Please, don’t see. I’m just a boy caught up in dreams and fantasy.

So Jihoon is stuck.

Not physically. He wishes he was stuck in quicksand. He imagines it’d be a lot easier than being stuck in a moment in his life.

Jihoon's burned out, he realises with a sigh. He’s in his last year of college and he’s not even sure he likes what he’s doing anymore. He’s studying music, which is what he’s wanted to do since he was a little boy, but (and here, Jihoon heaves another weary sigh) he can’t seem to find the will to continue.

It was great when he first started out. He was learning how to compose, to build the right accompaniment that completes the melody in his head. He was finally doing something worth doing. When he got to Seoul, he was put up in a crappy apartment reserved for students coming in from far away states (or even far away countries). He was armed with a head full of music, a luggage full of clothes and a heart full of hope.

Well. It’s funny how three years could change things. (At this point, he lets out a hollow laugh.)

The apartment he’s living in isn’t as crappy. It’s probably because it’s not on campus. He had met Soonyoung in his dance elective and they’d clicked in ways he never thought possible. Within four months of meeting, they had found an apartment and moved in together.

The apartment had been a little pricey, but it was worth the hot water and non-lethal elevator and even figuring out how to live with another person. Jihoon wasn’t used to sharing his personal space with others, after all.

Soonyoung's a psychology major who cares about the way his body can move as much as he wants to learn about the minds of others. Jihoon's seen Soonyoung dance; it makes him wonder why the latter hadn’t just pursued a career in dance. God knows he has the talent for it.

But when Jihoon had questioned him, Soonyoung just shrugged. “I don’t think I’m talented enough to pay the bills with it, is all,” he had answered and that had been that.

Jihoon is starting to wonder if his so-called talent in music can pay the bills too.

The music in his head’s gone quiet. It’s painful just to eke out a composition for classes, let alone craft something good enough for his graduation showcase next year. None of the chords sound right and all of his lyrics – they sound like .

Is it any surprise the hope was quick to fade as well?

Jihoon just doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. He’s just – he’s going through the motions. Wake up, class, work, bed, rinse and repeat. It’s starting to grate on him.

So, yeah. Here he is, wallowing in self-pity as he stares at the blank screen of his TV – twenty-one and washed out. Just what every kid strives for, he thinks sarcastically.

At least he has more than a suitcase full of clothes now.

The front door creaks open, letting light in from the hallway. Somewhere between Jihoon giving up on life and Soonyoung coming home, the sun had disappeared and left the house in darkness. God, he’s really lost it, hasn’t he?

“What the – Jihoon!” Soonyoung nearly drops the groceries in his hands when he realises his roommate is sprawled on the couch, glaring up at the light he had switched on. “Why were you lying around in the dark?”

“I think I’m having a mid-life crisis,” Jihoon states seriously, gaze never wavering from the fluorescent light bulb on the ceiling. “Or maybe it’s depression. Do you think depression feels like a black hole eating away at your chest cavity?”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes in a way that somehow doesn’t come off as insulting. “Jihoon. You’re twenty-one. You’re too young to be going through a mid-life crisis.” He doesn’t say anything about the depression.

“I could die at fifty. It might be perfectly acceptable for me to have my mid-life crisis now.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

Jihoon groans, finding the strength to sit up and look over at where Soonyoung is putting away groceries in their small kitchen. “I think I’ve hit a wall.”

“You haven’t been hitting our neighbours again, have you?” Soonyoung replies absentmindedly, frowning in thought as he weighs a bag of carrots in his hands. “There’s probably a limit to how much abuse Mingyu is willing to take from you.”

The silence has Soonyoung putting the can of mushrooms in his other hand down, eyebrows drawn together. “Uh oh,” he utters.

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. “Uh oh?”

The groceries are abandoned as Soonyoung hops the arm of the couch and plops himself onto Jihoon's legs. “Is this your artist’s temperament acting up again?” He pats Jihoon's head condescendingly. “It’s okay, little buddy. I’m sure things will get better.”

Jihoon scowls. “ off.” It comes out a lot harsher than he intends.

Soonyoung's hand stills before leaving his hair. Regret immediately fills his chest; he never meant to snap at his roommate like that. Soonyoung didn’t deserve that. He pulls his legs in and rests his chin on his knees, gaze fixed on the couch cushions instead of on Soonyoung.

“What’s wrong?” Soonyoung has his psychologist voice on. Jihoon just slumps; he can’t even find the energy to be offended.

“Nothing,” Jihoon replies dully. “Everything.” He buries his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Soonyoung. It’s all just… a blur.”

“Oh, Jihoonie,” Soonyoung sighs, running a hand through his recently dyed hair. “It was bound to happen eventually.” The regret in his voice resonates in Jihoon.

“. What do I do?” He wonders if Soonyoung hears how lost he is. Probably.

A finger pokes his forehead, prompting him to look up at Soonyoung's grinning face. It doesn’t look forced at all. Jihoon admires that. He must be practicing his psychologist grin in the mirror. “It’s just a slump, . Don’t tell me you’re going to quit,” he chides.

It would be better if Jihoon doesn’t answer. He shifts his gaze to the wall; the last thing he wants to do is look Soonyoung in the eye and tell him that he’d seriously considered just quitting and going back to Busan. It’ll hurt his pride, but at least he won’t suffer anymore. Maybe it won’t be so bad, being a restaurant owner for the rest of his life…

The smack is more than a little sudden.

The force of Soonyoung's palm against his head almost has Jihoon toppling off the couch. He barely saves himself, teetering dangerously on the edge before finding his balance.

“What the ,” Jihoon spits, rubbing the sore spot and shaking hair out of his eyes. He glares up at Soonyoung; it’s a surprise to see equally fierce eyes glare back defiantly.

Soonyoung crosses his arms, going from angry to disappointed in a heartbeat. “You’re pathetic,” he spits, words as sharp as razorblades across his flesh. “Where’s the Lee Jihoon who was going to make music that changed the world?”

“He grew up,” is the snarky reply. This time, Soonyoung's shove is enough to send him tumbling off the couch. “Do you want to ing fight, you broomstick?”

Soonyoung's hand clutches his shirt and drags him up and out of the living room, making a beeline for his – Jihoon's – room. “Get dressed,” he says imperiously. “You and I are going out. Maybe getting you trashed will knock the stupid out of you.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Jihoon protests, but he can’t do much other than follow. Once Soonyoung sets his mind on something, it’s happening. He’d probably change Jihoon and put a leash on the younger if he had to.

Soonyoung rifles through the music major’s closet. Honestly, Jihoon doesn’t know why he even put up a protest. Soonyoung's gone, already planning his outfit and probably the whole night.

A black sweater is tossed into his face, followed by a pair of skinny jeans Jihoon hadn’t realised he owned. He pulls the clothes away and makes a face. “This sweater’s too thin – ”

“Get ready in twenty minutes or I’m going to drag you out half-,” Soonyoung says cheerfully, pausing in the doorway and grinning at Jihoon's stunned face. “We’re gonna have fun tonight.”

The door shuts behind Soonyoung, causing Jihoon to sigh and tug his shirt over his head. God save him from pushy roommates.

The club is loud, crowded and painfully generic. Jihoon can’t even remember its name, but it may or may not have been due to his fifth (or was it seventh?) shot of… well, he doesn’t know what. Soonyoung's been ordering his drinks all night.

He should probably be concerned that he has absolutely no idea what his best friend’s been poisoning him with, but he can’t seem to give a . All he knows right now is that his mind is deliciously fogged, his chest is light and the world seems like a happier place. The music in his head is quiet (has been quiet for months, damn it) but at least now there’s a valid reason – the alcohol in his system. It’s not because of his incompetence or his growing frustration at –

Soonyoung slams his drink down in front of him, eyes bright and grin too wide. “Thinking too hard,” the blonde yells over the loud music – Jihoon thinks it’s some EDM .

Jihoon shakes his head and regrets everything when the world swims. “I’ve had enough,” he wants to say, but he ends up saying, “Okay.”

The glass finds its way between his numb fingers and the alcohol burns down his throat as he downs it. It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to take effect, making the world spin around him almost pleasantly. Soonyoung clamps a surprisingly firm hard around his bicep and drags him out of his seat. Jihoon teeters on unsteady legs for a moment before he’s dragged to the dance floor.

Sober Jihoon hates the feeling of unsteadiness that’s associated with ledges, heights and too much alcohol, but this isn’t sober Jihoon. Sober Jihoon was left behind somewhere around Jihoon's sixth whiskey shot. Right now, he’s a little more than pleasantly drunk and it’s ing great.

There are too many people on the dance floor and Jihoon makes a token protest, but somehow, Soonyoung is more sober than he is and ends up dragging the shorter into the fray anyways.

“Having fun yet?” Soonyoung shouts, mouth a little too close to Jihoon's ear. It’s not too loud. If anything, the volume is just right; Jihoon takes a moment to wonder if it’s because of the music or the alcohol in his system, then promptly decides he doesn’t give a .

He fists Soonyoung's shirt and drags him down to his level. “I can’t feel my fingertips,” he yells back.

Soonyoung's grin is as bright as his stupidly blonde hair. He doesn’t bother fighting against the music, instead choosing to shoot Jihoon two thumbs up.

The rest of the patrons push in too close, but his roommate has a firm grip on his wrist. He pulls Jihoon close so they’re chest-to chest, hands gripping Jihoon's hips and forcing them to move. Dance, he’s saying with his hands. Let go and have fun. Feel the music.

It might be the alcohol, but Jihoon thinks that’s a great idea.

His eyes slide shut and he lets the music fill every fibre of his being. The music isn’t his first choice, but his body moves to it like it was taught to. When Jihoon was in high school, he had been part of a dance troupe. It wasn’t anything big and they only ever performed a handful of gigs, but he had loved it. Making music had always been his first love, but dance had been a respite that never took him too far away from the music that he loved so much. It was like a vacation without needing to be completely cut off from civilisation.

Jihoon's not sure when he realises it, but he can feel someone’s gaze sliding over his form. He opens his eyes once more, barely noticing that Soonyoung isn’t in front of him and the music’s completely changed (he doesn’t actually know how much time has passed, huh). He finds himself looking at a stranger seated at the bar.

He supposes he’s not much. Even seated, Jihoon can tell that this man is a lot taller than him. His jeans hug his hips and thighs, accentuating the defined muscles. The stranger is wearing a thin grey t-shirt and a camouflage jacket that’s doing a poor job at hiding what looks like well-defined arms.

Jihoon’s lips curl up into an inviting smile. He doesn’t know why, but something about this man… it makes him feel – in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The man glances around, head tilting in a way that suggests he’s asking, me?

Jihoon curls his fingers subtly, but it’s obvious the stranger notices. He glances around once more before his eyes glance at the seat next to him. An open invitation. One that Jihoon is free to turn down.

One more sweep of his gaze and his mind is made up.

Jihoon's small enough that it’s easy to weave through the crowd of writhing bodies. He finds a seat far enough away that to a casual observer, it seems like a coincidence, yet close enough that it’s obvious it’s anything but. He counts down in his mind – five, four, three…

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here alone.”

He takes a moment to let the deep voice wash over him – not quite as deep as Wonwoo’s, but it gives Jihoon the same kind of feeling. Someone who’s good with his words, then.

“What makes you think that?” Jihoon retorts, turning his head slightly so he can see the stranger out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a little jarring to realise said stranger is already turned to face him, eyes boring into him. There’s the slightest of grins on the stranger’s face that is boyish and charming. He leans in slightly and it’s a combination of too much alcohol and anticipation that has Jihoon staying his ground. “If they were sure you were single, I’m pretty sure the few sleazebags here would’ve come on to you the moment you stepped in.”

That’s… not what he expected to hear.

He jerks, glancing around and realising that there are a few unsavoury figures eyeing him like he’s meat on display. Annoyance flashes across his face as he glares at some douchebag who has eyes on his . Before he can punch that for taking liberties with his inebriated state, a warm palm turns his head so he’s looking up into the prettiest pair of brown eyes he’s had the pleasure of seeing.

“Just ignore them,” the stranger urges, leaning in close. “Focus on me, yeah?”

“I don’t even know your name,” he blurts, brain-to-mouth filter shot dead and buried in a ditch somewhere.

“Seungcheol.”

“Seungcheol,” Jihoon repeats, testing the name on his tongue. The corners of Seungcheol's twitch upwards. “I’m Jihoon.”

“Jihoon-ssi,” Seungcheol says and damn if it hadn’t sounded nice coming from his mouth. Jihoon's gaze drops to his lips of their own accord, watching the way those sinful lips form words. “I think it’s time I got you home, don’t you think?”

Jihoon grins, leaning into his handsome stranger. “Are you going to take me home?”

A bemused smile touches the taller’s lips. “I think,” he murmurs, “I’ll get you a cab.”

Jihoon's fingers curl into Seungcheol's jacket. If Jihoon was sober, he’d let the kind stranger take him to a cab and maybe get his phone number to have a proper conversation some other time. But Jihoon isn’t sober. He’s ing drunk, which is the only reason he whines, “But why? I like you.”

Seungcheol's hands are warm through Jihoon's thin sweater as they press him to a broad chest. “You’re drunk,” Seungcheol says softly. “You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

His arms snake around Seungcheol's neck, hands interlocking. “What makes you think I’ll regret it?” he whispers. “Maybe I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“And maybe you’re lying,” Seungcheol whispers, leaning in close enough that Jihoon can smell the sharpness of whiskey on his breath.

Jihoon's lets his lips form a smirk. “Now why would I do that?” he whispers. Seungcheol's eyes flash dangerously, flicking downwards. While he has Seungcheol's attention, he swipes his bottom lip slowly. Brown eyes narrow, gaze unwavering.

“Stop,” Seungcheol rasps. “Or I might – ”

“Kiss me?”

The force of Seungcheol's gaze takes his breath away. It’s scorching and piercing all at once, lighting a fire deep in Jihoon's belly. His head is light, limbs heavy, but there’s something about Seungcheol that’s setting every nerve ending on fire. And he likes that. He likes this headiness – he’s not even sure if it’s from the booze or the heavy scent of sandalwood that’s probably coming from Seungcheol.

“Jihoon-ssi – ”

“Please.”

Seungcheol growls something that Jihoon can’t hear with the blood rushing in his ears. It doesn’t matter, because there’s a large hand gripping the back of Jihoon's neck and rough lips are on his.

Oh, god, Jihoon wants to die.

He hasn’t opened his eyes, but his head is pounding and there’s a roiling in his stomach that says he either needs to calm down or find a toilet bowl. He presses his palms into his eyelids, groaning low in his throat. To add on to it, there’s a dull throbbing behind his eyes that’s completely different from the screaming his brain is doing at him.

ing screaming. That’s what is brain is doing. It’s like white noise that keeps getting louder every time you try to change the channel.

He burrows under the covers further. The scent of sandalwood and cotton –

He jolts up, cursing loudly and clutching at his head when his body protests the movement. But he needs to get out now; his sheets never smell like sandalwood and cotton. It usually smells a little too floral because he and Soonyoung can never work out the right ratio for softener and detergent.

When he finally finds the strength to look around the room, his mouth goes dry. He takes in the bright curtains that let too much light in, the slightly messy bedroom that’s still neater than Jihoon's and shelves that are full of books.

“What the did I do?” he moans quietly, burying his face in his hands. He cracks an eye open, looking under the covers. His breathing goes funny when he realises he’s left in his boxers with no memory of where the rest of his clothes are. Goddammit… this is the last time I let Soonyoung talk me into drinking myself stupid.

He allows himself a couple more moments to curse his roommate (he even ing left him in a goddamned club, what the ) before facing reality. He can’t stay here, no matter how much he wants to. Unfortunately, he hasn’t developed the ability to make the ground swallow him whole, so he’ll have to venture outside eventually.

Jihoon gives himself two more minutes before tentatively putting his feet on the wooden floorboards. He places weight on his feet gingerly, as if he expects the ground to crumble and crack below him. He’s almost disappointed that it doesn’t when he stands.

The hunt for his clothes is surprisingly easy. It’s in a relatively neat pile by the bed and the churning in his stomach eases slightly as he slips into his jeans. Maybe he hadn’t just gone home with a random stranger to . For all he knows, he’s at Seungkwan's or something. Maybe the younger had just picked him up because Jihoon had drunk-dialled him. Seungkwan had probably just deposited him in the guest bedroom.

He tugs his sweater on, wrinkling his nose at the scent of alcohol and sweat. It’s fine, he tells himself. Nothing that won’t come off in the wash. He grabs his phone from the bedside table, trying to turn it on – nope, dead.

, he hopes Soonyoung hasn’t called the cops or something. It’d be embarrassing to explain.

The door creaks a little too loudly when he inches it open, but no one comes running in to yell at him, so it’s all good. He wants to get out of there fast; on the off chance that it’s not one of his friends, he needs to not be here. Jihoon isn’t the one-night stand kind of guy, anyways.

He makes it past the hallway. He can see the front door –

“And how are we feeling this morning?”

.

He was wrong. He was so wrong and that’s not Seungkwan. He’s in some stranger’s house and he’s ed up royally. His stomach’s protesting and – oh god –

The stranger simply evades as Jihoon heads straight for the sink and empties out his stomach contents. A hand rubs his back as he makes a deal with the devil to make him not feel like if he never drinks again (although he doesn’t doubt he’ll end up breaking that deal somehow).

“Kill me now,” he moans, hunched over some stranger’s – nope, not stranger, Seungcheol's sink. He turns on the water with a limp hand, washing away the cloying scent of bile and alcohol.

A throaty chuckle has him wanting to melt and throttle someone at the same time. “I think they’ll consider it murder,” Seungcheol says lightly, still rubbing his back in circles. “Feel better now, Jihoon-ssi?”

Jihoon grimaces. Vomit coats his tongue and the back of his throat and it’s disgusting. “Yeah, much. I, uh – what happened last night?”

“What do you remember?”

Well. What he does remember kinda makes him want to fill the sink with water and drown himself, but that’s rude. It’s not nice to kill yourself in someone else’s kitchen.

Jihoon rinses his mouth first, because he’s not sure he can handle this with the taste of gross accompanying every word.

“I – ,” he laughs, running a hand down his face. “I remember… . I just came on to you, didn’t I?” He peeks through his fingers and it’s a little gratifying to see Seungcheol's wide grin. He doesn’t seem grossed out or disgusted, so that’s a plus. “We didn’t… I mean, did you – and did I…?”

“Did we have ?” Seungcheol finishes and Jihoon feels like some blushing . It’s not like he’s never had , but said like that…

Seungcheol's laugh is simultaneously soothing and infuriating. “No, we didn’t,” he replies, grin firmly in place. “Made out a little, but nothing much.”

A rush of air leaves Jihoon's lungs as he slumps against the sink. Thank god. He doesn’t think he’d be able to look this extremely nice stranger in the eye if he’d known they’d had and he couldn’t remember . That’d be a shame.

Seungcheol clears his throat awkwardly. Jihoon freezes – that doesn’t sound too good.

“What did I do?” Jihoon's voice is a horrified whisper.

“Nothing big!” Seungcheol assures, shaking his head. “It’s just… you kind of started crying once we got to my apartment and, well… are you okay?”

The shorter pales considerably. That’s just… downright embarrassing.

Seungcheol is kind enough to lead Jihoon the short distance to his kitchen table, where Jihoon slumps into a chair. “Oh, god… I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.”

Seungcheol's bustling around somewhere behind him, but he can’t find the strength to turn around.

At least it explains why it feels like I got punched in the eye sockets, he thinks mournfully. You’d think he’d remember the feeling of crying himself to sleep. There’s a ceramic thud next to him and he peeks through his fingers to see a steaming mug by his elbow.

“Your, uh, throat,” Seungcheol says awkwardly, sitting down. “You were in… pretty bad shape last night.” He clears his throat again as Jihoon flops face-down onto the table top. “So… do you want to talk about it?”

“Where do I start?” Jihoon asks the table.

“You could start with your music? You were really messed up about it.”

Oh. Well, start with the difficult one, why don’t you?