(no) Strings Attached

D... Illusions

Wooyoung shouldn't have been expecting anything.

That's what he kept telling himself, over and over, as he walked into class that morning. He shouldn't be expecting San to act any differently than he always did. Shouldn't be expecting anything to change.

Shouldn't be expecting to still feel the warmth of San's breath against his skin, wasn't expecting to hear the way he had practically said I want you echo in his head like some cruel, haunting melody.

No, he shouldn't be expecting anything at all.

Except he totally was.

He spent the whole day after that damn party; wondering if what happened would be a turning point for them.

Hence he couldn't stop his stomach from twisting into knots the second San strolled through the door.

It was infuriating how easy San made it look—like nothing had happened, like he hadn't nearly kissed Wooyoung in the dim light of a party, like he hadn't whispered words that made Wooyoung's knees weak, like he hadn't set fire to something in Wooyoung's chest and then walked away as if it were nothing.

As if Wooyoung was nothing special.

But then why the fuck would he keep flirting and taunting him for a whole month? Why admit he 'obviously' was obsessed with him?

Are these words you can spit to anyone? And without expecting them to take them seriously?

San slid into his seat, exuding that effortless confidence that Wooyoung hated—no, loved—so much. His uniform was slightly undone, tie loose, and his usual smirk was already in place as he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.

There was this sole question loud in the boy's eardrums.

Since when did Wooyoung start hoping for something?

It didn't even make sense; one moment he was supposedly hating anything related to San and the next he had a whole fucking zoo in his stomach every time San as much as looked over his way.

"Morning, professor."

Wooyoung hated the way his heart reacted to just that—his stupid nickname, in San's voice.

He hated that he had to force himself to act normal, to act like he hadn't spent half the night replaying everything in his head, every fleeting touch, every look, every goddamn second where it felt like, just maybe, San had seen him differently.

And then—he saw them.

Dark, blooming marks along the side of San's neck, trailing just beneath the collar of his uniform.

The breath in Wooyoung's throat caught.

His grip on his pen tightened instinctively, fingers curling around the plastic so hard it might snap. The sight of those marks—the kind only left by someone else's lips—shouldn't have made his stomach drop. It shouldn't have mattered.

And yet, all he could think about how it wasn't him who had left them.

And an idiotic part of himself had wished he didn't leave when Yeosang pulled him aside, that maybe then those hickeys' owner would be no one else but Wooyoung himself.

San caught his stare almost immediately, and instead of shying away, he did exactly what Wooyoung should have known he would do. He smirked.

"Like what you see?" San teased, voice dripping with amusement as he tilted his head just slightly, putting the marks on full display.