(no) Strings Attached

Too Far

Wooyoung's blood froze in his veins.

That was his extra push. The moment he realized that San wasn't just acting up all that ignorance. No.

There was only one of them that took this seriously, only one that felt something real.

After that point psychology classes were suffocating.

San threw teasing glances at him, tried to get his attention. But Wooyoung wasn't just cold. He refused to react.

After the third class that Wooyoung kept his distance, San frowned at being constantly brushed off. "What's wrong with you?" He asks.

Wooyoung scoffed under his breath. "Nothing," he shrugged "I just think I don't care anymore." He spat, eyes still trained at the front.

He didn't allow himself to spare a glance at the older.

Perhaps that's how he didn't notice San's smile dying on his lips, or the way his face completely fell.

Instead he left. And promised himself that he will go to the party that Yunho invited him himself. And there he'd give himself the fun he deserved. He won't stay mopping around.

Not when San isn't worth it.

That's how he found himself in a stranger's huge ass house on Saturday night.

He spent a few hours drinking to his heart's content. Having fun conversations with Yunho and Mingi.

Wooyoung felt that he could be happy. He felt free. Not tense in a long time.

Nothing could go bad, right?

Wrong.

The music thumped through the walls, a constant, pulsing reminder that the world outside this hallway was still spinning, still alive. But for Wooyoung, time stopped the moment he turned the corner.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, the dim light spilling out into the hallway. He hadn't meant to look—he swears he hadn't. But his eyes flickered inside at just the wrong second.

San stood against the sink, one hand braced on the counter, the other tangled in the hair of the person kneeling before him. His belt was already undone, the metal buckle clinking faintly as the other worked at his jeans.

Wooyoung froze.

A slow, unbearable chill spread through his chest, ice creeping up his spine. His body reacted before his mind could, fingers curling into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He should move—turn away, walk away, fucking leave.

But he didn't.

San must have felt the weight of his stare because his head turned slightly—dark eyes locking onto Wooyoung's in the mirror.

For a second, just a second, something flickered across San's face. Not shock. Not guilt. Something else.

And then it was gone.

Instead, San smirked—slow, infuriating, detached. Like this was nothing. Like Wooyoung was nothing.

"Enjoying the show?" San's voice was low, lazy.

Cruel.

Wooyoung's stomach twisted violently, bile burning at the back of his throat.

The boy at San's feet stiffened, glancing back in confusion, but Wooyoung couldn't even look at them. Couldn't process anything past the suffocating weight in his chest.