San's in the kitchenette when Wooyoung emerges. "Hey," he says, smiling. He's turned a light on, so Wooyoung sees for the first time the full extent of the damage: the redness of his mouth, his light hair streaked with dark where Wooyoung ran his wet hands through it. "You want tea? There's jasmine, plum, ginseng. Uh, citron. Some sort of black."
"Jasmine. Thank you."
San pours Wooyoung a cup, steam rising in front of his face, and then goes to shower. Alone in the kitchen, Wooyoung curls both hands around his cup, letting the warmth seep into him. There's a near-empty cup by the sink. The dregs are the rich amber of citron tea. Smudges of melted honey at the bottom. San likes fruity tea over herbal, Wooyoung thinks. He puts honey in it. Likes it extra sweet.
Wooyoung stands there, taking small sips of his tea, staring off into space. Thinking of nothing in particular other than San. He can hear the shower running. Imagines San beneath the fall of water, warm bronze skin, tall and solid and beautiful.
He looks down and notices his hands are trembling on the teacup. Is he really that nervous?
When was the last time he felt nervous before sex?
The intrusive thoughts pour into his head like black oil. He hasn't slept with anyone for, what, eight months? Nine? More? What if he forgets everything he's ever learned? What if he's bad in bed? What if he's awkward? What if he's good, and does everything right, and San still doesn't want him a second time?
He said it's never felt like this before, Wooyoung tries to reassure himself. He said he could kiss me for hours. He said he's been wanting to kiss me this whole time. He called me stunning.
San isn't the type to say things he doesn't mean. The type to use lines. But what if he did mean all of it, just—temporary?
The shower cuts off.
Wooyoung sucks in a breath. He has like two minutes to figure out if he can do this. If he can fall into bed with San and have him only once. If he can have him without knowing where they stand.
Younger Wooyoung would have done it. Would have kept his mouth shut, gone along with whatever his partner wanted, even if he thought maybe the hurt would last longer than the good.
The bedroom door opens and San slips out into the small living area, weaving between buttery leather armchairs, nearly cracking his shin on the corner of the hearth. Like the rest of the resort, Wooyoung's suite is furnished to look like some sort of Western-style winter wonderland dream cabin, all rich colors and cashmere throw blankets, the hearth framed in bare stone. The faux fire is off right now, only the blue pilot light flickering in one corner. As he passes, San grabs the remote. The flames bloom to life.
"Hi," San says, joining Wooyoung in the kitchen. He's wearing the sweats and Henley Wooyoung laid out for him. "Thanks for the clothes."
"Couldn't just let you freeze."
"Mm."
They're gazing at each other.
Wooyoung can feel his heartbeat in his ears. This happens a lot. When he was little, he had a habit of clapping his hands over his ears whenever he got anxious. To muffle his own pulse.
He doesn't do that now. Instead, he sets the teacup down. San's eyes follow the movement, and it isn't until he frowns that Wooyoung realizes his hands are still trembling.
"Hey," San says, moving closer. "Woo. Wooyoung. Are you okay?"
Wooyoung nods. Too late, too robotic.
Blue is the warmest color (2)
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