
He stares at the search bar, eyebrows pinched.
Why would I look that up?
He presses the “enter” key anyway.
Kim Mingyu
Born 06 April, 1997—
I’m older than him.
Why does that matter?
Height: 186 cm
He’s taller than me.
Of course he is. You saw him with your own eyes.
Wonwoo adjusts his glasses.
Nationality: Korean
Group: Sparkling
Position: Rapper
He’s a rapper?
Wonwoo frowns at the screen. He tries to picture Mingyu rapping but can’t. Even dashingly handsome in a suit that was no doubt tailored exactly for his body, Mingyu seemed too soft spoken and shy—
The thought cuts itself off as Wonwoo’s brain reminds him of what he saw in the bathroom.
Anyway. What’s more, they’d only talked briefly, and Wonwoo had noticed the endearing lisp that sometimes kissed the edges of Mingyu’s syllables. It made him cute. Not ideal for a cool, sharp rapper image.
Curiosity now burning in his chest, Wonwoo can’t help but look up a music video, and in the privacy of his own apartment, Wonwoo watches with rapt attention.
The song is very…interesting. Techno meets bubblegum pop. Wonwoo hardly hears the music. For being so tall, Mingyu is very light on his feet, and the bright confidence he exudes is devastatingly charming. When Mingyu starts to rap, Wonwoo thinks he finally understands. It’s not so much hardcore rapping like western artists, but rather a sweet, easy, almost melodic verse. It’s not groundbreaking in terms of the Korean music scene, though it holds Wonwoo’s interest with a deathgrip. It’s almost like he can hear Mingyu’s smile as he saunters through the lyrics.
The song ends. Wonwoo lets out a long breath, lolling his head back to look up at the ceiling.
Well, that’s something I know now.
The next video auto-plays. Wonwoo is yanked out of his thoughts at the immediate change in tone. The opening notes promise something slower, darker, sexier.
All Wonwoo sees is leather, lace, and skin before he shuts his laptop like he’d been caught doing something naughty.
Oh my god.
Alone in his apartment, Wonwoo blankly stares at the far wall for a few long seconds.
I saw him kiss another man, Wonwoo’s conscious mind says.
I wish he’d kissed me instead, Wonwoo’s mammalian hindbrain whispers.
Shut up.
Curiosity once again eventually gets the better of him, and he opens his laptop like it burned him. Wonwoo, somehow both reluctant and eager, presses play. It gets worse. Mingyu, bronze skin and defined muscles on display, has a whispered verse. Wonwoo feels like he needs to sit down (emotionally).
After he manages to survive that experience, he promises himself that he won’t watch another video about Mingyu or Sparkling. There’s no sense in retrospectively researching or adding to his stress.
Wonwoo watches another video anyway. Just to cleanse his palate.
A couple days pass in busy monotony. Wonwoo goes to the mall, passes the cardboard cutout of Mingyu, decisively ignores it, fixes electronic devices, and goes home. He also gets paid, which might as well be inconsequential because most of the money vanishes immediately between rent and bills.
Wonwoo is exhausted, tired down to the very marrow of his bones, not just physically but mentally, too.
He checks his bank account to find the measly sum he’s left with for the month, then gets the email notification with the catering schedule attached. He wants to throw his phone across the room in frustration, but that would cost money to fix and he, of all people, knows exactly how much. So instead, he opens the email and puts on a brave face for no one but himself.
Desperate.
That’s how Wonwoo feels.
Desperate for change, for something better, for something different—anything that would help him get out of this seemingly endless cycle.
He’ll be working at a corporate fundraiser on Friday. Another train ride. Another late night. Another meaningless paycheck.
At least Chan will be there.
Wonwoo clocks in and is about to head to the small kitchen to pick up a tray when his supervisor approaches him. They exchange quick pleasantries before she offers him an unopened envelope.
“This was delivered at the office yesterday,” she says as Wonwoo takes it, quickly scanning over the scant information printed on the address line. It’s an entertainment company. Odd. His supervisor continues, stressing her words as if it’s something important, “In person.”
“Thank you. I’ll read it later.”
She lingers like she thinks he’ll open it, but walks away after Wonwoo tucks the envelope into his coat’s inner pocket.
Who would be sending him letters through his employer?
“Hyung!” Chan greets him brightly as Wonwoo finally reaches the kitchen. “You’re on drinks with me. Here.”
He passes Wonwoo a tray of champagne flutes filled with fizzing pale liquid.
“Okay. Lead the way.”
They settle themselves off to the side of the crowded room, people murmuring excitedly in their cushioned chairs while the moderator prepares the first bidding item. It looks like they’re auctioning off art and vacation bookings. Wonwoo can’t quite figure out what beneficiaries the charity is advocating for, but it’s not really his business. He swiftly stops paying attention to the stage, scanning around for people to signal him that they want a drink.
“Don’t you think it’s weird they’re serving alcohol at a charity event?” Chan whispers as the overhead lights dim.
“Probably makes people more generous,” Wonwoo shrugs, fighting a smile.
His friend huffs a laugh, “Probably.”
After the auction, still full of energy and in good spirits, Chan pulls Wonwoo to a nearby food stand. They order cheap meals to share, then take a seat at one of the rickety folding tables. It’s late enough that the bulk of rush-hour traffic has died down. Even so, the lights of the city dance around them, lamp posts and advertisement screens and headlights. The breeze carries a slight chill. Wonwoo takes his coat off anyway, his skin carrying the memory of the heated office building and the warmth of the crowd.
The sound of crinkling paper catches his attention.
He’d almost forgotten. Wonwoo pulls the unopened envelope from his pocket.
“What’s that?” Chan asks, tilting his head curiously. Wonwoo suppresses the urge to smile as affection washes through his chest.
“A letter. Apparently it was delivered to the catering company.”
“And it’s for you?”
“No,” Wonwoo replies flatly.
They stare at each other for a beat before sharing a laugh.
Chan shakes his head, letting out a sound of amused betrayal, “So rude, hyung.”
“I’m only kidding, Chan-ah.”
“I see,” his friend says, pretending to be aloof. It only lasts for a few seconds until their food and a round of soju is brought to the table, then Chan is all sweet smiles and grateful bows. He turns back to Wonwoo, gesturing for him to eat first as he talks and pours them drinks, “So who’s it from?”
“I don’t know. Some entertainment company.”
“Why would they be contacting you?”
“Now who’s being rude?” Wonwoo teases.
Chan scrunches his nose, “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Wonwoo relents, hiding his smile behind a bite of food that he swallows before responding, “I’ll have you know, companies used to scout me all the time when I was younger.”
“They did?”
“Sure.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, it was only twice. But still.”
They share another soft laugh as they move preferred foods around and empty their soju bottles, the subtle art of long-term friendship.
“Can I see it?” Chan asks, motioning for the letter that Wonwoo had set on the table.
He nods his consent, and his friend glances over the face of the envelope.
“This says ‘Legal Unit,’” Chan reports with mild caution. “What does that mean?”
Wonwoo hesitates, “I’m not sure.”
“Should we open it?”
“Go ahead.”
“But hyung, it’s yours.”
“Aish—fine, give it to me,” Wonwoo teases, setting down his chopsticks to take the envelope and trying his best not to let the nervousness show in his expression. He rips it open and unfolds the letter carefully, as if he expects words to fall out, words shaped like feathers or gravel. He isn’t sure yet.
“What does it say?”
“I’m still reading.”
Pause.
“Hyung—”
“Still reading.”
Pause.
“They want me to sign an NDA,” Wonwoo summarizes bluntly, before he can think about what he said aloud and the consequences it might have. He’ll probably blame it on the soju later, the alcohol giving everything a pleasantly warm, throw-caution-to-the-wind haze.
“A what?” Chan asks, his eyebrows pinching and his head tilting in confusion. Another wave of cuteness aggression surges over Wonwoo.
He clears his throat, “A non-disclosure agreement. It’s a kind of contract.”
His friend makes a noise for him to elaborate.
“About information confidentiality.”
“That’s a lot of really long words,” Chan laments with a heavy sigh.
“They want me to keep a secret.”
“About what?”
Wonwoo’s light buzz sours as this reply catches in his throat, the words feeling tacky on his tongue. He’s never spoken to Chan about anything like this. Not about romance, not about sex, and especially not about his sexual orientation. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his friend. They’ve known each other for over a decade, but maybe part of Wonwoo is afraid that it will fundamentally change the way Chan sees him or that it will change the dynamic of their friendship, the revelation wrapped up in all of its contextual implications and its culturally stigmatic thorns. Wonwoo is aware that he’s stalling.
He lets out a groan, rubbing his face and accidentally smudging his glasses.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Chan continues, his expression softening with concern.
It only hurts Wonwoo more.
“I saw someone do something,” he replies vaguely.
“Something bad?” Chan whispers, hesitantly curious, his posture straightening with alarm.
“Not bad bad.”
“But bad enough that they want you to sign a legal document?”
For some reason, Wonwoo thinks of Mingyu, his nervous smile, and his pleading eyes.
“More like it could hurt the company’s image.”
“Nothing immoral or illegal, right?”
Wonwoo levels Chan with a hard stare, “If it was, I’d have said something.”
“Okay, okay. True.”
At least, it’s not something that I think is immoral.
Chan continues after finishing the last bite of his meal, “So what? You just sign the paper and mail it back?”
“They’re asking me to visit their office for a meeting to sign it in person, in front of a notary.”
“What’s a notary?”
“Oh my god.”
It takes a few days for Wonwoo’s work schedule to accommodate the relatively unexpected trip, but after making an appointment, letter in hand, he finds himself walking down a busy city street on a cold Thursday afternoon. Overhead, the sky feels low with dense gray cloud cover. It might rain. It might not. Wonwoo decides it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have an umbrella to bring anyway.
Thankfully, his destination is obvious. The sleek highrise building is busy, its doors practically always open with a stream of incoming and outgoing people. The entertainment company name is proudly displayed above the entrance.
Wonwoo glances at the time, then takes a steadying breath.
It’s not like I’m the one in trouble. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
He’s a few minutes early, as planned, so he forces himself to relax as he joins the flow of the crowd.
The first thing Wonwoo notices is the smell of the lobby, or rather, the lack thereof. Despite the amount of people, it’s pleasantly neutral with a hint of a scent that’s probably called “fresh linen” or something equally benign and clean. The expansive hall is bright and colorful with music videos playing on large, pristine screens that line the walls. Beyond an information desk, there are photo sets, a cafe, a guided tour station, and naturally, a gift shop.
Wonwoo’s gaze pans sideways to a security checkpoint. Uniformed guards stand in front of waist-high gates with badge scanners, a few of them checking the bags of a tour group. Wonwoo walks up to the closest guard who looks like they’d be friendly enough to tell him where to go.
He presents the letter and a brief explanation, and they tell him to wait here for retrieval.
So Wonwoo waits, trying not to look as awkward as he feels.
Still, the energy of the room begins to take root inside him, the nervous excitement knotting in his belly and making him restless. By the time a young woman approaches him, her pace hurried and her modest heels clicking on the floor, Wonwoo almost feels sick.
She dips into a bow, a strand of hair falling from her otherwise immaculate bun.
“Jeon Wonwoo?”
“Yes,” he replies, showing her his ID and the NDA letter, which he places back in the envelope for safekeeping.
“My apologies for being late.”
“You’re not late. I’m early.”
She offers him a grateful smile, “Follow me.”
The young woman introduces herself as they walk through the security checkpoint and to a bay of elevators unhindered. Anxiety causes her name to slip through Wonwoo’s memory like water. She continues trying to make small talk that Wonwoo does his best to respond to in a polite and meaningful way. He remembers none of it as he watches the floor number above the elevator doors climb up and up and up.
I haven’t done anything wrong, he reminds himself as they traverse through a maze of hallways and offices. This is just a formality.
The young woman stops outside a door and gestures for Wonwoo to go inside.
They exchange tight but sincere smiles before parting ways, and he enters a conference room that feels too large despite the amount of people already sitting inside. His throat goes dry, like he’s late and about to be presenting a speech he never memorized. He’s underdressed, too, so out of place in department store slacks and a clearance rack button up. He tries to hide the disparity by adjusting his winter coat, but it still seems so painfully obvious. Everyone else is in sharp, expensive business attire, and they’re all at least twenty years older than him. Serious faces. Calculating gazes. No nonsense stacks of paper with fancy letterheads and fine print.
Wonwoo’s grip instinctively tightens on the envelope in his hands, and the paper crinkles quietly.
All of their attention pivots to him. He bows, introducing himself and waiting for guidance. Someone tells him to sit down, so he does. Stiff pleasantries under the guise of corporate politeness are exchanged. Names and position titles pass directly into and out of Wonwoo’s memory. He only clings to one in particular, Park Yujun, the lawyer who has taken the lead.
He seems like a fairly practical person, not a cruel, evil mastermind out of a k-drama. Just straightforward, if a little jaded.
Park Yujun spends a few minutes giving an objective explanation of the situation. Wonwoo saw something he shouldn’t have, and it would be in everyone’s best interest if Wonwoo agreed to never speak of it.
“There are two ways to resolve this issue,” Park Yujun says, his posture confident yet relaxed, the speech seeming almost rote. “If you were to tell someone, say, the media, we would pursue legal action with a defamation case. You would lose, as you have no physical evidence or other proof of what occurred. Not only would this be a waste of time and effort, but you would owe the company and the court payment for damages and services.”
The lawyer pauses, and Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, shifting awkwardly in his chair.
He hardly has enough money to cover his basic living expenses. The thought of any sort of legal action is devastating. Not that he was planning on telling anyone. Who Mingyu kissed was his business—
“Alternately,” Park Yujun continues, “you read and sign a few documents, and we offer you monetary compensation for your compliance.”
“Monetary compensation?” Wonwoo asks, wanting clarification and buying his mind a few seconds to process everything.
“One hundred and fifty thousand won.”
Wonwoo’s skin prickles.
“I have the contract for you here,” Park Yujun says, gesturing to one of his associates.
They push an intimidating packet of paper toward Wonwoo, then offer him a pen.
“Can I read it first?” Wonwoo asks, stalling again, his instincts telling him to be cautious in this room full of lawyers who have been trained to find loopholes and manipulate.
Park Yujun raises an eyebrow, “Of course you can. In fact, why don’t you take it home and look it over? We can meet again this time next week—”
“My apologies,” Wonwoo interrupts gently. “I’m not sure if I’ll be available.”
“Oh?”
“I might be working.”
Park Yujun hums in acknowledgement before replying, “Then call us before the end of the month and we’ll set up another time for you to sign the documents.”
“Okay.”
Wonwoo leaves the building just as it starts to rain. It’s only a light drizzle, thankfully. Yet despite his best efforts of tucking the contract into his coat and hurrying down the sidewalk, the paper still gets damp enough to crinkle. He deposits it on his small kitchen table, doing his best to separate the pages so they’ll dry.
He promptly decides that he’s been through enough today.
I’ll just look at it tomorrow.
Predictably, he doesn’t.
Wonwoo is exhausted after a full day at the tech store and a catering shift. He gets home, kicks off his shoes, showers, and rolls into bed, aching from being on his feet. The rest of the week isn’t much different. It’s like he lives the same series of days over and over again. None of it is new, and maybe the sameness of it is the worst part.
His deadline continues to creep closer, as does his next rent payment.
And then it happens.
At his desk, a headache blooming behind his eyes, Wonwoo takes off his glasses to rub the tired blurriness from his vision. He sets them down on the table, needing a minute before attempting to continue soldering, but when he moves to pick them up again, he knocks his glasses to the floor. With a frustrated groan, he rolls his chair away from the desk.
Then he hears the sickening crack.
Pliers, tape, and hope are enough to repair the frame, but nothing in Wonwoo’s toolkit can fix the spiderweb-patterned lens.
He gets home that night, his migraine worse, and deposits a bag of consolation takeout food on the table. The contract would be staring at him, if it could.
One hundred and fifty thousand won.
It would pay for new glasses—or at least it would help.
Wonwoo sighs and sits down at his small, cluttered kitchen table. Headache or no headache, he’s going to get this done. He has to. So, picking at room-temperature food and through half-functional glasses, Wonwoo parses through page after page of legalese. He doesn’t quite know what he should be looking for, if anything, but maybe he just wants to be sure he isn’t proverbially signing his soul away. Most of it is pretty simple. He just has to stay silent about what he saw. Verbally. Textually. Even musically. Wonwoo huffs a laugh at that.
He finally gets to the end of the last paragraph. Beneath it, the empty signature line cuts across the page.
One hundred and fifty thousand won.
That’s a lot of money for a secret he hadn’t planned on telling anyway.
Wonwoo’s gaze unfocuses for a moment, distracted by the crack in his glasses. He takes them off, putting them safely in the middle of the table beside his empty takeout containers. The silence of his apartment settles over him, as does the weight of his exhaustion. Work. Bills. Glasses. Rent. Do it all over again.
A terrible thought whispers at the back of his mind.
Why only one hundred and fifty thousand?
Wonwoo pauses.
No. He couldn’t negotiate. Could he?
It’s a massive, internationally recognized entertainment company that’s obviously willing to protect its idols. They could probably spare a bit more money. Besides, Wonwoo needs it…and it’s not like he’d be hurting anyone by bluffing and asking for higher compensation.
But what about Mingyu?
He’d seemed nice, and part of Wonwoo hesitates to use Mingyu’s queerness as leverage. It feels like a betrayal.
And yet, he doesn’t know Mingyu, and Mingyu probably has no idea any of this is happening.
It’s all legal stuff. He has other things to worry about, Wonwoo assures himself, gently touching the frame of his broken glasses. Besides, it’s not like I’d tell anyone anyway.
Park Yujun agrees easily. Too easily, like he’d expected Wonwoo to ask for more money.
He smiles his lawyer smile, charming in a slick, superficial way, “Three hundred thousand won, then? Considering you have no proof—”
There are less people in the room this time, and maybe that’s why Wonwoo feels confident enough to interrupt, speaking frankly, “Respectfully, I think hearsay is sometimes enough to cause trouble.”
The lawyer watches him for a beat before replying, “Five hundred thousand.”
“Five million.”
Park Yujun coughs to cover up his shock, then laughs quietly, glancing at his coworkers, “Wonwoo-ssi, that is quite a large sum of money.”
“Aren’t your idols worth the investment?”
“May I have a few minutes to speak with my associates?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
Wonwoo gets up from his seat and steps into the hallway, closing the conference room door. His heart is pounding, but he did it. Five million won is a lot to ask for. It’s more than four month’s rent, and Wonwoo would not only feel financially secure for the first time in years, but he might also be able to save money. What a concept. And even if he doesn’t get the full five million, it’ll be more than what he would have gotten.
Seconds pass. Then minutes. His nervousness doesn’t fade. Rather, it gets worse the longer he waits. He shifts his weight, takes a breath, and tries to distract himself. Wonwoo can only squint at the plain walls and gray carpet for so long, listening to the hum of the heater and other distant, muffled office sounds.
An idiom comes to mind in bored, anxious bits and pieces. Something about watching drying paint or growing grass. Is this how painfully slow it feels? Poor grass.
Eventually, the door opens, and Wonwoo is ushered back inside.
Park Yujun gives him a measured smile, “My associates and I have discussed your proposal. We feel one million won is more appropriate.”
“Four million,” Wonwoo counters.
“Two.”
“Three.”
Park Yujun laughs, “You drive a hard bargain. We would be willing to meet you at three million won.”
His easy agreement makes Wonwoo think he would’ve paid more, if pressed, but Wonwoo is done splitting hairs (not that several million won is inconsequential, but he doesn’t want to push his luck).
“I just need to discuss it with management,” the lawyer continues. “Get appropriate approval and fund allocations.”
“Okay,” Wonwoo agrees warily. “When should I come back?”
“When will your work schedule allow another meeting?”
“I’ll get someone to cover a shift for me.”
“Then let’s get this over with as soon as possible,” Park Yujun nods. “Same time tomorrow.”
They all shake hands and bow, a formality more than courtesy, and Wonwoo is taken back down to the lobby by the young woman who has been escorting him since his first time in the building. He still doesn’t know her name, but Wonwoo resolves to at least return her pleasantries genuinely.
As soon as he’s outside, he puts on his broken glasses and pulls his phone from his pocket, finding his most recently called contact.
“Hyung?”
“Hi Chan-ah.”
“Everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Wonwoo teases.
“You never call me this early.”
Wonwoo laughs affectionately, “I’m fine, but I need a favor.”
There’s rustling on the other end of the line, “What’s up?”
“Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”
Chan agrees to cover his shift, saying it’s only fair. Wonwoo doesn’t explain. His friend doesn’t pry. The nervousness that had been coiling in Wonwoo’s stomach begins to fade as the evening progresses. He caters a small wedding and goes home feeling less tired than usual.
Things are going to get better, he tells himself and actually believes it.
This whole NDA thing will be done, Wonwoo will have enough money to feel comfortable, and he won’t have to think about how it might feel to kiss someone like Mingyu ever again. (Until he sees that cardboard cutout in front of the skincare shop, but that’s for Future Wonwoo to worry about.)
The next afternoon, in his best slacks and button up shirt—hidden beneath his thickest winter jacket—and with all the quiet confidence of someone who has remained steadfast in a decision, Wonwoo gets ready to go back to the entertainment company for what will hopefully be the final time. He puts his slightly crinkled copy of the contract in a folder that goes into a protective plastic bag before heading out to greet the day. It’s snowing, but only lightly.
Small flurries dance around him, melting before they find the sidewalk as Wonwoo hurries to the building’s entrance.
He’s early, as he usually is, and the security guard calls down the young woman to escort him. They make polite conversation as they head to the elevator bay. His companion checks her watch once. Twice. Three times.
Wonwoo tries not to read too much into it.
Maybe she has an appointment. Just because they’re together doesn’t mean it’s about him. Does it?
The elevator doors open on a floor that doesn’t look familiar. Wonwoo hesitates, but the woman offers him a reassuring smile.
“This way.”
They pass a lounge, a small eating area with vending machines, and a few groups of people, all of them young, all of them strikingly beautiful. They talk passionately, excitedly, and pay Wonwoo and his companion no mind. He clutches the contract closer to his chest, the bag crinkling.
The rooms they pass don’t look like offices. There’s too much space between the doors, labeled with letters and numbers instead of names.
“Excuse me,” Wonwoo asks quietly, “where are we going?”
“Almost there,” the woman says with a tight smile, her pace quickening. She doesn’t answer his question. Wonwoo contemplates putting on his glasses again, but the urge to be presentable and save face is stronger. They remain tucked away in his pocket.
They stop in front of a door and she gestures for him to go inside.
Unsure but not knowing what else to do, Wonwoo enters.
Then freezes.
He’s in a dance studio, tall mirrors across one wall, bright lights above him. It smells like sweat and air freshener, like hard work and long hours of practice, like years and years of people reaching for their wildest dreams.
What’s going on?
Wonwoo startles as the door opens and closes quietly behind him, and he turns around to find Mingyu, panting lightly, a mix of emotions flickering through his expression. Fear. Hope.
Desperation.
Even in casual clothes and barefaced, Mingyu is stunningly handsome, but this close, he’s also soft, his mannerisms gentle.
He takes a quick deep breath, then dips into a bow, “Hi. Thank you for coming.”
“Sure,” Wonwoo replies cautiously, painfully unsure and out of his depth, and returns the polite bow.
Something changes in Mingyu’s expression, a pinch of worry, though his kind smile remains unchanged, “How much are they offering you?”
“What?”
“To be quiet about…what happened. How much?”
“I don’t think you should be asking me that,” Wonwoo says, trying to remember the contract and wondering whether this conversation would break it.
“Whatever it is, I’ll double it,” Mingyu says, his tone so sincere and afraid that guilt twists in Wonwoo’s stomach.
He habitually reaches up to adjust his glasses, but they’re in his pocket. He tries to play off the gesture like he’d meant to scratch an itch, laughing awkwardly, “You’re not very good at negotiating, are you.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
“Please,” Mingyu says, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “I just—it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”
You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Wonwoo wants to object, his chest aching, but Mingyu continues, tripping over his words in his haste.
“I don’t care what happens to me. But my group…they’ve worked so hard. I can’t let what I did affect them,” Mingyu says, shaking his head, his ears red and his eyes glassy. Wonwoo feels the shards of his companion’s sadness in his heart. “So how much?”
“Mingyu,” Wonwoo says weakly, wanting nothing more than to comfort him. They’re practically strangers, but Wonwoo of all people understands how this feels. “I’m not taking your money.”
“But—”
“Listen,” Wonwoo interrupts gently, his voice low with the weight of this secret, “what you did? Yeah, you probably shouldn’t have done it in a public bathroom. But this isn’t about what—or, who it was.”
He sighs, looking down at the contract he’s holding.
With a shaking hand, Wonwoo pulls his glasses from his pocket and puts them on so he can see Mingyu’s expression better, though it’s still marred by the webbed crack in his lens. They stare at each other for a long moment.
“I just really need the money, okay? I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Wonwoo says, knowing that this admission might cost him dearly. If anyone is listening, all of his leverage is about to disappear. But he can’t put Mingyu through this. It’s not right. “I was never going to tell.”
“You weren’t?” Mingyu asks quietly.
“No,” Wonwoo replies, waiting for the dramatic reveal that Park Yujun had been listening and recording this conversation all along.
But instead of a climactic twist, Mingyu sighs in relief, almost laughing as he combs his fingers through his hair. He’s so genuinely joyful that Wonwoo finds himself smiling too, until his companion lets out a broken sound and his expression crumples.
Mingyu leans back against the door, sliding down until he’s sitting, smothering sniffles into his hands.
Wonwoo panics.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, instinctively stepping closer and crouching to be at eye level with Mingyu.
“It’s not,” his companion murmurs, voice muffled. “I’m a bad person.”
“No you’re not,” Wonwoo says, tentatively reaching out. His hand hovers, then he draws it away. Wonwoo is probably the last person Mingyu would want comfort from right now.
“I am. I was stupid and risked everything we’ve worked for…”
“People make mistakes all the time.”
“Not like this,” Mingyu takes a sharp breath, his body shaking with the force of it. “My image is everything. I shouldn’t even be dating women, not to mention…y’know.”
“I know,” Wonwoo says softly, empathy aching inside him. “But you’re only human.”
“No. I’m an idol.”
Wonwoo sets the contract on the floor beside him, then finally reaches out, placing a comforting hand on Mingyu’s shoulder.
“Don’t do that to yourself. You’re a person, just like anyone else,” he says softly. “You’re allowed to have wants and preferences.”
“Not according to the public.”
“Who cares what the public thinks?”
“The company cares,” Mingyu replies miserably.
Wonwoo huffs in sympathetic amusement, giving Mingyu’s shoulder a squeeze, “Then learn how to hide it better.”
He’s kidding, mostly. It’s complicated. Wonwoo hates having to hide who he is, but sometimes, especially given where they live, it’s necessary.
And isn’t love worth the effort it takes to protect it?
It occurs to Wonwoo that Mingyu might not be interested in love. He did try to hook up with a guy in a public bathroom, after all, but judging by Mingyu’s reaction? Labeling his attraction doesn’t matter.
“What I’m trying to say,” Wonwoo amends, “is it’s nobody’s business whether or not you’re queer, you just might have to be more discreet about it next time.”
Mingyu sniffles, finally lifting his face from his hands. He lets out a small laugh, “I don’t think there will be a next time.”
“Sure there will, just hopefully not the ‘getting caught’ part,” Wonwoo teases, returning his companion’s smile. Relief and comfort bloom in his own chest too, sunset-warm and honey-sweet.
“Yeah,” Mingyu scrunches his nose.
Cute.
Wonwoo stands and offers him a hand up. Mingyu takes it, then stoops to retrieve the contract. He offers it to Wonwoo, an olive branch.
“So you really don’t hate me?”
Wonwoo carefully takes the bag, feeling the folder shift around inside. His reply is quiet but honest, “No. It was just, ah, unexpected?”
He can feel himself blush up to his ears when he meets Mingyu’s gaze.
If Mingyu notices, he says nothing about it. Instead, he grins sheepishly, “You can say that again.”
“It was unexpected.”
They stare at each other for a beat before Mingyu smothers a giggle, which makes Wonwoo huff in amusement. Tension broken, Mingyu rubs the back of his neck.
“I really am sorry about what happened.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I interrupted,” Wonwoo says and means it.
“Well, for what it’s worth, if someone had to walk in, I’m glad it was someone like you,” Mingyu shrugs, looking away as his cheeks dust pink. “You seem like a good person. I hope whatever they’re paying you helps.”
“Me too,” Wonwoo says, but something about it feels distinctly bittersweet now.
There’s a curt knock before the door opens. The young woman who has been escorting Wonwoo around pokes her head inside.
“Wonwoo-ssi? They’ll be expecting you shortly. We should go,” she says, casting an apologetic look at Mingyu.
Had they planned this?
Whatever the case, Wonwoo is glad they got to talk.
“Okay,” he replies, then glances at Mingyu.
The idol offers him a small smile and his hand to shake. Wonwoo takes it.
“Good luck. Don’t get sick.”
“Work hard. Take care.”
The pleasantries feel stilted and formal in comparison to what they’ve been through, a strange sort of accidental intimacy turned tentative friendship turned strangers once more. Mingyu’s hand is warm, his grip firm but gentle. They dip their heads into a polite bow before letting go.
Their gazes linger on one another until the door closes between them, and Wonwoo numbly follows the young woman back to the elevators, still feeling the memory of Mingyu’s palm against his own.
He leaves the entertainment company with a copy of the signed contract and a check written for three million won.
What a surreal experience.
The snow has gotten heavier since he went inside.
Wonwoo shivers, his breath billowing into a white cloud from his lips as he hurries down the sidewalk, his change in fate stowed safely in a folder in a plastic bag tucked beneath his coat.
I’m so glad all this is over.
I can’t wait to tell Chan—oh.
Wonwoo can’t tell his best friend. He can’t tell anyone. Complete silence is what he agreed to, after all.