Woobin has every detail of namsoon memorised; the speck of a birthmark just below his right eye down to the weird bent in his left pinky, a recent half-healing scar gracing his left clavicle where he’d probably scratched himself in his sleep, the tender spot that never seemed to go away in the middle of his lower lip, red and swollen.

And yet, it is jongsuk that feels a stranger to him; woobin can count the scars and dents that make him up off the top of his head, but it’s in the moment after “cut” that woobin realises it is only namsoon he knows.

“Okay, it’s a wrap for today kids!”

Jongsuk cracks a grin at the directors voice. Woobin sees it again, the way his gaze suddenly morphs into something else, sees the way the hurt disappears from his eyes at once, sees the way jongsuk isn’t namsoon. Woobin grins back nonetheless, unclenching his fist and feeling namsoon’s shirt fall from his fingers, letting jongsuk fall back lightly on the wall behind them.

“Dinner?” Woobin suggests.

“It’s supper by now, you idiot,” Jongsuk laughs, socking him gently in the stomach. “And by asking, I assume you were trying to say 'my treat?'”

Woobin thinks you keep close the things that hurt, and it is jongsuk woobin clutches closer than anything. He is surprised by his own laugh, coming out closer to bark and misting immediately. Exhaling a couple more times for the heck of it, Woobin focuses on Jongsuk’s casually raised eyebrow through the vapour and notes the carefully maintained sliver of space that is preventing him from feeling the night’s cold on the other boy’s skin.

Cruel , the night.

Namsoon’s gaze is softness and longing and heartbreak rolled into one, his lips a quiver from spilling forth with sorries and sincerity, and Woobin always relishes the chance to hate him, to stare him down, to spit at him words laced with spite and bitterness. He refuses to be the only one to shed tears, and with a hand on Namsoon’s throat he feels on top like he’s the dealer and Jongsuk’s losing every hand he’s got.

He forgets sometimes it is not Jongsuk before him.

"Do you even know how hard you hit, bastard?" Jongsuk would ask after, righting his jacket and straighting the creases. "Ah, your fingernails dug deeper this time." 

It is only Namsoon who loves Heungsoo. And Woobin, who loves Namsoon - and Jongsuk so much more – doesn’t want to think about technicalities anymore. All he knows is he can’t stop staring at the person before him, can’t stop itching to feel the surface of his skin, can’t stop loving him. Whoever ‘he’ was.

Woobin settles for casually chummy Jongsuk, light touches and mindless skinship all inclusive; another wrist-pull from Jongsuk and Woobin’s ready to slam the other boy hard against a wall, ready to knock some sense into him with a few blows to his face. But he is also ready to pull him close and wrap him in his arms and graze the bruises away, gently.

***

Getting Jongsuk started on something is like striking a match, and it burns Woobin to gaze too long. Now jongsuk is alive, flitting from one table to another all while eating his lunch from his paper plate with great enthusiasm. Woobin can’t help but laugh, Jongsuk’s high spirits translating into his own mirth.

As he always does, Jongsuk plants himself at Woobin after a while. Just that this time, he literally plants himself on Woobin, no warnings given.

“Oof, you idiot,” Woobin squirms under his weight, admittedly not very significant at all. “Get off.”

A glint in Jongsuk’s eye tells woobin he was thinking of some snarky, suggestive comeback, but he is surprised at what the other boy actually says, as usual.

“Do you prefer Heungsoo, or Namsoon?”

Jongsuk drags the last syllable (“likeeee”), before flinching the last piece of fried chicken from woobin’s plate, popping the morsel whole into his mouth.

The brightest flame burns out quickest, but jongsuk was the sun; woobin can’t look at him for long, but he can see everything else pretty damn clearly (the alleys they walked together, the tiny rooms that they first memorised their script in, the way they can’t tell whose clothes are whose anymore after interchangeably borrowing countless times). And it’s almost enough for him, for now.

"Who do you prefer?"

I prefer jongsuk, you bastard.

- -

~Please comment if you enjoyed this/love these 2 as much as I do ;A;