Prologue

"Does it feel strange?"

Yong Junhyung turned to see his boyfriend. It has been a while (two hours, for the party animal, is indeed 'a while') since the writer had spoken to him, and just a few seconds ago, the latter asked a question in which he did not get. He looked at Dongwoon: his bloodshot eyes were still on the laptop screen in front of him, and his fingers were still dancing on the keys of the keyboard. The extrovert heaved a sigh. That boyfriend of his must have not gone to sleep for at least two days.

"Sleep," Junhyung said, as if the other had not asked him a question. "Save your work, turn off that laptop, and go to bed. You may continue later."

"Says the party animal who goes home by dawn," answered the writer coolly, only to receive another sigh from the older man. Introverts are observant, he noticed, which made him wonder why don't they share their stuffs with people. Most of the things Dongwoon had in his mind were unique and interesting, and Junhyung must admit: they leave a deep impression on him sometimes.

It was a surprise how an introvert like Dongwoon and an extrovert like Junhyung could be together. Maybe, Dongwoon felt comfortable with the other man since he did not really mind the writer locking himself in his workroom for days, writing another chapter of the book he was working on. And Junhyung... the introvert did not forbid him to party until late night, or even dawn. Hell, he did not even have the time to notice the extrovert going out to clubs.

"You haven't even answered my question," Dongwoon continued, and opened his mouth again to repeat the question, "Does it feel strange?"

"I don't get your question," was the extrovert's answer. "What feels strange? You, avoiding me for that book of yours, or..."

Dongwoon's eyes trailed off from his laptop's screen to the other's face, studying the confused look on his face. "Clubbing," the writer clarified. "I need ideas for this book."

A smirk appeared on Junhyung's face. He glanced at the clock hanging on the writer's workroom's wall. Its long hands were exactly at the number twelve, and its short hands were on the number ten. Perfect, he thought. He was about to go to his favourite nightclub anyway, and bringing his boyfriend won't hurt. Besides, it's about time the introvert learns how to party.

"Come with me."