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Summary
“I’m San,” San says, voice dropping in a force of habit, something that has latched onto him from years of living the same humdrum life and his lifelong acquaintance with introducing himself to people who truly didn't give a fuck about him or anything he did, introductions serving merely as a necessary evil.
The stranger looks at him for a brief moment before he tilts the disinfectant bottle into the ball of cotton, soaking it as he leans forward and presses it against San’s stitches. San grabs his wrist.
“I’m gonna need a name before you treat me, pretty boy,” San says, making sure that it doesn’t come off sounding like a request.
The stranger raises his head to meet his eyes, something like sadness pooling in his eyes, smudged black and purple distracting San for the umpteenth time this evening and whispers softly, “Wooyoung.”
It’s a pretty name for a pretty face, but San is presented with an even prettier smile, shy and curling at the edges of his mouth, lilac field for his hair and cherry blossom cheeks, as he repeats it under his breath.
Or, San is working in the task force as a mercenary for an intergalactic law enforcement authority, and Wooyoung's the anomaly he doesn't see coming.